Category: Faith

Good Breaking

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, Plum, Stella4 Comments

Apple pie, layers of crusts surrounding cinnamon sugar coated slices softened in juices, cut into wedges and served up, so delectable, an irresistible gift. The baker offers up pieces of themselves, labor and love melting with flour, the tiniest bit of salt. She watches as those with the plates of pie carve into her heart’s gift, fork slicing through the crusty wall, reaching the luscious fruit, she watches as the first taste of her love is taken. Waiting waiting anticipating the moment when taste buds accept her love, know her gift is of herself, that moment when eyes shine and a smile begins, a sigh escapes, the fork returns for another bite. Her soul rejoices, she broke herself into pieces that found new resting places as others accept her slivers of love.

There is a breaking that happens when good is coming, like the sun pushing up over the horizon to interrupt the darkness or the tight shell of an egg releasing the promise of breakfast. Good breaking surrounds me, the rip of paper as my grandson prepares more artwork, the grind of coffee beans wafting me awake.  Finding, noticing the good breaks is challenging when the biggest break is my heart, splintering slivering shattering silently into fragments unrecognizable and irrepable. I watch from a distance as the pieces shred away, captivated by the beauty as light catches memory slices and reflects hopes and dreams. Paralyzed rooted maybe unwilling to stop the destruction anymore I just gaze at the growing heart heap and watch my life loves destroy what I gave them. I don’t think this is good breaking, my pieces seem too shattered and scattered ever be restored. I gave my soul pieces, they rest within others now, aching to be rejoined.

That gorgeous apple pie left out on the counter, left unattended, forgotten, will grow moldy, will sink into the plate, become a heap of mush, the extravagant gift wasted. Apples cut and left to rot are not good breaking. My pieces are too fractured to collect, scattered by the winds of harsh words and shriveled by unforgiving neglect. I watch, wonder if I will ever be whole again, if we will ever celebrate the good breaks of rising suns and the crash into language of a first word, the busting into mobility of a first step. I imagine a place where my heart pieces are reconnected, bigger, more light through the cracks, room for more more ever more still. Those are good breaks. Today I wonder about  growing moldy, slinking down into the juices of despair as I see more pieces of my heart flake off, out of reach.  Then I remember those slivers are not meant to ever come back to me, an egg shell cracked is not to be restored. The glory comes in what is created after the destruction, after the crisp apple loses it peel and the sun pushes us into a new day. More light comes into my broken heart where all of those slivers and slices were carved out. If I am left with only crumbles, I have given the me God said to offer up.

There is good breaking, where more light sneaks through walls into our souls with forgiveness, casting out shadows of shame, slicing up room for new hope and creation. I pray that you can find those broken pieces and see the beauty that came from gifting your love to others. I pray that you can find that grace comes in severing your hold on those gifted pieces. They are no longer ours, any more than the baker would ask for that piece of pie back. Let our hearts be broken and slivers offered, let us rejoice in the light of our crumblings.  This is good breaking.

 

Breaking Boards

On By LisaIn Faith2 Comments

I watched Plum break a board yesterday. I listened to his instructor every week tell this rag tag group of boys that one day they would have the chance to do so. I watched these squirmy little boys file in after a long week of classes, bodies aching for freedom and instead being called to line up, listen, obey for just one more hour. They struggled, they wiggled, they popped each other with an errant elbow and wandered off to watching parents or sneak some Friday popcorn from their backpacks. Still they mostly managed the moves, they found ways to align their little bodies with that of the instructor and they staved off their hunger for the extra hour each week. Promotion ceremony had arrived and the boards were visible, I was riddled with doubt.

Most of these children barely weigh 50lbs.  Reading skills are all over the place, making the book work required a challenge for many. Most never had a pen or pencil, it became habit for them to beeline to me and the baggie I kept in my purse of extras just for this purpose. They are babies. I wanted to line them up at the tables, feed them apples and peanut butter crackers and let them run the gym afterwards. The instructor asked them to be respectful and responsible and to listen. When a boy would show her an ouchie hand, she could be heard asking if he needed an ambulance, okay no, then join your friends please. I wanted to give him a band-aid, also from my purse. It struck me that I saw these children as who they used to be, little tiny boys. She saw their future. She saw the need for disciplined choices in the face of discomfort. I am really great at being a grandma, I would be a horrible DoJo.

Someone asked Mama in an almost mocking manner what she would do if Plum turned into an addict, would it all really be so easy for her? This conversation came on the heels of her encouraging setting safe boundaries, turning off the deep desire to enable, owning that addiction is a family disease. The remark broke her heart, hit every worry that has plagued her from the moment of conception. As we followed her hurt but also her choices, I reminded her that she is already doing the hard stuff. She is practicing now, just like those little boys. The great big horrible daunting choice of what to do when your child shows you that he has an addiction that is out of his control, that he is engaging in illegal behavior, that he is skipping school and is broken with mental illness, that hard choice doesn’t just appear after years and years of easy street. Like those squirmy hungry boys who had to choose to line up and listen when they really didn’t want to, she is making hard choices every day. She is practicing. She is breast feeding her daughter, through mastitis and c-section recovery when it would have been easier to switch to formula and get more sleep. This is not a bash on those who have made that choice, merely casting a light into Mama’s life. She has practiced telling Plum yes he does actually have to stay after school again today, no he cannot leave early. She is practicing by gaining control of her home and creating structure for her entire family. This often means telling everyone no it is not movie time, we are cleaning up. With each success, she is gaining the confidence to move to the next level, she is self-promoting for the next board to break.

God forbid she is ever faced with such horrible choices. I hate that any of us are. I hate that she was mocked in such a hurtful way. The reality of parenting an addicted child is that you no longer get to give snacks when they are hungry, bring extra pencils because they forgot. They must find their own ability to succeed and not be undermined by the parent’s need to nurture. They must have the consequences of not getting their work done and then the reward of doing it themselves. The addict child has to lose the shelter of a loving parent early, the parent has to let go faster or will be forced to let go forever. My soul cannot even consider the thought of my Plum under these circumstances yet my mind knows his genetics put him at risk. So off to class he goes, especially when he doesn’t want to. He always has his own pencil. He is just a baby but the world sees him differently. Thank God for an instructor who sees a child who could kick a board with confidence and break it.

The boys anxiously lined up, watched as the first child was called to meet the instructor by the stack of boards. He clumsily got into his stance, told the board  with little assurance that he would break it with his front kick. Then tried over and over. The board didn’t break. I knew this whole event was a mistake. I wanted to call it quits. I looked about the room for this child’s parents, where were they? Why weren’t they saying, no, maybe he isn’t ready? Still it carried on, the instructor encouraging, giving pointers, inspiring. She reminded him of the correct stance, got him fired up. When his kick landed on the board with enough force to split it in two, the room erupted in joy. A collective celebration for this child who then got his stripe of confidence across his belt. Many children were able to land one blow and split the wood, some needed more chances. Plum did it in two. Each boy was on his own journey of self-discovery, conquering more than the board. Their desire to be stronger, to be little ninjas, to be bigger and tougher outweighed their fear and doubt, overcame their hunger and their wiggles.

I watched as these little boys were promoted after they practiced for weeks through hard choices to show that their will could be channeled into their goals. They could do it if they wanted it badly enough. The same goes for parenting, all the day-to-day rough decisions prepare us to set aside our needs and focus on the goal. I realized I am just too tired, too spent doing such hard work. My soul aches for those who have to make these daily hard choices. My desire is to make cookies for all the children and see that they have pencils. God knows we always need grandmas, but we most assuredly need more DoJos. My heart is over-flowing with gratitude for this young woman who inspired a room of ruffians to be their best selves. They all broke the board, she didn’t quit until they did. No one walked away until they achieved the goal. The split some wood with a kick, I feel sure they will all remember that moment, the exact moment when each boy realized he could achieve greatness.

(It should be noted that this class also held ONE LITTLE GIRL, for clarity sake I did not write about her. She deserves a story all her own. She inspired me. Her book work was done before anyone else, she sat up straighter, she listened better, she knew the moves quicker and she won almost every game. She blew the boys away. She broke the board in one kick. She probably weighs 40lbs. She will be the star of another story, many stories I am sure. Also, she always had her own pencil and never got up for popcorn.)

Doubt
Desire

Math is Hard

On By LisaIn Faith, Stella, The Chef2 Comments

Math has never been my best subject, I am more inclined towards words, letters. When a teacher in 5th grade taught me to diagram sentences, creating lines and trees on paper, I found the best use for graph paper. I later went on to take advanced algebra in summer school, a rush to fit in all of my credits, squeezing in room for more English Lit courses, thus I learned it for the test and then let it slide away as I went swimming.  What I do know of math is this, when you get married, you add. You bring in this person you have chosen and ask them to not only accept all of your lovable parts but also your quirks and not so great parts. Then you ask them to do the same with your family of origin. This is where sometimes math gets tricky.

When my Chef introduced me to his mother, the kindest most generous crazy woman who has no filter on her mouth or thoughts who does not understand the concept of boundaries,  I was accepted. I still question her wisdom but that is a different story. Nevertheless, Chef and I and his mom and his two brothers became a wider family. My family was surely easy for Chef to love, after all they were my family. Certainly I came with two children, an ex-husband, a battered relationship with my own mother and her odd pick of replacement husband (see how I feel about that one?) and of course my brother and sister-in-law. My family required no adjustments, they were mine. Understanding the nuances and communication styles of his though, that was like multiplication. I didn’t always feel like I had added just one mother-in-law, she is a powerhouse. She often speaks loudly, forcefully, pulls weeds in my flower beds and makes plans with my Chef without talking to me. For holidays. That he agrees to. Without talking to me. Well, mostly we have corrected  that one, but still, the math was hard. I wasn’t always sure about this addition. It would have felt much easier to have just married Chef and move him to Lisa Island where I knew all the inhabitants, my family. But that would have been division. More math. Bad math. Easier, more comfortable for me, not so for my Chef.

The truth is that had I created or pushed for that bad math, I would have missed out on the richness that has developed between me and my mother-in-law. She accepted me first, it took me longer. I love this crazy boisterous extended family, so unlike what I experienced as a child. I know Chef loves the children I brought into the relationship as if he had been there from the beginning, I know how deeply he loves my brother and sister-in-law. We allowed the math problems to become celebrations as we added more and more. (Special note: we have not added in the ex-husband. I am not crazy.)

My point is this: math is hard for some of us, marriage is hard for most of us. Both start with the basics we learn in kindergarten though, just keep adding. We don’t learn to take away for some time, multiplication comes next and division is the very last thing learned, like a last resort. If we consider dividing as our first response to added family members, we are just doing the math wrong. As an English major I can state this with authority. As a mother with an estranged daughter who was wooed away by a new love, I can proclaim it from the mountaintops. Division is bad. I propose we focus on adding, seeing the good and working through the hard. I propose we leave advanced math to God who does the taking away. Let’s just keep adding more to who we love and to who we accept and who we invite to our dinner tables and our flower beds. Let’s add to who we forgive and who we offer mercy and grace and peace to, we may just discover one day we can no longer remember which ones we started with and which ones were supplemental. A blurred family tree with lines that even a math teacher couldn’t graph, connecting points intersecting and reaching out, across.  Oops, I think I moved into geometry. Or Algebra again? Math is hard. Marriage is harder. Lets just add.

Ashes

On By LisaIn Faith, Plum, The Chef4 Comments

Fat Tuesday, the day to live it up and indulge, as if we need permission go all in on our vices. Don’t get me wrong, I love the parades, I love the beads, I love the excitement and energy. I love the idea of celebration together, so little to celebrate these days. A thousand miles away from the big party in New Orleans, still the day before fasting begins arrived and I wondered at what it all really means. In our home we have been fasting for several months, leaving hope and joy out of our daily diets. We have avoided high calorie elation and glee, sticking to the austerity foods of despair and depression. Chef surely has been on this strict diet, I have to admit to cheating snacks on the side, away from his view. Time with friends allowed me to feast on bits of glee and slices of hope. Sermons at church fed me reminders of hope, Plum always brings a taste of joy. Finally, we are entering back into a season of dining together on these delicacies and the thought of fasting for another 40 days is unsettling.  We just left the dark wilderness yet the calendar is calling us back into it as we walk with Jesus in preparation for Easter.  I want to Easter now.

I have to wonder though at the timing. We have been wandering for 8 months now. We finally see some light and are asked to wander some more, spiritually at least. What is to be gained by turning back around? What did Jesus gain from that time of separation? He was tempted, He prayed intentionally, He was prepared for the darkest times ahead. It would be easy to lose the lessons gained from our own wanderings, lose the humility, the centering, the focus of the wilderness now that light is shining in our eyes. Excitement that comes with new beginnings can cause us to forget that we are merely on the edge of the forest, not yet clear of shadows and the chill. Old habits can resurface, did we wander long enough to internalize the trail markers and remember how we found our way out?

Of course, the season of Lent calls us to slow down, to check our pace. Chef is just getting up to speed again, but I have to consider that maybe I have been running a bit too fast. A pit stop to check my vitals feels unnecessary as I rush forward into my more, the tug to slow down feels like punishment, like when I was a teenager and gave up chocolate for Lent. Truly a sacrifice when I have great momentum. Candy never was more enticing than those 40 days without, never tasted sweeter than Easter morning when I found my basket filled with my favorite kinds. But many times I would discover that I didn’t really want it as much as I thought, it was merely the idea of it, the longing, the knowing I couldn’t have it. Cravings for Three Musketeer and Snickers bars were replaced with thoughts of Jesus on the cross. By the time I was free to indulge again, I found my diet had changed, my desires had changed. If only I hadn’t worked so hard to push this candy back in. Because every year whatever I have chosen to let go of for Lent was really something I needed to let go of for good. A supreme sacrifice for 40 days was preparation for the rest of my life. I have yet to accept the offer. Will this be the year that I offer up my rushing that leaves others behind? Will this be the season that sees me sacrifice my constant movement to spend some quality time in the wilderness, alone with God?

My pastor marked Plum’s forehead with ashes and my soul broke open, I almost fell to the floor crying. Plum looked so earnestly into the pastor’s eyes, absorbed his deep words of God’s love, and then returned to his seat to wiggle and jostle the boys around him. A holy moment lost in “little boy too late in the evening” rowdiness. Still I bore witness. The pastor etched my forehead with ashes and I am not sure I have ever felt more loved. I am pretty sure Jesus was speaking through this man, I think that quite often. But this night, in this moment, he and I were alone, the others all fell away. He spoke words of affirmation while marking ashes along my forehead. Life giving hope out of the death of my Jesus. The moment was actually too powerful for me to sit with my family, my friends any longer in the sanctuary. I left and returned to my safe alone place, the kitchen where I could weep  undetected. I may have looked like a martyr to others as the service ended and I was finishing the meal clean up, they didn’t know I was selfish and needed more time alone with Jesus who had just touched my soul.

The season of Lent is powerful, leads us to the cross, to Calvary, to the empty tomb, to the proof of resurrection. Lent is calling me to slow down and stand on the edge of the forest, accept some darkness, address a bit the ugliness that runs freely in my hidden wilderness. Last night I spent some time with Jesus who promised to go with me on the journey, who told me that I was worth it, He was worth it. My soul is worth it. I will eat chocolate, I will continue to drink Coke. This Lenten season I am doing some soul work. Back the wilderness I go.

Center
Quicken

What Will the Church Say?

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith5 Comments

Raw, naked, vulnerable, I sat in the room and listened until I couldn’t anymore. We were discussing Michelle Alexander’s distressing, alarming, so true “The New Jim Crow”, specifically the chapter about what it means to carry the label of felon. Her work deals directly with African-Americans and the War on Drugs yet it is true for anyone caught up in the system. I know, I have a felony conviction from 23 years ago that will never leave me. The formal punishment phase is long over, yet everyday I am reminded that I am less than. I sat in this room at church with these so devoted friends who want to know more, who are asking questions and digging into hard material and I was ready to vomit my shame at their feet. They thought they were talking about abstract others and they were talking about me. Jobs lost, police stops, extra questioning, shame shame shame that never goes away.

Only 2 chapters left in the book, 2 sessions left in the study, is is too late to drop out? I knew it would be hard, I thought it would be so for different reasons. I too am naive. The very thing that makes me want to avoid the group is probably the reason I need to go back, I have been dealing with this brokenness quite openly for almost a year now, March 1st is my blogging anniversary. Dredging up my shame, all the hurtful memories of times I have been pushed back down, is that prep to look at how far I have come? Or really just a bad choice to revisit the past that is not my today and I should go out for a nice walk instead? The words from Steve Wien’s podcast with his wife came back to me this morning, “Be gentle with yourself.”   How to be honest and share those wounds in a way that doesn’t overtake the group, turn it into a session about me while acknowledging  that these events are  hurtful and these assumptions are hurtful and those others are actually sitting right next to you at church? How to take care of me looks more like not stuffing this really hard class back down into the pit with all the other hard times, waiting for the great big eruption in therapy with St. Peter at the gate.

So I will remember. I will tell about the time I found my son almost dead, in his bedroom as I was leaving for church. We called the ambulance, he was taken to the hospital, his stomach pumped. The police came, they ran our names as standard procedure and found my felony. I was separated from my son’s bedside and questioned about whether or not maybe I was hurting him and that was why he had tried to take his life. He was questioned too, to make sure he was safe from me. I wasn’t allowed back with him until he said I wasn’t hurting him. Shame in the midst of trauma and terror and then the doctors no longer looking me in the eye as they gave updates. I was not his mother, the one who found her almost dead son who had overdosed, I was a felon.

I will remember the time I got fired after working for 2 years as a manger at a local thrift store because I chose not to check the box, leaving it blank, not yes or no. I wanted them to ask me so I could tell my story. They skipped it. The hiring manager using a red pen signed off on my application when she hired me and apparently checked the no box, also with her red pen. A stranger complained that I worked there so the owner pulled my application, felt I had lied and fired me. He apologized profusely, said he loved my work, just didn’t have a choice. I was a felon.

I will remember the times, over and over that I did tell my story, did get hired for positions that were all below my skill set and then worked my way up into management level spots, never knowing which day that I walked in would be the one. The one that HR would be waiting there to tell me an anonymous complaint had arrived and while they loved me and had never had a more dedicated employee, they just couldn’t keep me on. Use them as a reference, they love what I brought, but I had to leave immediately. I was a felon, they knew from the beginning, but now some stranger knew as well.

I will remember a local addictions half-way house that loved all the volunteer work I did and asked me to sit on their board, until they found that I had a felony in my past. I was politely and discreetly told I just couldn’t volunteer there. A place that offers hope and second chances shut me out.

I will remember the parents who would not let their children play with mine, the parents at our church who would not let their children come to birthday parities even in public places. Because I am a felon. Shame heaped on me that spilled onto my children.

We punish people with prison sentences, with costly parole and probation fees and time and appointments and then we continue civil and societal punishments to keep them out there, away from the good people in here. A leper colony with oozing sores of criminality, clear violators of our morality. Still, I have found redemption and hope in the cross. I have found friends who care less about where I have been and more about where I am going. I have people who know my story and love me anyway. I have a God who keeps pushing me to get out there, who tells me my shame is the work of evil and He wants me to feel His mercy. The world doesn’t like mercy too much. God wants me to talk about grace so much I dream about it. Amazing grace, we sing those words all the time but do we really offer it to those who most need it?

I was asked in the group if I have ever felt shame for telling my story at church. The wonderful beautiful woman who asked this is one of my secret mentors. She was referring to all the times I have asked for prayers about Arrow. I didn’t know how to answer, I stumbled over my words. No, the church has been incredibly supportive through our journey with our son and his time in prison. Would they respond the same if I were to tell them about me?  My offense is not for drugs, I am a felon. I will always be a felon. Grace tells me I am so much more. Will the church tell me the same thing?

Finding Stella

On By LisaIn Faith, Stella, The Chef, Travel3 Comments

Four years ago I was on my way to South Korea, carrying only my new tightly packed huge backpack and enough excitement to fuel the multiple modes of transport that would take me to my daughter. I was bringing her home from her year of teaching but first we were traveling to Cambodia and Thailand. Many weeks of traveling, just us and our backpacks. Mine was pink, I sent her a green one. A constant flow of information between us as we selected our routes, planned our hostel stays, determined how little money we could get by on, and especially the detailed plan for me to reach her apartment once I landed at Incheon International and then found the correct subway and then the all important right stop to disembark. I was traveling across the world to see my girl, all alone, Chef dropping me at the local site to catch the shuttle to take me to the airport 3 hours away. Many transfers, many opportunities for me to get mixed up, turned around, lost. I always get lost. This time, though I found my Stella, I was at her apartment when she returned from work, a testament to her preparation and determination to get me there, a story of just how badly I wanted to see my daughter.

I can point to many life events that have shaped and changed me, set my path on a new course. Some are awful, just so horrific they left me wandering in the dark lost and searching for too long. Other events opened me to new lights and greater glorious fields, new ideas and realizations of my more. This trip was the good kind. The very best kind. I saw my daughter as a woman on this trip, no longer my little girl. I loved who she was, who she had grown into. Sure and confident, living in a foreign country, alone and mastering it. She took me to favorite restaurants where owners hugged her as she walked in. She showed me her classrooms where children asked us to take them back to America because they loved her so much. I met her supervisors who said she always had a place there, she was a wonderful teacher. Then we began to travel and she showed me the world. She taught me how to navigate, how to find our way when English is no where to be found. She showed me her soul as we cried over the Killing Fields in Cambodia. She showed me how to play as we laughed with the elephants in Thailand. She taught me to eat  street food that I will never be able to replicate or name. We slept in places we agreed to never tell Chef about, we rode in vehicles we weren’t sure we would survive in. We talked into the sweaty nights and laughed every sweltering day.

I think my daughter is lost now, maybe I am. We can’t find each other. God knows that I would travel on any tuktuk or midnight bus with sketchy hipsters who haven’t showered in forever if it meant I could reach her. A constant flow of apologies, beseeching, anger, crying out to remember who we are, nothing I do seems to cross the divide. My God I miss that laugh, those eyes, that beautiful woman who teaches me things. I miss how her soul, always an old soul, uses creative ways to explore and explain her insides. Her art, oh Lord, her art. I miss how she loved so fiercely that it often broke her, she loved so loyally that she had no understanding of those who left others behind. I can’t find my daughter in this big world, maybe she has lost herself.

Four years ago today I was leaving for the trip that would forever change how I travel and why I travel. It forever altered how I see those around me, those in the places I visit. I seek out their stories, I want to know them and learn how my life is connected to theirs. Because we ARE all connected, that’s what she showed me most of all. She showed me that the water we waste, the clothing we take for granted, the extra food we throw out, the stories of suffering we don’t care to learn as we buy trinkets and bargain for the lowest price, we are connected to others who suffer. Today as I look back on that trip 4 years ago, I am reminded that Stella and I are still, forever connected, once through joy, today through heartache. She knows I will travel the world to reach her, she knows I will stop at nothing once she says she wants to be found. I feel her some days, so close she could be a shadow, a hazy bit of fog, I reach out but cannot touch her.  I trust that God is with her, near her, hovering over, listening to her soul. I know that God celebrates our connections, God loves our reconciliations and seeks restoration in our broken world. One day God will draw the map that will bring us back together. Today, we remember our past travels and keep walking in the light. Soon, Stella, we will meet again and my God won’t we laugh?

 

 

Leaving the Mat

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, Stella, The ChefLeave a comment

Be Still and Know that I am God. Ps 46:10.  Let go and Let God. I don’t think that one is in there anywhere but I sure hear it often. Both come at me when I am wrestling, when I am struggling and seem to be losing my way. When my faith is shaky, when the foundation under me is crumbling. The words are meant to comfort and guide me, help me catch my breath and center my soul but in the heat of a battle I rarely can remember to be still, to let go. Counterintuitive to any wrestling match, to just stop. What if I let go of my strong hold, the little bit of control I have and all goes to hell-in-a-handbasket, what now? A quick search shows no scripture that guides me in regaining my headlock after release moves. Seemingly, the expectation is to loosen the grip, sit back and listen and wait. Horrible instructions that time and again worked wonderfully, beautifully for those willing to truly follow them.

I have been secretly trying it out. For several months. In the midst of our financial disaster, our estrangement with our daughter, our worry and fear for our son. I have chosen this time to stop wrestling, leave the mat, (I really know nothing of the sport so expect this metaphor to end soon or be misused) shake off the sweat and grime from rolling on the floor with opponents that taunt and mock me. I have taken a shower in God’s promises, I have stopped to listen and most importantly, I have trusted. While hardships stuck their tongue out at me, tried to lure me back into fear and anxiety, while Chef’s mourning threatened to drown me, still I refused to reengage the battle.

Listening for the whispers of God meant seeking out those who hear Him better than me. It meant ignoring those who don’t. It meant being quiet when I wanted to yell or scream or say bad words. It often meant walking away, something that can look hurtful to those on the mat. It meant intentional prayer and seeking out those whose prayers break my soul open.

Letting go meant not sending the cards I wrote out, not putting a stamp on the letters in the envelopes that were fully addressed and ready to hit the mailbox. It meant not reengaging in texting battles (Okay, I had one quick trip back to the mat, but that was an extraordinary circumstance and I found myself feeling filthy and beaten rather quickly. A slip-up that reminded me I am no good at fighting this battle with Arrow.) Letting go meant not accepting the ugliness and desolation that comes with holidays not celebrated with my children, rather being present with ones who were present. It meant allowing Chef to grieve and not falling into depression with him.

What I found is being still and letting go were not passive endeavors, as I have always imagined. I thought I would have to sit. I hate sitting. I thought I would have to wait. I abhor waiting. What I discovered is my time became so full of other pursuits that I barely had time to think about wrestling. No checking the calendar for the next match, I was  off to another meeting, a lunch date, a book club, starting a new ministry. My worry time was transformed, I was transformed.  Before, I said no so often that I was no longer even asked, I stopped looking for ways to grow because I was stuck in the battle. My world was tiny, a gym sized mat consisting of aches over Stella and Arrow, hurts from the past. Allowing myself to let go meant I could say yes. I say yes so often that it is a habit, I am almost becoming an extrovert. (Okay that is a stretch, but I am no longer hiding. An introvert who is out of the shadows is kinda like and extrovert, right?)

It should be noted that resolution has not come to either of those situations. Trust me, if that were true this blog post would start with Hallelujah in the boldest print and then say that 100 times over. Still, I  have a new resolve. I have a new purpose and freedom. I think there just may be something to listening to God and letting God have all of my worries. I pray I can stay off of the wrestling mat, I hope you will join me out of the ring. We can get amazing stuff done out here and trust me, you will feel so much less dirty. Yes, I am now one of those people who just may whisper to you, “Be Still and Know That I Am God.”  Pastor Pat would be proud. Of course his version to me went something like this: Lisa, shut up and listen.  Equally effective.

Will you shut up and listen today, listen for God’s whispering?

Rise Up, Child

On By LisaIn Faith, Plum, The Chef3 Comments

Coke is my go-to drink during the day, a glass of wine instead for the evening hours. M&M’s and pop tarts have been mentioned frequently enough throughout my previous writings that no-one would be surprised that those are my easy comfort foods. None of this would please Michelle Obama, I know it isn’t healthy. So I balance it all with lots of fruit and vegetables, a tiny bit of protein (Yuck) and drink too much OJ. These habits are sneaky though, unless I keep mine in check, they threaten to become my lifestyle and not treats I indulge in occasionally. I have another habit that I fight with, think I have beaten, only to find it sneaking up on me at the most unexpected times. I know this habit is not pleasing to God. Well, I don’t Michelle would like it either but God is the one who concerns me here. I am talking about shame.

Like the little jar of candies I have on my desk, I often reach for shame without realizing it. I allow stigma to enter my soul without even the sweet taste of chocolate to ease the way. Reading an old message, wondering if a current one is aimed at me, humiliation sliding down my throat while my skin grows cold and my cheeks begin to flush. Shame is that sick feeling of too much food, knowing it was just too much food. The cold bathroom floor brings the only relief, hidden away, accepting punishment that can never really flush away my stains. Tears, angry floods that never drown my accusers, leave salt trails for soul detectives to follow, will they ever find me?

Then I remember that I choose what enters my body. I do actually love carrots and zucchini and mushrooms. I so love pesto and peppers and fresh peas out of the garden. I don’t have to accept the slurs and sideways glances and dis-grace, I can say no thank you and move away from the Shamers. Like a salad bar with all the best toppings, safe places feed my soul and remind me I am a child of God who has already washed away my sins, He doesn’t need my salty tears to do so. God doesn’t remember who I was, what I have done, He knows who I am. God sends soul detectives to follow the salt trails and whisper to me, “Rise up, child.”

The scars throb sometimes, ache with the memories of all the times I lost my job again, lost my hope again, lost my identity again, because of Shamers. Today is a throbbing day, too much delving into the past, tracing wounds that seek to choke out my soul. How to deal with the pain? Rush to the candy jar? I remember the boo-boo bags we got for Plum when he was just a tiny babe, rice inside soft cloth that can be stored in the freezer and gently applied to any hurts. These bags mold to his legs, his ankles, around his hands. He is big enough to seek out the boo-boo bags himself now, he knows how to stop the hurt himself. Today I will seek out my own healing bags of grace, those who dispel the ghosts of shamers-past and bring cool refreshing mercy. Today I will go to the salad bar of Jesus who offers redemption and a way back from the bathroom floor. Today I will enjoy some pesto and perspective, remember who I am: a child of God who has plans for me. I think that would please Michelle Obama as well.

Slur
Baby

Stretching

On By LisaIn Faith, Plum, The Chef1 Comment

A puddle of black water on the counter, again, the damn coffee pot is leaking. Every day I find a stain, a mess, some amount of my morning zing waiting to be sopped up, waiting to be cleared away. Easier to buy a newer coffer maker but funds are tight, gone, thus we are blessed to even have grinds to put in the damn machine so I shouldn’t find offense at the mess. Still, I do. I hate that coffeemaker and the inability to just make a cup without knowing their will be literal fallout. Then I chide myself for the fact that this is my complaint, this?, when so much is wrong all around. So I wipe, scrub, move on. Until the next pot is brewing.

We use the invisible, underground fencing system for our beasts, a system that has worked beautifully for years until recently when our Golden chose to withstand the shock and break free. Sometimes he stands right on the line and gets a really good zap and then just goes. All of this resulted in a pretty yucky infection around his neck, an expensive trip to the vet (several new coffeemakers worth) and 10 days on antibiotics and a full shave around his neck. On the mend now, he is still breaking free. He is huge, he is fast, he is gone. He is making a mess of my free time, I can’t let him out to wander our yard without finding him in the neighbor’s now. Always on the lookout for Plum’s bus, yesterday he chose to go out into the street and try to board it. I considered asking the busdriver to trade me,  all those children for this damn dog. Apparently I need to put in a real fence with the millions of dollars I have hidden under my coffeemaker.

Several days ago Plum ran into the house and asked if it was appropriate for him to know how humans breed. Why did this question not come up when he was riding the bus to mama’s house? Some gentle probing on my part discovered this curiosity was sparked by a Pokemon discussion, I guess they are bred and they evolve and then they get really dumb names. So I somewhat dodged the question. Until he came back for another visit and asked how babies are made. Seriously, kid, you are only 6 and you have parents and I am too old to be trying to remember how much is too much to tell. Where is my coffee? Still, I broke out my best high school science and made his eyes glaze over. Whew, dodged again.  Until bedtime a couple of nights ago when he was preparing to fall asleep, we were snuggling, both in our “walls down, chatting” mode and he asked if boys could have babies. He had me captive, I couldn’t squirm away, I would be breaking our nighttime vulnerable talk rules. So we talked. I explained that it does take mommies and daddies together to make babies but mommies carry them in their bodies. (Please don’t yell at me about all the other possible combinations, I know, I do teach this child about the many ways families can look. I was tired and avoiding.)  Seeds, fertilizing,  growing, beauty, I thought we were going somewhere until he made clear his issue. “Nan, but can daddies ever have the babies?” “No, sweetie, but they get to love them always and care for them always.” “That’s crap! It isn’t fair!” he told me with gusto. I agreed. I told him it was God’s plan so maybe we should take our issue up with Him. “YES!”  So we prayed to God as we laid on the bed, him snuggled under the warm blankets and curled up with his specials.  We told God just what we thought of this situation.  I ended the lament with a request that God get back to us really soon with an answer. Plum and I looked each other, he cocked his eyebrow at me and asked what now? I told him I thought God would get back to us later, we should maybe just go to sleep. He rolled over, closed his eyes and softly said, “You are so silly, gran.”

So much seems to be leaking out right now, breaking through the barriers I have erected. Sneaking through my soul walls, spilling around the edges of my heart. I forget to cry out to God, mostly I just complain and wipe up the mess, stuff down my frustration or leak out my own anger. Remembering that God can take my questions and my wonderings is good. Knowing also that the way we grow is to by stretching, some leaking out of those walls just may be His plan. After all, coffee is still coffee if I use a straw to drink it off of the counter. About the wandering beast, I’ve got nothing.  Breaking free, willing to withstand the pain to get to the other side, all I can see is a neck full of oozing infection and some terrifed  kids on a bus. God surely will get back to me on that. Still I have coffee to drink, beasts to encourage exercise, and a Plum who challenges. Blessings that remind me I am alive, I am still growing. I don’t have answers for everything, I have to seek out the One who does. Then wait for Him to get back to us.

 

Hungry Messy Inconvenient

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, Plum, Stella, The Chef7 Comments

She looks up at me from the crook of my elbow, the perfect distance for newly developing eyesight according to some researcher. Mothers already know this. She locks eyes with me, I am looking at my granddaughter and also at God. Not the “Strong take care of everything control the world ” God but the “tiny vulnerable captivate your soul” God. My God is sometimes the Father but more often the Child, He comes to me through the children who show me grace and love unconditionally. Is it any wonder that women flock to hold a baby even in the midst of the burdens of their own family? It grows ever harder to see the God in us all as we grow: we are needy and wanting and not always very nice. We don’t smell so good and look so sweet. Yet it is ever so clear staring into the eyes of a baby, God is here.

Still, babies cry and want fed and have to be changed and are highly inconvenient, the backstory you forget when you are a grandma who only has visits or a young woman longing for her first child. Those God moments can be more rare in the trenches. But isn’t that the same with our God? Surely our sins bring screams of agony to our Father, cries that cannot be calmed much like a baby with colic, requiring hour after hour of pacing each evening. I can only imagine God’s pure pain at the hate rising up in our world, the violence and separation, the refusal to tend to our neighbors. God is crying, a neglected babe alone.

Can you envision God’s cries as we feed our guilty pleasures, our addictions, fill our time with social media and leave Him starving for our attention, forgetting that time with Him feeds us too? Long walks noticing creation, baking bread, real honest to God knead the dough and let it rise bread, arranging colors on canvas with intentionality, all are answers I have received when asked “How do you feel closer to God.”  The commonality in the responses is time creating and time apart, maybe from others but certainly from regular life. I believe retreating and creating is when we feed God, when He feeds us. Our souls become open to his nurturance.

Scripture reminds us that God is the same, yesterday today always. But we live in a changing world that requires our involvement. We live in a broken hurting world that demands our engagement. This world is God’s, we are His. To ignore the damage is to ignore the baby with the sopping diaper, soon to have a rashy bottom, soon to be blistered and the agony magnified. We are the ones called to do the changing, to tend to all of God’s children. The ones who have been left neglected the longest may smell badly, have the worst sores and scream loudly when we get near. They certainly don’t present as cuddly babies but imagine how long they have waited for our attention? Like a child with diaper rash, one swipe of ointment won’t fix it. We have to be attentive, we have to keep at it. Closed wounds don’t heal themselves. Homeless don’t find homes, hungry don’t grow food, slaves don’t gain freedom alone.

God is inconvenient. I know He does not make my life any easier. My list of those who have angered me and should be scorned forever, cast into the Dungeon of Non-Forgivables grows shorter as I grow closer to God. I try to bring that list to Him, asking for a smiting, a spell that would do Harry Potter proud but come away we another name crossed off as I lose my own fire. I want to stay mad sometimes. I want to hold on sometimes. Inconvenient. I have another list, a list of topics I will not address in public or mixed company so as not to offend. This one is meeting a similar fate. Rather than disappearing in resolution or forgiveness, this list burns within me and God demands that I speak up. God demands that I begin to talk for those who are not present. God demands that voices rise up to confront hate and bigotry and lies. God demands that this list grow and it is inconvenient for me to get louder.

It is inconvenient for me to follow a God who sees our broken world, my hurting home, my addicted son, my estranged daughter, my grandson who cries for his favorite aunt and wonders when he will see his dad again, how can I follow a God who doesn’t fix all these things? NOW. Then I look into the eyes of this babe and know that He gives me her, a way to see Him. A reminder that He is here, He is near, I just need to keep walking and rocking and working on my lists. With each of her cries and diaper changes, I know I am called to act on her behalf out in the wider world. She is God. Hungry, messy, inconvenient.  I pace with her in my arms, pat her bottom as she falls asleep, and thank God for visiting my soul.

Hideout