Month: April 2017

Kiwi Love

On By LisaIn FaithLeave a comment

I remember the first time I tasted a kiwi, the slightly tart incredibly sweet fruit surprised me. I was a bit standoffish about this fruit, it was green, it had black seeds, it was different. I was a real standard issue fruit girl. Apples, oranges, bananas, berries.  Offered a kiwi at a breakfast gathering, it would have been too impolite to turn my nose up, I was pushed out of my produce prejudice into a wildly wonderful experience. I relished this new taste, I couldn’t wait to share it. When I searched for the fruit at the grocery though, all I could find was a rough dirty brown colored egg-shaped offering. This was no longer appealing. Great effort was required to remember just how delightful the inside was, the exterior was not luring me. Still, I gave the store kiwi a chance and we have been in love ever since, over 30 years now. That tough skin protects what is precious, I get it now. That shell keeps the uninitiated, the fearful, away. More for those of us who are daring, who are willing to go deeper. The lesson of the kiwi could have saved me many years of shame and hiding, I am a very slow learner.

I listened last night to a presentation at church from an elderly woman who has been doing prison ministry for many many years. She sees a need and figures out that she can meet it and then brings some friends along. She makes new friends and brings them. She does ministry at prison because as she said, “Jesus told us 6 places go in His name, go to the prisons.” She spoke with passion barely contained, told her story in a meandering way because her stories are so plentiful. She raves about her ladies, the opportunities to touch lives that have been forgotten. She brought along one of those lives, a woman who had served 16 years inside and now is living freely, productively, assuredly. This woman told her story as well, not that we had any right to hear it. Still she shared it and she also told how critical it was for people who don’t have to tell you that you are worth something to do so. She explained how forgotten people can drink up those words and begin to believe them if they hear them often enough. How that can change the outcome upon release. She was brought as evidence. I was sitting in the audience as evidence, not many knew it. She was brave, I felt like a coward. I applauded her peeling off the hard shell right away, getting to that fruit immediately, showing the world how worthy she is without waiting to be discovered.

How much time has been lost, what could I have achieved if I had peeled off my hard coating, hiding behind what I thought was protection of a new life? I see now that each time I was terminated from a position because of that box you have to check, that secret agreement you make with the employer, that was an opportunity to remove the whole coating and just bear the fruit of my story, of my soul. Instead, I cowered, I wailed, I cried out to God, how could this happen again? I didn’t see He wanted me to be free of the shame that only secrets can bring, He wanted it all out in the open so I could live fully. Fear stops us from trying new food, fear stops us from being who we are. So I was given many chances by God and ugly people who did mean things not know God was going to turn their stuff to good, each time a bit of the outer covering was nicked off. A scrape here, a scratch there. See the shining soul within? That’s me. Finally brave enough, desperate enough, exhausted from hiding, I just ripped it all off and discovered that I am worthy still. Slow learner here.

Here’s the thing though, not all of us go to prison and have horrible histories and try to conceal who we are. Some of us just have not so great histories and try to hide. Others have not great todays and put up fences or wear masks. Regardless of our stories, we all do it. We are caught in the lie that no one will love us if we tell the truth, if we uncover what is really going on, how much we are hurting and what we, gasp! have done. IT IS A LIE. It is a complete fabrication that shields us from being picked up in the produce aisle, unwanted fruit with our tough exterior, and cherished for our sweet souls.

We are doing it to ourselves. We ignore the opportunities when we get that first scrape of hardship to share our hurting. We add more makeup and carry on. When everything is going to hell at home or work or with our children, we put on a new outfit and present the world with a tough exterior that hides the true story. We cover and cover and cover until the layers themselves become so heavy we can’t find our souls ourselves. The weight of our secrets toughening our resolve, we forget that all those run-ins with tragedy are meant to be shedding times. Is it any wonder that the tough exterior is called a hide? God wants our souls laid bare, our secrets out so we are no longer covered in  new shoes and fresh eyeliner, the us He created unmasked and vulnerable so love can seep through. And then really go out. Because just like that first taste of kiwi, I couldn’t keep it for myself. I shared that delicious fruit with my family, at every gathering. I offered it to all who would dine at my table. “You have to try this, it is amazing.” Amazing indeed, to be real, open, me.

As we enter the hardest days of the Christian calendar, the days we really would like to rush through to get to the promise fulfilled, I know my Jesus was unmasked. He was laid bare at the cross. He was naked and vulnerable. This is how He went to His Father. I see now that He wants no less from me, from you. Broken, peeled, bared for all to see that they might come to Him also, encouraged by our truths, giving grace to each other, shining Light on the One who knows our secrets and has already forgiven.  Will you dare sacrifice your mask at the cross? I would so love to know you, really know you. Together we could shine more Light. Together we could taste the sweetness of authentic lives. I wasted too many years covered in shame. Don’t waste a minute more. Your soul deserves to be seen and shared. Trust God to handle the rest.

By the way, have you ever tasted a kiwi? Please join me in the produce aisle. I know it’s ugly, trust me. Together we are going to find a real treasure inside.

 

1 Since God has so generously let us in on what he is doing, we’re not about to throw up our hands and walk off the job just because we run into occasional hard times.
2 We refuse to wear masks and play games. We don’t maneuver and manipulate behind the scenes. And we don’t twist God’s Word to suit ourselves. Rather, we keep everything we do and say out in the open, the whole truth on display, so that those who want to can see and judge for themselves in the presence of God.
3 If our Message is obscure to anyone, it’s not because we’re holding back in any way. No, it’s because these other people are looking or going the wrong way and refuse to give it serious attention.
4 All they have eyes for is the fashionable god of darkness. They think he can give them what they want, and that they won’t have to bother believing a Truth they can’t see. They’re stone-blind to the dayspring brightness of the Message that shines with Christ, who gives us the best picture of God we’ll ever get.
5 Remember, our Message is not about ourselves; we’re proclaiming Jesus Christ, the Master. All we are is messengers, errand runners from Jesus for you.
6 It started when God said, “Light up the darkness!” and our lives filled up with light as we saw and understood God in the face of Christ, all bright and beautiful.
7 If you only look at us, you might well miss the brightness. We carry this precious Message around in the unadorned clay pots of our ordinary lives. That’s to prevent anyone from confusing God’s incomparable power with us. 2 Corinthians 4:1-7

Bursting

On By LisaIn Arrow, Plum, The Chef1 Comment

I got smacked in the face with my wealth yesterday. I thought I was helping her out, giving her a ride to see her son in prison. I hadn’t spent much time considering why she couldn’t drive herself. I hadn’t spent much time wondering what all separated her experience from mine. I could only see how we were sisters, how we were united in the terrible experience of motherhood from afar, behind razor wire and across county lines, accessible only when the bureaucracy that contains our children determines. I saw our connectedness. I didn’t know that string was a barely visible thread. My earnest heart was blind to all, my desire so great to help that I missed all the needs I could have been fulfilling.

I picked up Mom and Grandma to drive them to the prison an hour and a half away. We stowed Grandma’s walker in the trunk and began to know each other. I discovered that this was a surprise visit, the son didn’t know we were coming as I had assumed. I remember all the visits with Arrow, carefully planned. He would call the morning of the visit to see if we had left yet, he would call when he thought we were getting close. His anxiety was so great, his ability to wait in short supply. He always knew we were coming for a visit. Many times he would call just as we were turning into the prison grounds or were half way there to alert us to a change: a lockdown in the entire prison, visits canceled for all due to a shortage of staff, a holiday that was changing the regular schedule. We would all share our disappointment as we turned around, sought a park or play place for Plum, headed home. Still, he always knew. Because we had money to send to keep his phone account funded, I couldn’t survive otherwise. I couldn’t. Even when the $20 I sent was the last that I had, it was in my mind a necessity. Now I see that is a luxury. I knew it somewhere back then but that is how I survived my son being incarcerated. We talked almost daily, for 2 1/2 years. This mom and grandmother did not have that luxury. The $20 would have been spent a hundred times over on other necessities. Real necessities.  So no, her son did not know we were driving there for a visit and maybe could have saved us a trip but was surely saved the excruciating disappointment of knowing his mother was just that close, only to be denied.

As we drove we talked about the all the hurdles one must jump in order to actually make it inside to visit. We were celebrating that we were finally making the drive. I mentioned guards telling us our clothing didn’t meet the criteria for the visiting room, even after we had carefully checked and rechecked before leaving home. Mom asked me if her skirt would be okay. A quick glance to the backseat told me I had missed that detail in the loading of the walker, in the rush to go. No, no, I think that will be an issue. Let’s stop at the closest dollar store and just grab some pants. No worries, we have had to do it several times. I assured her not to be concerned, it doesn’t have to be the prettiest thing, just do the job. I am an ass sometimes. She picked out a pair of pants that had a matching tank top she would save for later, I pulled out my card to pay as she promised to pay me when she got a check again (I declined the offer) and she went to change. She raved about her new pants. She called her boyfriend. She told her mom she has a new matching top. Stopping to buy throw away clothes just to get in to see my son is a luxury. Stopping to buy clothes to see hers was a bonus gift, something that made her feel special and excited and new. Later I realized that stop made the day more bearable, she at least got a new outfit. From the dollar store. A luxury.

The day was a bust, we were denied the visit even though the hours are given on the website and on the answering machine. We will try again. But more than that, I was given a chance to have my wounds examined, aired bit, determine just how fresh or healed they were. I realized that while my Arrow is mad at me now for boundaries set after his release, I know I supported him to my utmost ability while he was experiencing the worst of what the justice system has to offer addicts. I know that he and I are outliers. I know that while we suffered, our suffering was still in luxury. He had a continual flow of pictures of his home and his son. He had Amazon deliveries of books and newspaper subscriptions. His commissary account was never empty. His visits were as often as allowed. We never were unable to see him due to our own economic hardships: lack of transportation, inability to purchase clothing to meet fuzzy standards, basic reading skills that allowed us to complete the tricky forms. We live richly and he did so while in prison.

They asked if we could stop at the local quick mart to grab a gallon of milk, they had enough food stamps to cover it. I wanted to take them to the larger grocery store but they had arranged a ride for that later, to do bigger shopping. They just needed milk for now. Shopping at the quick mart is how people in poverty are drained of their money. I hated sitting in the car while Mom went into buy milk. We don’t ever buy milk there, we know it is way too costly. That is luxury, the ability to save money by shopping wisely. She bought 2 gallons to save a trip. My heart sank as I watched her lug them to the car. She could have gotten 3 at the grocery store in my end of town.

Many of my bubbles were burst yesterday and I am sitting in the mess of it. I am newly wounded, newly convicted that I have much I don’t need or even want and others survive on so little. Of course I knew that already but when smacked in the face with it as I drove my car and carried passengers who ask how much I will charge to pick up their son when he is finally released.  I know I have more to do in showing I am giving of me, not holding out my hand to take from them. When Mom asked if we could maybe text each other sometimes, now that I have her number, I agreed. She asked if maybe I would send her a prayer sometimes. This seems like a starting place. Where I can redeem myself from my rich girl preconceptions and remember that we are actually still sisters. We are united in hurting over our children. We share a Father. This Father wants me to see His hurting children and get my wounds reopened and get hurting alongside them because I have given all of me. One ride to a prison is just not going to be enough. That would be a luxury.

Blindly

Prison Visit

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, The Chef4 Comments

The leader of our United Methodist Women’s group put out a request on our Facebook page, I wasn’t really a member but it caught my eye. A woman from another church had contacted our group to see if anyone was available to drive a mother to Indy to catch a bus that would then drive her to see her son in prison. The Indianapolis Methodist church provides this amazing ministry, the families just have to get there, something out of reach for this local mom. I said I was available before even looking at my calendar. What began almost 3 months ago is now finally coming to fruition today. Many scheduled trips have been rearranged, phone calls and texts at the last minute are common. Today we will drive all the way to the prison, I pray the visit will actually happen. There are never any guarantees.

When I first contacted the mom, she was beyond grateful and the plan was set. Then she realized after her son called her that she may not have her paperwork in order. The visit was postponed. I offered to take her the entire way once it was completed. She thought maybe the next week would be fine. We set a new date. I didn’t realize at the time just how new she was to the correctional system. I could have intervened sooner. I have become an expert. Next week turned into the next and the next until I finally asked the right questions and discovered she didn’t have all the information she needed. She was preparing a mailing to the prison including her drivers license and social security card. Oh dear Lord, the desperation of a mom to see her child. Halting that mailing, I printed off from the prison website the requirements, the addresses, the contact info, the forms. It includes how to dress, another hurdle we have jumped many times. I have lost track of the purchases of a new sweatshirt or scrub pants at the local dollar store in order to fit their dress code, which seems to be interpreted at the whim of whoever is checking in visitors. Still, after she had the correct information in hand, her application to visit was approved and now we are scheduled to go.

What those who have never participated in this venture don’t understand and God bless you all who haven’t, is that the communication with your child is costly. You wait for their calls which are expensive, then you give them the information that you are coming on this day. If something changes, you have no way to alert them, they count those minutes until they see you. The disappointment is magnified, the high of a visit can carry an inmate for long after you leave. Waiting, waiting for them to call your name, to say your people have come, the best feeling ever. What your family doesn’t know is that you have to suffer intense indignities just to see them, strip searches both before and after. If the visit occurs during a scheduled count time for the prison, you are made to leave your family in the hard plastic chairs and stand against the wall with the other inmates, searching for somewhere to look as they all try either to send you supportive glances, telling you they know you are more than this or averting their eyes, knowing your shame. The humiliation of all the inmates has cast a shadow over the room, distorted the visit. That brief hour you got to pretend you were a brother, a son, a father only, was destroyed by the harsh bark of the C.O.: COUNT TIME! Still, you will endure it all, to have time with your people.

You will endure the fact that you cannot touch any money, they must walk to the vending machines and purchase gas station quality hamburgers and rubbery pizza slices and bags of chips and then push you to eat it all while also asking you a million questions that you cannot bear to answer, you only want to hear them speak. You have waited so long to see them and then you realize you live in different worlds where eye contact is dangerous and you don’t share anything personal. They hug you as soon as you enter the room and your mom wants to keep hugging you but that elicits another bark, NO TOUCHING. What you most notice is the smell, the way they smell of fresh and clean and outside. You keep sniffing. They think you are sick and you are, an illness borne of captivity. You can’t explain anything to them, they ask if you are friends with any of the other men around you, you ask them not to talk about those people. Lines are drawn behind the door that you have to cross through again in an hour. You eat the chips and drink as much mountain dew as you can but not too much because if you have to pee that means you will be accompanied into the bathroom with a guard while your family watches. You endure all this humiliation to see them. They pretend not to notice and chatter about life outside. This is a visit and it saves your sanity. If it doesn’t happen, if it is canceled, you have nothing to hold you together.

See, I have been the visited and the visitor. Today I will drive a mom to see her son and I will not chatter and I will not ask questions. I will wait and know that though she arrives on time she may be denied without first buying a new sweatshirt, she may wait for an hour before he is released to come see her. I will take a good book and I will pray fervently that she is able to connect with him on whatever level they both need. I will drive her home and plan for the next month. Because going to visit your child in prison is just about the most awful experience ever and one that many of us look forward to. My thoughts are bogged down in all the visits I made, all the hopes for a future with my son after his release, the pictures I sent, the calls I accepted, the chips I bought. I regret none of it. We survived his incarceration. We learned there are no guarantees of the next visit, no promises that even though everything seems in order, we will be permitted a future. We know life is just hard sometimes, most times and mercy and grace and second chances are all we have to offer each other.

Today I am driving a mom to visit her son in prison. I can celebrate that she is finally taking the next step in the process, pray that when we get to the grounds she will get to see him. Will you join me in prayer for this family, for all  the families of those incarcerated? The scars remain long after the gates open. The shame and humiliation are not shed when we put our own clothes back on. The long road to recovery is twisted, perilous. The only way to navigate it is with friends new and old and from afar shining the light of God on us, leading us home. Can you spare a little light today for someone searching for their way? We could really use your prayers.

Rude Pants

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, Plum, StellaLeave a comment

I am horrified and dismayed to report that my sweet little Plum woke this morning in a rather foul mood. Actually he woke me up and then things turned foul. It was too early, not by much but I have been too tired lately for our extra early rises, I needed that 15 minutes more. I said go back to bed, he said I was a rude pants. I said go back to bed, he went downstairs and turned on the tv. Now I was facing a choice, a really terrible choice where I lost no matter what. I could stay in my very warm bed and try to go back to sleep for a few minutes and know that I had given in to a 6 year old. Or, I could get up and send him right back up to his bedroom thereby getting the beasts roused and my blood pressure roused and him further roused. If you are guessing I stayed in bed to avoid being more than a rude pants gran, well, you know my heart’s desire. But I got up. Thus you should know I am the rudest pants of them all. The very angry child went back to his room and the beasts and I made coffee.

See we have a rule in our home, the best boy ever cannot get up until 6 am. He has a digital clock in his room to let him know if it is time yet to wake the grandparents. Because he is such an early riser, this has saved us from 4:30 starts to our day on many occasions. This has allowed him to exercise some control over his morning, to understand the boundaries and not be in a position to ask without all the information at his disposal. So waking me too early was an out of bounds request and had to be addressed. An attempt to push the clock rule just a bit. With summer coming, I knew I had to tighten up. With it being Sunday and his return to Mama, I knew I had to be sure he was well rested and anyway I could nap later. All this made my choice of getting up to be the enforcer easier, to be crowned the rudest pants of all somewhat palatable.

Later, as we discussed the need for rules, like was it okay for his 3 year old cousin to race across the street yesterday even though I was shouting her name and telling her to stop (the other children watched in horror having already internalized that rule) or like if cars don’t choose to stop at red lights or drive on their side, he understood people have made those regulations to keep us safe. We talked about bigger statues like no killing and being kind, who’s rules are those? Those are God’s he knew. But still, guidelines that keep him in bed when he wants to get up, hard to take. I get it. Accountability is for the other people. All the other people who are not me. We addressed that idea as well. Dear Lord, this is a large mug of coffee day, a bit more sugar added, if we have to hit on all this before 6:30 am.

As a parent with some truly complicated relationships with her children, I analyze and inspect every choice I make with Plum. I look at how I raised my two and am determined to not make any of the same mistakes and to keep doing what I think I did right with them. One child graduated from college, taught in a foreign country, seemed to be such an independent thinking young woman. The other has chosen a different path, took a detour through years of drug use and the ensuing addiction facilities before a stint in jails and prisons slowed him down. He now is out, has completed secondary education and is gainfully employed. He is, I believe, helping to support the new family he is creating although he has not yet caught up to supporting the child he left behind. Still they both began their lives wrapped in love and books and songs and full knowledge that I meant what I said and followed through. I did the hard stuff, but not enough hard stuff. I tried to save them from too much. I intervened too often. I didn’t let them learn to be accountable. Until it was too late and I wondered why they didn’t just know.  Why did they feel so entitled? They aren’t alone, regardless of their unique situations. An entire generation has lost it’s footing, feels completely justified in breaking away when they don’t like what they hear, don’t like the rules, don’t like being told to go back to bed or to work or to the table to talk. More than rude pants, those of us who try to enforce some rules or boundaries are labeled toxic.  I like rude pants better.

As I have scoured the internet for information regarding estrangement, I am flabbergasted at the plethora of memes and Pinterest quote pages devoted to each person’s right to cut off those who just don’t make us feel good. There are days I spend so lost in all that I did wrong that I can’t imagine any other result than to be cut out of my daughter’s life. I replay the conversations and the conflicts that arose when she became involved with her now husband, issues we never had before. It is easy to say it is all his fault but maybe she always felt that way and just didn’t have an escape route. Then I wake up to a new day and remember all that I did right, I replay how deeply we laughed and how long we talked and know she escaped to another continent and we were still good. But still, it isn’t his fault. It is ultimately her choice, she is accountable and that breaks me further. What I am sure of is this, I didn’t teach either of them to discard me. I didn’t teach them to find no value in me, I didn’t teach them that people have no worth and that we throw them away if they don’t make us feel good all the time. This I am sure of. Sometimes people hold us accountable, we have rules to follow. It rarely feels good to be the enforcer, if you are a mercy kind of person or one who just wants to stay in your warm bed. It likewise doesn’t feel good to be reminded of the rules, regardless of our age. Reminded of family norms and customs and fitting a new spouse into those, making room for different ways, that is a place rife for conflict and misunderstanding. It may require much time at the table talking. Accountability for all.  A review of the rules, an adjustment of some, relaxing of others. Family meetings, we used to have those, where we hashed out issues and practiced conflict resolution. I know we modeled that. I think she has forgotten.

Most of my research shows adult children who describe choosing estrangement from “toxic” parents who were abusive, who suffered serious psychological disorders, who held them back from their dreams and stunted their growth. I am either so blind or lack any insight at all but I just can’t find myself in these descriptors. I search for nuggets of truths, because she hasn’t told me. I look for our story because I only know my half. I can only be accountable for what I know and it is missing the pertinent pieces. I beg God daily for a chance to hear my wrongs and atone. How can I ever do better, how can I possibly not mess up with Plum if I just don’t know? He is angry with me, I am quite honestly not all that pleased with him when he wakes me too early and starts our day with a battle. But I hold him accountable and I require that he discuss the problem with me. I allow him to be mad at me but not disrespectful. I am the rudest of all the rude pants but I am trying to be a better parent. We sing, we read books, we laugh deeply and we have long talks. Please please God let this story end differently. Show me how to live it out so that my heart is not thrown away just when it all gets so good, when all the hard stuff is done.

Just in case, I teach Plum about mercy and forgiveness also. I am sure I taught Stella and Arrow about this as well, but I work extra hard on these lessons. We practice second chances and fresh starts, we give out apologies and we learn to accept them. We allow anger and frustration and real feelings to roam throughout our home and then we figure out how to bring joy back in to the mix. Some days I miss Stella so much that I don’t even want to get out of bed, I resent the fact that anyone else does. Why are we even starting another day? Maybe that is why I didn’t want to rise this morning, maybe that is why I am a rude pants today. Still, I rise, in the great horrible words of Maya Angelou. Because maybe today will be the day. If not, I am accountable to another child and a merciful God who gave me a fresh start. I am accountable for this air that fills my lungs, that I not waste it moaning in agony but singing praises in church. I am accountable for these eyes, that I not fill them only with tears of agony but with utter gladness that the lilacs are beginning to bloom. Today I have a second chance, I rise up, drink my coffee and know this is the day.  The day the rudest pants of all will rejoice and be glad in it anyway.

Prayer List

On By LisaIn Faith1 Comment

These days it seems my prayer list is just too long. Ever have a season like that? Too many friends are aching, ailing, alienated. Young moms are lonely, longing, looking for affirmation.  Family of friends, friends of family, I hear the calls to pray for this one and that one, for this situation and that. I know these asks are offered up out of a deep conviction or even deeper desperation, a trust that prayers will be lifted and further, they will be heard. Remembering this keeps the list in perspective. I am not asked to carry the weight of the list, only to shoulder it for a moment, to then send it on, send it up to the One who can manage all the parts. Right? That is the call, the job of being that connected to others, to hearing their hurts and heartbreaks. Except something happens between the hearing and the lifting. A piece of the burden stays with each of us, just a crumb, maybe, a sliver, as the load is ever so lighter to those who suffer. How can I be sure? I have been the teller oh so many times.

I wrote about slaying my monster, about a hard talk I needed to have. Update, monster destroyed. The slaying required incredible vulnerability in a safe place, necessitated releasing my truth and allowing it to be heard. What I discovered is a new truth that came as swiftly as if I had been in darkness and the light was turned on, which in fact is what happened. I was able to see my own answer when the dust cleared, when was all laid out and my eyes were no longer clouded by all the junk and debris. I could see what was so simple. My wound began healing, I felt like I was in the presence of God Himself, I could feel it so. And yet, as I walked away, I knew I left some of my hurt behind, not all of it rose with the Spirit. Some stayed with the one who heard me, a bit of damage dust now covering his shoulders. My eyes that now shone with the Light could see that his were lined just a bit more, evidence of feeling so deeply what is brought to him. We prayed together, surely God heard my concerns. But some stayed right there in that room. I know this now.

Hearing that a friend has a sudden horrible diagnosis and is asking for prayers means also that I absolutely will begin to make food to deliver to the family. This family has been more than faithful in praying alongside us, praying when I couldn’t for our son and then when Chef was suddenly was pitched into his own pit of despair. They came into my home with food and compassion even when we couldn’t eat. I will try to put some dinner on the table on a regular basis. I will pray to the Great Healer. I know it works. Hopefully she will feel me carry her burden, an itty bitty crumble, along side her. that is how it works.

Other words are not so easy to carry, so simple to lift up. Words that are close to our own traumas and worries, the things that cause our pillows to be tearstained, those, those, we get more than a bit of dust on our shoulders, those require more than a dinner. I sometimes want to avoid those. I try to shield myself from prayer requests from friends or family who are suffering from addiction issues. I circle those like the candy aisle, I can’t even smell the chocolate without putting it in my own cart, without purchasing it, without even knowing it has all happened. Isn’t it wiser to just avoid altogether? It is with M&M’s but just because my shoulders get heavier with the burden of a friend who is aching over a son who is using and the family is being destroyed one puff at a time, can I really be that choosy with my prayer list? My list currently carries the family of several families who are aching in just this way and my prayers are especially fervent. Most are in the battle, some have lost it. The stuff that breaks your soul into pieces, that is where we need to show up and offer no words, merely a hug and our presence. Allow some of the dust to settle onto us, allow the weight to shift even for a moment, onto our backs.

God I think says we just have to show up, I have learned this over and over. We don’t have to say the best words or bake the best casserole. We are only asked to drop one off and pick up a little crumb of concern. We are asked to let our unlined eyes become riddled with crows feet because we have cried and laughed and loved our neighbors through soul storms. We pick up a tiny bit of their worries, they share ours as we allow the Spirit to work out the details. I live beside a gravel road, I fight a dusty home all the time. I learned long ago that you sweep first, dust last. Otherwise you kick up motes that settles back down onto all the surfaces, leaving a light coating and nothing is really cleaned. Swirling dust shining in the sun light catches my eye, can never be all contained. Those, those are the worry and wound pieces that God asks us to carry for each other. A long prayer list is evidence we are doing our part, catching crumbs, wearing some dust. Showing up with what we have and raising up all the rest to the One who does the real sweeping. We dust first, God will step last. Pray over the list that grows and grows.

18 And pray in the Spirit on all occasions with all kinds of prayers and requests. With this in mind, be alert and always keep on praying for all the Lord’s people. Ephesians 6:18

 

 

Standing in the Tension

On By LisaIn Faith1 Comment

After months of therapy, the first time I talked with a professional and began spilling the horrible secrets of the sexual abuse that lasted throughout my childhood, I returned home to have a conversation with my mother. My therapist and I had practiced this, considered what my goals were, what the possible outcomes could be. Still, in my heart I just knew my mom loved me enough to wrap me in her arms and try her best to wash away the hurt. That is really all I wanted. What I got was almost as damaging as the abuse. She told me that because my father was already dead, she couldn’t ask him about it. Conversation done. As if there needed to be two sides, as if I might not be telling the truth. As if my voice didn’t count. I learned then that speaking up was a dangerous risk, one that could damage any relationship, I learned to weigh my need to speak up with the need to be loved. I learned I can’t have both. It took many years to understand that she was not just my mom in this scenario, she played a role in the years of abuse, surely she was feeling her own guilt and to accept my truth meant her complicity was clear. Her feelings must have overwhelmed her ability to be my mom in that moment. Sadly, had she just wrapped me up, I would have forgiven, at least I believe so, all of it. Instead, it laid there between us, my truth and her inaction, to the day she died.

I was 22 when I had that talk with my mother, I still struggle with sharing my truth. Will I be believed? Is sharing it worth risking the relationship I have? What is the point? Yet my soul suffers, I carry the burden of silence. Relationships that aren’t authentic or are based on my participation in wearing a mask are no longer ones I value. I avoid them. So when I am confronted with a situation that violates my own standards of acceptable behavior where I am forced to choose, like everyone, speak up or back away, I hear my mother’s voice and mostly back away.  I have been so blessed to have a husband who hears my truth. As opposite as we are, we have many many opportunities for real talks. We have countless chances for talks that allow me to practice sharing my truth in a safe environment and still come away loved. But what about my wider circle? Outside of my home and into my world?

I have some tough choices to make, I am waffling with each passing hour. I know I need to have a hard conversation and yet the risk just feels too great. Backing away doesn’t feel acceptable either. I imagine someone without my history would charge right in and spill it all, a resolution would be found. I imagine so many things would be different without a history of distrusting myself, believing I have to have the perfect words to convince my audience I am telling the truth. Steve Wiens talks about Monsters in his book “Beginnings” in such a beautiful, transformative way.  My friend Janet with her so talented artsy self created a drawing that I stare at every day using words from the book. It says, “Facing your Monster requires you to stand in an in between place where you abandon your turf and your rules in order to create new space for yourself and others. You need to go where your dragon lives, on the border of its land and yours. You need to remain on that border and do battle. You need to face and hold the tension of that space until your Monster goes down.”  I see my answer in this quote, I see the nudge to stand my ground. Standing there in that tension is better than cowering in a quivering mess, waffling in indecision.

Standing, yes, that seems to be a good first step. Deciding to stand up and be heard, to take the risk, I can hear it in this book that has brought me back into my life, my faith, myself, a better self, the one God has waited for me to become. Do I dare really fight the monster, though? I think if I really trust Steve, and I actually do, and I really trust Janet and I absolutely do, I can hold on to that trust until I fully trust myself. They both have been instrumental in directing my trust unto God. I have to be willing to abandon what I have always known, my rules, that I will not be believed, to create a new space. What would it look like to be a person others trusted? I think I might be already, I certainly have evidence to support that if I truly look. So maybe this is really an opportunity to again quiet those mom memories, the ugly rumor voices, that say I have lied. Maybe it is a chance to free those sounds from my heart and write my own song that will sing louder louder louder as the notes shine light on my 22 year old heart and wrap it in love.

Remaining, that too calls for sticking to my truth, my reality, not giving up when it gets a bit hard or worrying that it may get ugly. Fighting monsters in every story or movie requires some thrashing about, some wreckage. There is in fact some drama. I only like my drama in a good book that I can close if need be. To fight my own personal monster, I can’t dog-ear the page and come back later. Committing to the battle is key. I am growing more so now by the minute. Whisperings of encouragement fill my soul. Is that me or you, God? My friend at church gave me a new mug yesterday, a surprise gift with these words imprinted, “God loves you most” on one side and “nothing can ever separate us from God’s love” from Romans 8:38 on the other. She had no idea that I needed to fill that up with my coffee, hold the warmth in my hands and be encouraged as I drink, letting  truth replace the chill,  filling with hope and love.  Or maybe she did. She is like that. Still, the timing was all God.

I am preparing for battle with my monster but what I know deep down is that my monster isn’t anyone else. It resides solely within me. Slaying it requires that I have this really hard conversation but the monster isn’t the other. The other isn’t inherently bad and I am good. I don’t believe that. Just as bleach and ammonia each have their own strengths alone, mixed together something really toxic is created. This other and I seem to be in a chemical mess where words just wound me so deeply and every attempt to address them is met with more hurt. Still, I see that the this other is not the issue. I can back away from the other but not from not being heard. That is breaking my soul,  that monster is welling up with a ferocity that only with God as my guide, can I slay it.

Today I am facing my monster. I think. If all goes according to plan. It will surely be messy and uncomfortable and most definitely painful. I may even get a few scraps and scratches in the battle. I am beginning though to wonder what it will feel like not to carry this horrid thing around with me anymore. That means I am getting closer to the light.  Are you avoiding that big conversation, that major decision, that change you want to make, out of fear or worry or self-doubt? I have praised Steve’s book over and over and I will only say, if you find yourself in that place, please pick up a copy and know that monster slaying will be possible for you too. I am standing in the tension today.  Warning shot fired, monster, here I come. Can you hear me?

Communion in St. Paul

Fresh Start

On By LisaIn Faith, Plum, The ChefLeave a comment

It was one of those days that tried so hard to be right but kept being wrong anyway. I was contentedly drinking my coffee chatting with Chef as the beasts sweetly barked in my ear to go outside. For the 11 millionth time I rose to let them out and go sit in the chilly spring sun to supervise my runaway horrible rotten beast as Chef asked again how much the fence was going to cost. With the sinking gut clench that forewarned his buyers remorse was coming, I pointed him in the direction of the folder holding the quote. He began to research alternatives to the fence man who was due to come in just 3 days. Three more days until my dog drama was over and Chef wanted to reevaluate the project, maybe put the fence in himself when he had time (never). The weather inside our home became chilly with storm clouds threatening. The dog decided to defecate in the neighbor’s yard. I looked for a frying pan to gently nudge Chef back into the project. It wasn’t even 9 am.

The church men’s group was scheduled to do a grounds project, Chef asked if I could make some lunch for them. I preferred to stay in my jammies until time for the fancy dinner later in the evening but recognized that was pretty selfish. Also Chef may have a frying pan of his own. I got dressed, went to the store, went to the church, started lunch, only to get a text from Chef  about 15 minutes in saying actually they were done and leaving. Now if you are thinking that I killed my wonderful Chef you would be wrong. He was taking me to a black tie dinner later so I had to keep him alive long enough to wear my fancy dress and have delightful wine. But you would be correct in guessing that I stood in the very church where I worship each week and committed the sin of considering harming him. Remember Jimmy Carter’s honesty when he said adultery is even allowing his thoughts to stray? I am convicted of bad stuff in my church kitchen. Still, I unmade lunch, did the dishes and returned home to my poor beasts who had been cooped up unnecessarily. To discover one of them, I am sure it was Chef’s, had defecated in the house. What a lovely day this was turning out to be.

When Chef called on his way home from the church and began chatting like the day was still wonderful, I educated him on reality. His laughter did not lend authenticity to his apology. I want back to bed. Sometimes a fresh start is the only hope for a day like this. There I stayed until a stink bug swirled and buzzed with helicoptered whirling and chose to land on my pillow. Then his friend joined on the window. Then another. Damnit. Every time I got settled and cozy and warm, up again to remove the disgusting smelly insects that rule hell and my nap time. I wanted some beauty sleep to prepare for my fancy dress because I knew this cinderella generally goes to sleep about the time the ball was starting. I knew that crabby frown lines did not match my dress. I knew I needed an attitude alteration. But c’mon. What else could happen?

The rod holding up our shower curtain fell, I put it back up, hung the curtain back up, it fell again. Twice more. I couldn’t find a tube of lipstick to save my soul. I did find the cap to one in the drawer where Plum has stashed away all bits of makeup I used to have. His war paint. Still, I had a fancy dress and I was going to have real wine and talk to other people and it was going to be great. I had kept my dress secret from Chef, knowing, just knowing he was going to be wowed by this baby. He said I looked nice. Seriously? I sent a horrific selfie to my friend who overlooked my jacked up expression and only noted my amazing dress. She affirmed that I looked quite fancy and that my dress was beautiful and we discussed that I who have never won any awards for filling out a t-shirt, had quite a rack. These are conversations you can mostly only have with a really good girlfriend who understands that you almost killed your husband today and you just want to be dressed up and go out.  I hope you have that kind of friend.

First stop was a pub so Chef could get a beer and watch the game. Really.  That happened. But we did get to the event and I looked fancy in my dress and we had wonderful food and delish wine and I met new people. Cinderella made it to the ball and didn’t spill anything or trip even once. It was fun and refreshing. Then we came home, Chef let the cats out and went to bed. I really wanted to discuss calmly with Chef how delighted I was with his pet care so I daintily stomped up the stairs to our bedroom to find him snoring. My Prince Charming.  Back downstairs, back outside,  in all my finery, calling cats and beasts and wondering how we survived such a crazy day. The answer is, some days you just have to keep starting over, all the way up until you let it go and accept that a new day is coming. Somedays you have to reach out to others to help push that reset button, to help you find you own beauty. Chef just wasn’t feeling the party. He was focused inward, his own thoughts and concerns clouding his view. It is unfortunate but sometimes that just happens. One day does not a marriage make. Dressing up is not really me anyway. Play acting, pretending to be what I am not. This cinderella is much more recognizable in pajama pants and thick socks. A day of miscommunication and grand expectations was finally over. To be fair, I am certain there are plenty of days that I miss all the cues that Chef gives me, all the subtle and not so much, hints that this is kinda a big deal, and I just don’t see it. More often than not I am looking inward. Thank God for fresh starts and new days.

Today is already starting better. We have enjoyed our coffee together and rehashed the night. All the pets are where they are supposed to be. It is early, yes, but I have a good feeling about today. Also, anyone need a really fancy dress?

 

Why God?

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, Plum, Stella, The Chef1 Comment

The first question tiny humans ask is “why” beginning at about age 3 with a vengeance. Even when the real question is how or what or who, they ask why. Parenting websites are full of advice on ways to handle the incessant questioning, I remembering conquering this stage with some redirection and answering the question I thought my children were actually asking. Still, isn’t it interesting that the question we ask first is the one we continue to ask of our God most throughout our lives?  We rarely get the answer we want, yet we keep asking.

Why, God, did the fridge go out just as we were stating to get our bills caught up? Why Why why did our loved ones have to die so soon, before we were ready to let them go? Why do our children take that first drink, that first hit off of a pipe? Why won’t our kids answer our emails, texts, accept our apologies? Why is there such anger, hatred, divisiveness in our world? Why did my husband have his job taken away just after we bought a car, when we finally were starting to see some financial security? The questions go on and on, I am sure you have many of your own. In times of great pain and hardship and worry, the questions come faster and louder. Our faith holds us up as we shout our queries to the heavens. Why, God?

Anne Lamott says the opposite of faith is not doubt, it is certainty. Asking why doesn’t mean we have little faith, it means we are human. It means we just don’t understand what we are to do next, how we are to cope. Like the 3 year old, our real question may be how. How do I go on? How do I survive this disaster and not fall into a pit of despair? Maybe the question is what. What is expected of me as a Christian in the face of this unthinkable pain? What am I to do when people are mean and I want take a time-out from Jesus walking and just punch them or lash out or tell the truth about them while they are sharing my secrets? Maybe the real ask is when. When is enough enough, when will my sorrow have reached the breaking point? When will real change come and I no longer have to be fearful? I wonder sometimes if the question isn’t who. Who are you God. During our most hurt and afraid times, we seek out the face of the One we need, like the child who wants mom even when mom just sent her to time-out. We want to see God, want comfort when we feel alone and scared and worried that we are in this messed up world making big choices all by ourselves. Ultimately, the question is can God handle our questioning? I think He welcomes them.

I remember when my kids first started asking their “whys.”  When Plum’s began I was more than ready. The curiously about their world, the readiness to explore and discover meant we were about to have many conversations. It meant I was going to be challenged to be present, to give them my outmost attention. My words were going to count with them, I had a chance to make an impact, right then.  Until the day we stopped talking, both of my children still came to me to help explain their worlds. Plum asks me questions everyday. I relish my role as information guru. Just last night mama called with a question as she and Plum were reading a book about space and Plum wonder where Heaven was in relation to outer space. Mama wanted to get the words right, thought maybe they better call in some back up. On speaker phone, I asked questions myself. “Plum, where is God?” Heaven.  “Where else?”  Everywhere.  “Who made the sun, the stars, the moon, outer space?”  God.  Okay Gran, I get it, Heaven is where God is and heaven is everywhere. Goodbye. He quickly hung up, satisfied with his own answer, settling the query himself.

I know that teaching our children to ask the real questions and learn to find the answers for themselves is one of the most rewarding parts of parenting. Is it any less so for God? Maybe He gets a little weary of our asking in times of trouble, “Why me, God?”, when there are so many who are hurting more deeply.  But like a patient parent, He shows up to listen and guides us to the answers. Not always the ones we want, maybe a little redirection is in order, but still, we get the answer we need. So as I rise each morning and ask God how much longer, I find something else to do while I wait. I find a woman who needs help filling out the paperwork to go visit her son her prison and then needs a ride to get there. I find that a friend recently diagnosed with cancer, a friend who has graced my door with meals so many times over the years, could use the efforts of my cooking ability today. I mumble how much longer and then I get busy writing up a newsletter article or agreeing to be an usher. God redirects my whining and moaning into worthwhile activity and I forget that I was asking a question. I remember that the world is also hurting and I have something to help heal a small piece of it.  I figure out where God is and then I go see some of HIs people.

Why God? Why do You keep loving us when we make such a mess of things? Why do You stay so faithful when we stray? Why do You show such forgiveness when we just don’t?  Really those are the why questions that matter. The only answer is grace.  Let us all practice answering with extra grace whatever is asked of us. Those annoying angry bitter hurtful questions may just be hiding a real ask for comfort and grace. Can’t we offer that light today? Maybe figuring out where God is and showing up there, that will bring us all closer to the answers.