Mental Health March

On By LisaIn Faith, The Chef, TravelLeave a comment

Chef describes depression as bean bag chairs that rest on him, laying on his shoulders and covering his head. A bit comfy at first, molding to his body, providing shelter, blocking the harsh light from his eyes. (Well, he said the bean bag part.) The longer the bean bags, light as they are, stay in place, though, they become heavy, too awkward to carry around. Easier to sit still and not explain to onlookers why you are carrying beanbag chairs on your shoulder, simpler to not move and mess with the weight of them, jostling the little beans inside until they push even further onto your body, obstructing more of your view. Shoulders become weary, begin to sag. Neck muscles grow exhausted, head begins to droop. A slow gentle process of depression,  sinking under the bean bag chairs until you are covered and can no longer see, no longer lift them alone. I think fear is the same, worry is the same, anxiety, the same. All begin with just little bean bag on our shoulder, one becomes two, more sneak on top until we are stuck in the darkness. Or maybe like tiny seeds that get watered and nurtured and tended until they grow so great around our souls we are imprisoned in a garden of our making. We lose sight of the fact that we CAN lift those damn bean bags, we CAN chop down the weeds of worry. Getting up, moving into the light of community, we can find our way out of the darkness.

I have spent most of every day since election night consumed with worry and fear and disbelief that our country really wanted someone so filled with hate speech, so blatantly dangerous to women,  to lead us, to be the person our children learn about in school. To be honest, there was a time I was completely behind Hillary but that wasn’t this election until it was him or her. I know the weaknesses of choosing her, I knew better the danger of choosing him. So I too have felt the garden of fear growing around me, requiring every bit of my attention to chop down new growth and avoid fertilizing existing sprouts. When I realized the march was happening, I saw a chance to wack the entire greedy garden away. I invited the one person I wanted to march with, my niece who is a young woman on the cusp of political awareness, waking up to her voice, finding her beliefs. I knew her passion would provide some strength to do necessary gardening.

We planned the trip on the cheap. We drove ourselves overnight,  a cooler filled with sandwiches and snacks, scheduled naps in hotel parking lots. We listened to political podcasts to stay awake, drank too much coffee and consumed the miles separating us from Washington D.C. as if our lives depended on it. Because sort of, they did. We had to go and be in the crowd of others who were vanquishing fear and worry and depression, a mass of people who were together clearing away whatever weight or weeds were holding them down or back. Our family at home were concerned about safety, Chef had serious reservations about my health. We arrived to find the largest crowd of protesters ever recorded and experienced not a single moment of concern. Women are just intrinsically nurturing beings, we want to foster each other and the earth and our children, put 500,000 of us together and we still say please and thank you, we still smile and make space for one more. Yes, we were angry, but we were not hateful. Yes, we were motivated but not destructive. Yes, we were loud but we listened also. We found power in the collective by making space for many concerns without the requirement to signoff on every concern. Fear and worry and depression turned away, hope and passion lifted us all.

I heard it described as a group of whiners, a bunch of women who needed the therapy of being together to recover from Hillary losing. As if therapy is a bad thing, a shameful thing. It WAS therapeutic, it did restore my mental health. I was able to sit on the “couch” of D.C. and pour out my emotions and let the crowd counselor make sense of them, tell me I am not alone, wash them away. But more than that, I was given an action plan, a call to keep moving once I returned home and the weeds looked scraggly and exhaustion set in. Once my body began to truly ache and my feet were on fire, I could choose to descend back into hopelessness but make no mistake, that would be my choice now. I have tools, I have a community, I have work that needs to be done. So, yes, excellent therapy, money well spent. No shaming me or my movement for this label. We already know the benefit of mental health services, the stigma won’t stick.

For those who have yet to embrace the causes of the march, for those who think it doesn’t reflect their interests, no worries. We will march and act and get louder for you. When we are growing weary, we will need your backup for the next wave. By then, I am confident you will see yourself in the faces of women and men and children who just want to be respected and heard by our leader. To all who marched in D.C. and around the world, thanks for clearing away the weight of depression’s bean bags, thanks for chopping out the weeds of worry in my soul garden. President Obama told us, “Yes, we can.”  I say, “Yes, we will.” We have already begun, together. For today, I will be propping my feet up on the bean bags, enjoying the flowers that are blooming in my soul.

Afraid No Longer

On By LisaIn FaithLeave a comment

“Tell me what democracy looks like”

“THIS IS WHAT DEMOCRACY LOOKS LIKE”

The chants erupted in pockets to our left, to our right, the origin unclear but the response unmistakable.  Louder stronger, each reply growing with determination as the body absorbed not just the words but the power.  Faces reflected not the fear of the day before but the realization of the moment, a call to link arms and make votes that didn’t count matter now. This was not a march of haters, not a gathering of whiners, seeking to disrupt and disrespect.  The diversity of causes, colors, ages and genders showed fear will not triumph, ignorance will not govern, hope without action is no longer acceptable.  

I was smooshed within the masses for hours, often unable to speak, only accepting the energy and passion of young women and teen boys, aging women and little girls, old men and veterans, allowing their words and exhilarated faces to cleanse my soul of the terror which has settled in since election night.  Yes, I took from them all but I will give back as I go forward.  I will bring their chants and power home, to my grandson who is afraid of a bullying leader, to my friends who cried with me and wrung hands and sit with worry.  We will keep marching, we will lift up our signs, we will speak truth to power, we ARE the power.  

Clean water, access to birth control, equal education for all of our children, inclusive  safe streets regardless of skin color, reproductive rights for those who actually  do the reproducing, a free and open press, the right to love who we love, we marched for many causes but we marched together. The message those who stayed home and believe the fake news reports missed is that you don’t have to embrace every cause to speak.  You are still welcome to join us.  After all:

“THIS IS WHAT DEMOCRACY LOOKS LIKE”

Jolted

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

Having spent the better part of a month watching Grey’s Anatomy (very late to this party, yeah yeah) I am convinced of two things: 1) I am pretty much qualified to perform cardio-thoracic surgery and 2) shocking a person with major jolts of electricity is sometimes necessary to save them. Surely my pastor would rather I found my life lessons in his sermons, inspiration in my small groups, greater understanding of my world through bible study. Still trashy tv sometimes settles my tired mind into a place that can absorb all those things, allows the thoughts that swirl too quickly throughout the day to find a resting place as I snuggle in and just stop thinking. Who knew I would see the hope and plan of God in the antics of raunchy surgeons?

Certainly attending a funeral just days before my birthday ratchets up the mortality swirls and twists of my pondering. Considering who would come, what would they say, what would be my legacy, maybe enough to jump start my life. A God jolt asking if I feel done, do I want more. How many times do I need my heart restarted before I get up and accept the recovery and take the healing offered? Choices that land one in the place of requiring that shock of paddles onto chest, the bad food or extra stress, all amount to poisoning the temple where God resides. Would I really sully the sanctuary with bitterness and alcohol, with anger and inertia? Why allow those toxins into my life? Yes God can handle my very real feelings, but I have to be willing to give them up, not share them with Him and then take them back, gathered like precious jewels, family heirlooms, keepsakes.  Crying out to my Father with my aching heart is modeled for me throughout the ages, filling my heart back up with my moanings is not. An offering of my pain, not the pure goat or pristine lamb, but the bloated crippled hobbled creature I have nurtured for too long, that needs to be sacrificed at the altar. Laid bare and left behind. Carrying around a damaged heart without accepting the healing offered, so readily available, sullies my temple body and slowly squelches the life right out of me. Then the God jolt comes, the chance for a new life, a fresh start.

I listened during this funeral service as family and friends spoke of a life lived to the fullest, a life now mourned because her passing left a hole too big for anyone to imagine filling. I felt hit with the paddles, an invitation to leave such a mark, not out of pride but to have served God so fully that when I move on, someone might be inspired to carry on good stuff in my name. She was quite different from me, those words shared about her were uniquely hers. My purpose is mine, my legacy will be different. The chairs filled, the stories told, every one of us has our own chance to start today with that jolt to wake up and live towards our purpose or continue to carry our bloated disillusionment and pain. Which is worse, to admit to watching trashy tv or acknowledge that I felt my mourning during a an incredibly moving funeral service mix with an energizing force? I was electrocuted with hope for a new day, the possibility of a life lived with meaning.

I also learned from my time with the medical show that most patients didn’t expect to be on the table with the wires strapped to their chests, they didn’t know that was their day. I learned about the “surge” that comes with knowing death is near, the need to draw family close and right all the wrongs. What if instead of waiting for the surge, we pretended we were on the table, offering up our lives to God and letting him control the paddles? Jolt of new life, a restart today, an invitation to sacrifice our grudges and toxic unforgiveness and accept the grace of a new breath, fresh holy air into our lives.

Birthdays invite us to pause and reflect, to take note of progress and purpose and paths not taken. Funerals ask us to if we have made those birthdays meaningful, not just a count of the candles on our cake but an assessment of each day in between the year markings. God jolted my heart again this week, reminded me I still have more life to live, another chance to right some wrongs, to offer hope to others who see only darkness, a bit more love to share. My heart is electrified, my soul is opening to this new year. My legacy may be that I just keep trying, a broken woman who won’t stay down. What will you do with your surge? Today is our day, all of us. Wake up, let’s make it count.

Invitation

Open For Visitors

On By LisaIn Faith, Plum, The Chef, TravelLeave a comment

I swear it was not planned, at least not by me. I just wrote about my new office, described my sanctuary. I didn’t get into the nitty-gritty of each item that made the cut, the thoughtful decisions of final resting places either on my window sill, the bookcase or a shelf, the absolute tyranny I wield over this space because I arranged it and it is filled with my stuff and it is mine! The less attractive details that give a peek into my ache for some bit of determination into just a bit of something, a tiny piece of control over where I at least put my own basket or cup of pencils. I have been working on letting go of what is not mine, the “give it all to God” plan that I battle with so often. That work doesn’t include my office.  The pottery that sits on my desk, I want that just off to the right where my eye catches it every time I reach for my coffee. It reminds me of Janet who brings honesty and grace into my life, sees my brokenness and has never shied away. The picture of my brother and I when we reached Colorado, I want to see it each morning and remember I can do hard and uncomfortable things and be rewarded with amazing insights into God’s creation. The pieces of twine, fraying snips of string, those are my reminders of connections to friends from back home, back when, who stand with me and for me with love, women far away  but who can be reached with just a tug. Another picture is off to the left, where my politics and a deep friendship from college have settled, a drawing from an art fair that captures my faith and this friendship. It reminds me the artist knew my daughter, back when. No random objects here, nothing buried under a hoarding mess. My office is an exquiste time capsule, not fancy surely, but all a reflection of me and my life travels.

Then Plum came to visit. He didn’t know he was intruding, he didn’t know he was supposed to stay out or knock first on the slightly opened door, he didn’t know that the books were arranged on shelves by topic and size. He only knew this room was most recently his play area and his gran was now in it and his gran delights in all that he does and … can you see that it really wasn’t his fault? Yet I grew tense, I suggested we play out in the living room, I offered that maybe Grandpa wanted to play a game with him. Even more appalling, he brought a laundry basket overflowing with several of his closest stuffed friends, dumped them out on my floor then proceeded to develop an elaborate storyline of how each one was finding this space welcoming. Certainly not the vibe I was putting out. Introductions were made at his insistence then animals read books, colored pictures, climbed the ladder in the corner, scoured the globe, two rather shy ones joined up for a game of hide and seek on the shelves. I am ashamed to admit that at first I was quite twitchy, I only noticed that MY stuff was invaded and jostled and messed up. I left for a minute, screamed in a whisper to Chef, returned with a resigned attitude, ready to ride it out while I tried not to keep checking the time. I sat on my hands while I plastered a smile on to avoid grabbing each toy and throwing them back into the basket and right out the door. How long before I could shut this playdate down?

I almost missed it. So very close to clenching my teeth right over the joy of this child sharing his stories in my writing room, realizing that he was arranging his specials as he created his words as well. Oh dear God help me break out of my rigidity!  This world belongs to our Father first, we claim it as our own with lines drawn on paper, we erect our shelves, arrange our specials and create our stories in the space God created, as if we really did something, forgetting just like Plum in my office space, He was here first. I almost missed that my Plum was copying me, he was setting up a space to then share his words. How could I hold so tightly to my room that I didn’t want to nurture his storytelling?

Thankfully I got the nudge that comes with being open to God first thing in the morning, He reminded me that this room is not really mine, that these objects are memories of my own nurturance and empowerment. He reminded me that the most importance room in my world is the one in my heart for this child. I took some deep breaths, I allowed an elephant to tromp across my desk and a rabbit to frolic on my shelves. A giraffe read a book, a frog climbed the ladder while a dog and a bear shyly found each other and played hide and seek. The moose gardened and the panda explored the globe. Soon they all packed up and left, except the shy friends. Plum decided they were most comfortable now with me and were choosing to stay. He said they enjoyed how I shared with them and felt more at home here rather than up with all the other animals.

I have two new objects in my office, hints to be softer, more inviting, ready to cuddle when the rare chance comes. Two blue scuffed up toys that remind me I wasn’t here first no matter how much I try to claim this space. I am a visitor also, I have to knock first too. God opened the door for me to see His world, the real perfect garden He created in my soul. All of this belongs to God, all of me is His. Will I shut the door, arrange my stuff and sit quietly to reminisce or open myself up to new stories and visitors and the charming sounds of a six year old who teaches me about flexibility and finding new friends?

I like my stuff just how it is, I bet God arranged His garden just as He wanted as well. We are all guilty of making a mess of it,  yet He keeps the door open for us, allows us to enter freely and with forgiveness, we get to bring our scruffy friends and tell our stories and rearrange His people and move His creatures. It seems the further I run into my own space, the more I realize the journey is where I see God, not in the destination of my own little territory. Surely I can follow His example and open my heart room for a few more visitors. Some may even choose to stay.

Exquisite
Marathon

What If?

On By LisaIn FaithLeave a comment

I chose the emptied toy room, the furthest room from all the action, as my writing space. Moving games, spy gear, costumes, shelves full of feathers and balloons and old nerf bullets to create my own space with a door, a place of solitude, a clear message to my family. A commitment, an investment, utter selfishness with newly hung pictures of old trips and a scattering of tidbits that are meaningless to anyone else, my sanctuary. Mostly words surround me, scripture on little signs, words of empowerment or calls to action, letters in a Scrabble box. Baskets of correspondence, cards yet to be sent, scraps of paper from long ago lists, I am comforted by letters arranged into words, words into sentences, order created from scribbles, rich meaning mined from the jottings. I don’t imagine I will ever write or say something worthy of a mass produced sign, I don’t aspire to such greatness. My ambition is lesser, to sit undetected in my little room surrounded by words and arrange my own alphabet into meaning for me. I have finally accepted that this is my gift, I no longer shy away from owning it, I don’t have to be the best writer to know that what is in me comes from God and is enough.

Some people see the world in colors, a rich array beyond the primary lot, they notice the shadows and the blues in the yellows, the black in the orange. I will never notice those, I have no gift for the deeper appreciation of layers, of hues that build on each other to create the beauty and glory that ultimately a non-artist just knows is good stuff. I silently edge close to those with these gifts, wondering how my world would change if only I were capable of seeing more, deeper.

Others see in numbers, quickly able to compute and assess, to formulate and distribute. Numbers jumble in my mind, I lose count when scooping measures of beans for my morning grind of coffee. Not that I can’t count to six, I lose focus, I day dream just that quickly. Was it 3 or 4? The brew today will either be extra strong or weak, a coffee adventure each morning. I wish I were capable of quickly determining the percentage off price or the long term cost or the needed sales to hit the goal, except I have a Chef who can do this so I mostly stick to scooping coffee in the morning and arranging my letters into words.

Other people see the world in connections, in relationships. They find the webs that join, delight in discovering the missing links. These people shine in groups, marvel with the many. I watch these people from afar, lurking on the fringes. I envy their joy in relations, I am jealous of their easy smiles. Proficient at drawing in, I notice when their gifts are aimed at me, I know I am  being pulled and am helpless to resist. These people build bridges for all of us to cross.

Musicians who hear the world are the furthest from my skill set. They notice sounds and something called harmony, melody, tune and tones, meaningless mixtures of scribbles on paper to me. Finished products though, I adore what music can do to my soul. I know God speaks to me through the notes and voices of those who are gifted with music. I inch closer to those who sing, play instruments, a groupie at church who looks right into the eyes of those who bring song to us all. I adore musicians, I sing quietly and try not to mess up what they bring.

Millions of gifts, talents, personalities, each as individual as snowflakes, designed not to be more beautiful or worthy than the one before but to shine together, to blanket the winter ground with light so bright and glorious night feels like day.  I’ve been thinking about the Genesis story a great deal, the very beginning of us all. Creation out of the void, how the story begins. It gets pretty messy from there, choices disturb the simplicity of God’s plan. Light, water, people, creatures, vegetation, so simple. From the very beginning each were endowed with a gift, a purpose, that they could embrace and share or ignore with dire consequences. Jealously over the talent or power of others laid gifts to waste throughout the rest of the Bible and in our current newscasts and social media feeds. That damn snake who brought temptation and doubt and longing for more, fear that what Eve had was not enough, resides is us all, as if the bite of the apple changed our DNA to include snakiness. A certain serpent-like inability to glory in the gifts of others without the accompanying doubt about our own, an asp-ish quality that means we forget about collaboration and see only competetion instead.

What if we start again, before the fall, before the bite and the blaming and the realization of what we aren’t and what others are? What if today we begin as if we walk in the garden filled with the knowledge of only God’s unfailingly love, the surety that we are enough, that we are so cherished that all of our needs are provided and we have a purpose? What if today is the day we give our gift openly and freely to the world because we know it isn’t from us but from God and we trust He wants it out there to care for the creatures, to feed the people, to make music and count the fish and build bridges and create art? What if today is the day the Lord had made and we rejoice together in each other and the portion in ourselves that is God?

What would you do with today if fear and doubt and judgement didn’t exist? Not good enough doesn’t exist in God’s garden. Let’s go for a walk in our inner Edens today and bring our gifts out to play. Will you join me?

Capable
Unseen

Now

On By LisaIn Faith2 Comments

Someday I will quit smoking. Someday I will train my beasts to stop jumping. Someday I will deal with the totes brimming with family photos upstairs in my old office. Someday I will take vitamins as directed. No, that is probably not true at all. Maybe I won’t stop the leaping beasts either, but rather wait for age to slow them down. Yet the list of my somedays is actually pretty short, I no longer wait for the things that are important, I have wasted to many days already. My dreams are small, my bucket list relationship oriented with a heavy dose of travel to places that don’t include exotic beaches. My mind doesn’t often wander to SomedayLand, danger lurks there.

“Someday,” a progress pauser, a motivation masher, a perspective pincher, a word that floats us into a foggy future that forgets now. Someday may give hope but only with a wistfulness, a longing not backed by muscle or action, by goals or plans. Clinging to someday, when we win the lottery, our soul mate arrives, we have time for church, we  hand off the responsibility for the moment to the fates, the perfect way to miss today.  I know, I waited for my someday for entirely too long, gave up too much time, wallowed and sacrificed many days. My someday of my dreams never showed, instead I didn’t notice the flowers or the sky, I didn’t wonder about the lady at church who needed something I had. I didn’t take any pictures of my cats doing nothing hilariously. I missed out on my current day hovering about thinking wishing dreaming of my someday.

I’ve heard it said the opposite of faith is not doubt, not fear but certainty. Faith requires that we believe what we cannot understand, trust what we cannot see. Sureness means we can act without consultation, we need not consult other voices, we need not check ourselves. Becoming so confident is not a positive, pride and falls leave bruises. Assurance in anything, anyone other than our God sets us up for the “someday” thinking that ultimately leaves us clinging to scattered cards, our house having fallen with one good gust of wind.

Now, this moment, this time right here, the only promise we have have. If we give this back to God, ask for a consult, follow His directive in just this moment, we find our somedays of yesterday fall into place. We can’t leave the dishes for someday, the laundry won’t wait for someday, children can’t just eat dinner someday. Now, today, starting at this place, with obedience and thanksgiving for just this moment, we can begin. Without knowing what is next, with no concern for the lottery or the when the ship will come in, we can rest in our now. Looking back on our now, we will discover we have WON.

(Also, I have reached an agreement with my brother, brokered a deal if you will, to stop smoking. Seems my someday is now. Any prayers along for strength on this would be appreciated!)

Cling
Someday

Treasure of the Broken

On By LisaIn Faith, The Chef10 Comments

Sparkling glittering shining objects gather dust under Plum’s bed, old jewelry boxes and  wooden drawers become secret compartments for his treasures. Chains from dogs who have passed away, slivers of ribbon, an earring I left on my dresser, a burnout lightbulb, anything that glimmers is stowed away amongst the stray bits of beast hair and cracker crumbs, the sweeper unable to manage the maze of riches. He sleeps, dreams above his stores, his slumber content that his wealth safe. He protects prizes that are castoffs, items no longer wanted by anyone else, he sees glory in the imperfections, maybe doesn’t notice the missing parts, uneven edges. The lock that doesn’t have a key, the scrap of paper from an old valentine with a trail of peeling glue where specks of glitter once were. He knows wealth is truly understood only in our hearts.

I too like broken things, the bits of imperfection speak to my soul. I find comfort in artistry with flaws, incomplete sets of dishes, mismatched furniture. Stories live there, both in what has survived and what is missing. When pressed to display Christmas dishes given to me many years ago when the donor was due for a visit, panic set in. Too many pieces, every imaginable plate or bowl, glasses, cups, a gravy boat and salt and pepper shakers, overwhelming in the utter completeness of it all. Too perfect. Too much pressure. No story in these dishes, nothing to imagine or dream about, every detail filled in, there is no room for me here. I collect broken things, stray cats, real people with scrapes and scars, a bit disheveled by life.

Being vulnerable enough to show our own wounds allows the air to reach them, starts the healing process. Injuries hidden away grow infected, abscess, destroy the whole body. The mask of perfection appears shiny, glittering, but will never be treasured in any soul box under God’s bed. Those masks keep us apart, distanced, hide our tears, the real shine of honesty unseen. I can’t find anything in the bible about Jesus wearing fancy robes or stylish sandals but I do remember the verse that says He wept. I imagine his brown skin gleaming with the mix of water and salt as those tears glistened in His eyes, ran down his cheeks. The ultimate in vulnerability, shininess of broken made whole only in Him. I see that same sweet truth when my pastor gets real on the raised bias as he teaches us weekly or as I pour out my broken fearful heart to him and he hears me, really helps carry my pain. His eyes sometimes leak out realness. I see a man who understands broken things and collects us all into his congregation, stores us up, asks us to go find more beaten and battered people to bring in to God’s love. Being broken doesn’t mean we need fixed, it means we are healing, we are allowing the air of hope and truth to reach our wounds. Allowing others to know we have pain alerts the whole body of Christ to our sorrows, allows them to share our burdens, encourages them to lower their masks and display their own mismatched pieces. What if we all got so real that we wept at church and cried out to God together to heal us, heal our world? What if we stopped saying “I’m fine” and truly answered each other? What if we listened and watched and valued the glistening of tears as the treasure of a soul being bared?

I know that God collects the broken, the weak, the poor, the needy. The perfect have no need for Him. They are already complete, like my Christmas dishes. Have you any room in your treasure box for another broken soul? Can you see the shine of bits and bobs, the cast offs? I encourage you to lower your mask, remove the obstruction from your eyes, uncover your ears, listen with your heart. Broken treasures surround us all.

Shine

Uneven

When the Birds Sing

On By LisaIn Faith1 Comment

Bitter cold air robs any desire to move beyond the blankets. Projects and dishes and showers become burdensome, each requiring too much effort. Thoughts swirling like snow slowly covering the grass, millions of flakes of worry and fear too tiny to grasp. Melting, landing, blending into all the others before we can arrange, analyze, construct a snowman of goals. Depression feels like the blankets, enticing, chanting “stay here where it is safe and comforting.” The mantra is soft at first, little whispers of winter winds, left unattended become howls that blow away all other voices. The joy of sparkling snow, the delight of beasts romping, winter birds persisting in the chill, all lost in a cloud of despair .

My mental health background ensures I understand the biology of depression, I know warning signs and when treatment should be sought. Sometimes I wonder though if this affliction isn’t straight from the devil, an evil concoction that stops us from being who God asks us to be. The lies of depression, that we can’t, we aren’t, no one cares, don’t even try, nothing our God would have us believe. The work of pure evil, the theft of hope. Ugly voices drown out what we know, what we trust until lies become truth, fear overcomes faith. Stuck in a chair, under blankets, we no longer feed the birds, barely ourselves.

I can’t help thinking about those winter birds who still seek food and find it. They don’t go hungry. I don’t ever see piles of starving birds left neglected, frozen, forgotten. What is the purpose of birds really? How many do you actually notice each day? They surround us, always fluttering on the edges of our view. The bible tells us this:

“Therefore I tell you, do not be anxious about your life, what you will eat or what you will drink, nor about your body, what you will put on. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothing? Look at the birds of the air: they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they? And which of you by being anxious can add a single hour to his span of life? And why are you anxious about clothing? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow: they neither toil nor spin, yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. …Matthew 6:25-35

Winter birds in the cold Indiana snow may find some berries but depend on our feeders each day, the sight of suet draws them in, tells them God is providing. I can’t sit in my chair and wait for God to carry a bucket of seed out each morning, He has entrusted me to have a heart for the feathered ones among us, to see the hungry and take action. I am rewarded with chirps and colors to brighten the dim January view, I draw new air into my lungs, I am refreshed from completing the task and move to the next. One step becomes two. Feed another creature, hear a song, the lying voices grow fainter.

Depression needs inaction, requires all of our attention in order to be sustained. Any movement, one goal set, a bird feeder restocked, strikes a blow to despondency. A good day of activity does not bring a cure though, the night comes, another morning to be faced. Quieting the discouraging voice again seems impossible. Like a swallow or a crane I chirp; I moan like a dove. My eyes are weary with looking upward. O Lord, I am oppressed; be my pledge of safety! Isaiah 38:14  We forget we are not alone, another lie we believe. The birds do not come to the feeders one by one, they sing to the flock that they have found sustenance, they bring friends along and share the good news.

This is how we combat depression, surely with medication when needed, but leaving the safety of the nest and trusting everyday that God will provide His infinite wisdom. Someone will fill us with enough, someone will listen to the Word of God and see the joy hidden in our breast, the delicate wings that can lift us to soar again, someone will see. Most often that someone is us. Ultimately it has to be. Mornings are tough but that is when the birds sing the loudest.

May you see the joy in you today and find your own worth to be enough. May you know you were created for more than sheltering, you are meant to fly. May the voice of the Most High speak louder, clearer, entice you to sing your own song.  May you rise up today and trust the truth of God. He will provide, you just have to leave the nest.

Infinite

Mistake or Message, We Choose

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, Plum, Stella1 Comment

I learned somewhere along the way, before my daughter was born, that nursery rhymes were actually pretty dark tales. Instead of singing those songs to my new sweet innocent child, I changed the lyrics. I sang my own version of “Rock a Bye Baby” that always had me catching her at the end. I altered “Hush Little Baby” mostly because I was exhausted and could never remember the real song, but made up my own rhymes as I walked and rocked a colicky babe hours on end. She was born close to the holidays so Christmas carols were always on my mind, I could remember those easily. She fell asleep to those year round, as did her brother when he came along. “Silent Night” took on new meaning when sung to children at the end of the day. Gazing at their tiny faces, finally resting, finding the angels in the orneriness that so swiftly replaced, holiness that sustains parents.

As she grew older, I created tales for bedtime stories with her as the main character. She begged for these stories nightly, I drew from her experiences throughout the day to color my creations, after hours wakefulness when I felt the least able to make something new. I used her nickname, turned it backwards into an individual child who made bad choices or didn’t want to listen to her parents. She did things like not wear her shoes outside or put on a coat, she was often a bit rough with her brother. This child splashed all the water out of the tub or refused to eat at dinner. Then along comes the heroine of the story, the name turned back right, the child realizes her true self and in an instant begins to right her world. She puts on her shoes or her coat, she cleans up the water in the bathroom, she always says nice things to her brother and kisses his boo-boo’s. Stella adored these stories, they made sense of her life and unwittingly I was reinforcing her memory, reciting each night all that she had done each day.

I have told some stories like this to Plum, we sometimes skip books at night or snuggle in afterward them when he needs a bit more chatter time. He loves to hear my stories with him as the hero, who doesn’t? Mostly though we end our evenings with our “love books,” the sweet and beautiful books by Nancy Tillman. He thinks he is the child in each picture. I so hate that the day will come when it is just an illustration, when he realizes those words are for millions of children, not specifically him. Hopefully the telling every night of my love, the deeper theme of God’s love, will have permeated and it won’t matter.

As a writer, I understand that words matter. I edit and consider and ponder, wondering if my message is clear, concise, truly expressing my meaning. Still sometimes typos sneak through, auto-correct or a rushed publication, maybe a hurried post written with too much emotion and not enough distance, mean the wrong word is out, is said, is written and cannot be taken back. As many times as I have sang songs and read books and created stories to help protect my loved ones, I have mistakenly or wrongly allowed words that hurt to pass from lips or my pen. The entirety of my work surely can show the characteristic of my soul, can one piece be judged by the typo? How I long for the opportunity to edit old letters to my children, to republish the ones filled with love and support, to remind them of our life’s work together. Currently they are stuck finding all the errors, missing the messages. I pray one day my sweet Stella will change back into the other child, who rights her world and remembers that forgiveness and grace are characteristics of the heroine. I take comfort in knowing our story has not yet ended, we are in that middle part with the tension and suspense. One day God will bring restoration, my words will be filled with the glory of reconciliation. Until then, I will keep honing my gift, measuring my words, sharing my stories with those who understand that we are all a bit broken and imperfect.

Specific

Gliding into Gratitude

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, Plum, Stella, The Chef2 Comments

Tissues piled on the table, a glass of orange juice and a cup of hot tea, trashy tv that requires no mental faculties, a warm blanket, all indicators that a virus has hit. I lay on the couch searching for self-pity but none comes. It is just a cold, just a dumb sinus thing and how blessed am I that it waited until after the new baby, after school started, after Christmas and all the celebrations? So I snuggle under the blankets and Chef brings more tea and I doze, floating along in a daze, remembering that rest is healing.

When my children were little, I told them the fighter guys inside of them worked while they slept, that is when they got better. I explained those guys were too busy during the day dealing with all the stuff of just making their bodies work, so at night while they slept, or during the nap I was trying to convince them to take, that is when those guys could work on just the sickness. Medicine was extra fighter guys, sometimes we needed back up. I tell the same thing to Plum, he is more skeptical than my Stella and Arrow were. I often have to get more realistic with him, remind him the doctor always says rest and fluids, get some back up of my own. They slept, he sleeps, I slide into unconsciousness on the couch to the sound of trashy tv and dream of fighter guys healing me, a days gone by when I nursed my children.

The hot tea I drink, a new addition to my fluid choices. After at least a year of me saying I don’t like tea as we met weekly, Janet offered up a cup of the one I thought smelled so good. I curled my lip, I wrinkled my nose, I prepared to waste the cup she brought to me. I already knew the aroma was enticing, still I hated the flavor. I was sure. Yet I sipped, just one tiny taste so as not to be ruder than I already was and then discovered like many times at Janet’s house I had to deliver my “I was wrong” speech. She most often already knows and patiently smiles without telling me so. Like the silent fighter guys, there is healing in trying new things and especially in admitting our own mistakes. The tea I drink now replenishes the fluids I lose when I blow my nose every 10 minutes, warming my hands as I clutch the mug, reminding me of soul healing on better days. The blessing of friendship hovering like the steam that wafts with each new portion.

Chef attends to me, so much sweeter than I when he is sick. I am an impatient nurse to him, physical needs met and then out the door. Maybe more like an orderly, just dropping off food, cleaning up the tissue pile, next dose of meds administered, on to the next patient. I am blessed that my Chef is willing to bring more orange juice even when it isn’t time for rounds, that he will watch dumb tv with me and get up 100 times to deal with the beasts. He offers food multiple times and makes sure I have taken meds. He lets me rest, allows my fighter guys do their thing. He doesn’t add the emotional toll of making me feel like a burden, something I need to work on. Especially because I heard him sneezing yesterday. More tissues, more tea. More rest. As I heal, I must remember that sometimes sickness looks different, sometimes fighter guys need  back up doing waking hours. My Chef deserves a more attentive nurse, more than tea refills.

This forced slowdown is a chance to focus, to zoom in on either myself and my misery or on just how very blessed I am. As the tissue pile grows higher I can’t help but choose to list   all that is right in my world. Maybe I have a fever, maybe I have completely lost it, but laying on the couch with a warm blanket covering me, surrounded by evidence of love and the healing nature of my God, I can barely utter a worthwhile moan. Maybe it is appropriate to begin the new year resting up and drinking more tea, with fighter guys working extra hard. With no crystal ball to see what is ahead, never guessing all that 2016 would have brought, I consider my choices. Sink or Swim? I hope to share more healing this year, less germs and viruses. I hope to remember how it feels to be cared for when I am weak, how freeing it is to admit when I am wrong, how to generously accept others admissions. I hope to swim in a pool of gratitude, never sinking into despair or self-righteousness, ugly viruses that spread more readily than the flu.

May your year find less piles of tissues, extra fighter guys while you rest and many ways to nurture those around you. Warm mugs of tea, trashy tv and cozy blankets during the cold days ahead, shall we count our blessings with each other?

Float