Accepting Invitations

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

The old adage that the only certainties of life are death and taxes missed the another one we cannot deny, we all have a mother. Just as we may fight death or be well prepared for the end of life, hate our tax codes or welcome the loopholes, we may adore our mothers or conversely have horror stories to fill social media and hours of chats over wine. Yet we cannot deny that we all came into this world carrying the blood, the nourishment, the cells of one woman. What happens after the moment when we take our first breath and each one after, may create complications, still the truth remains. Without her, we are nothing, we literally aren’t.

I have dug into my relationship with my now deceased mother for most of my adult life, searching for the buried treasure, trying desperately to discover the mom I wanted, needed. Therapy, distance, boundaries, ultimately acceptance of who she was slowed the hunt, kept me present with her while she was here. I still wonder, I still search, I still wish.  Forgiveness changes the urgency though, twisting my random musing into the realm of what I would do with lottery winnings or how would I change if I moved to a 3rd world country, ideas I know are fantasy that require no emotional investment. I have mostly, probably as much as humanly possible, forgiven my mother for being the mom she was and not the mom I needed. I have learned to be grateful that she taught me to be the mom I am. So I miss her sometimes. I am no longer sure if I miss the real mom or my dream one but still odd moments of wistfulness appear, a desire to share some news, a bit of hurt or a wonderful joy. The dream rarely goes any further than that, I don’t play out the conversation. Yet at almost 53 years old, I can admit I want my mom in times of trouble. Death, taxes and mom.

I sat in the dining room of the apartment my Arrow shares with his fiancé this weekend, they invited Chef and I to lunch. A banquet of frozen pizza and delightful salad, prepared on their turf, at their table, their rules. The setting required that we acknowledge they are adults. We weren’t asked to leave our shoes at the door but it was unspoken that our parenting needed to stay there. We could be mom and dad if we accept them as closer to equals.  We agreed to the invitation for lunch as well as the other the invitations, the ones to build some bridges using new and old bits and pieces, to allow them to construct their side how ever they choose and meet in the middle. My Arrow has some little life changes, some big life events, some random musings he wanted to tell his mom. He decided that after distance and establishing boundaries that he would try again. We brought gifts of bread and grace, the opportunity for a fresh start.  Because everyone needs a mom, whether their own or a surrogate, they just need mom. I knew it was only a matter of time with him, that he would be back. I knew the ticking, the tocking would not last so long I would want to rebuild the whole bridge, compromise everything just to have that relationship back. I know my child, he knows his mom. Death, taxes and mom.

I accepted another invitation, the opportunity to bake cookies with an adult mother-daughter duo. Knowing the photographer for all of the amazing shots that show up on this blog would be there was an added bonus. The expectation was not that I really bake, more just that I could do as I needed, write in the other room, rest, find sanctuary. The mere act of issuing this invitation is mind blowing to me, sharing something that personal, opening your childhood up to another, offering your parents to one who is now orphaned, sharing your moments of new memories with another, this is holy stuff. Janet is like this with me. I still haven’t figured out what I have done to deserve her friendship, how I can possibly reciprocate. But she isn’t keeping score either. I didn’t write there, I tried a couple of times but felt drawn instead to be present, to be among them. If only I could go into all social situations with my laptop, I would be accepting invitations daily. Hiding behind the keyboard, observing, that is my safe place. Yet I felt pulled away, pulled into the kitchen, leaving the couch and blanket and cozy escape to enter into that kitchen. The thing is, these people have no reason to include me, they have no reason to trust me, they could have been more careful with me, more wary. Yet they exuded grace, real honest to God grace filled that home as surely as the sweet vanilla sugar goodness of the yeast cookies baking when we arrived. I listened, I watched, I devoured the interactions between them all even as I participated. At the table over a simple lunch of homemade soup that we brought from Janet’s home and cornbread quickly whipped up, the blessing softly beautifully lifted up by her father, we dined together. I lifted them up silently, joy too deep to express as we warmed our bodies with soup and my soul with this little stolen time of mom and dad, family. Shared recipes, a determined search for the one that reminds me of my own mother, dedicated time wandering through photo choices and fixing sizes to ensure they show up correctly, I absorbed. I ate cookies that from the moment they touched my lips created a memory I knew was a forever one. I experienced hours that will be in my “cherished moments” memory box always. Like that extra sprinkle of sugar that sends the cookies from good to great, I was given the gift of approval, the gift of affirmation in a quiet talk with Janet’s father after we settled the artwork questions. He spoke words to me that every child longs to hear from their father. His soft voice carried weight, sent me to tears, could he know how holy that moment was? Emmanuel, God with us, in that office, around that desk. Because they had invited God into the day as well, I wasn’t the only guest in the home.

I realized that they asked absolutely nothing of me, I brought nothing, I gave nothing while there. Maybe the first time ever, I went empty handed, open handed. I stopped being busy and giving and distracted, I allowed them to fill me. I cannot imagine a greater example of what God wants from me, what He longs to offer me. This taste was enticing, a complete surrender to the day, to open my soul and heart completely to the One who truly has grace like vanilla sugar cookies for me, all year long. To arrive broken enough that I accept sanctuary, no longer hiding along the edges, seeking warmth from a blanket instead of His glory. I didn’t have to build a bridge or establish boundaries, I just had to say yes and all of this was open to me. Death, Taxes, mom.  And dad.  Most certainly God.

As I consider the fullness of the day, I am struct by the need to consider how I extend invitations. When I welcome others into my home, do I offer grace and sanctuary? When I welcome others into relationship with me, is the same true? I think the secret may be to ask God first and then fill out the rest of the guest list. Holiness will follow, it will fill the air with cookies baking and no one will worry about death and taxes. Relationship established from conception with our mother, lived out with our Father. No need to search further.

 

 

 

 

 

Necessary Space

On By LisaIn FaithLeave a comment

I’m big on birds, in the sense that I feed them and watch them from afar. Slightly uncomfortably around them, I am not the one to hold the seed-dipped stick and walk into the house at the zoo filled with thousands of parakeets. Still, I am intrigued by birds. Beyond the “still a miracle” flight business because I am not a physics person, the incredible colors and feeding habits amaze me. Watching as smaller birds flutter to the feeder then rush away as a blue jay or a wood pecker come to dine, it is clear they understand danger, power, maybe turn taking. I’m sure bird watchers could educate me greatly on these behaviors but the thing is, I don’t really want to learn. I am a contented watcher, happy in my unknowing, in my wondering and guessing. This is a place for me to just observe without losing any of the magic with science, with explanation, with knowledge. For a naturally inquisitive person, I don’t ask questions about birds. I don’t look up information. I fill the feeders, they come, I watch. We have an easy relationship, the birds and I.

This really gracious gentleman takes photos like Picasso painted pictures. He makes art with his camera. When I began my blog he agreed without meeting me, without knowing what kind of nonsense I might write, to share some of his art with me. John Chaille has been supporting this blog with glory, with light, with grace through all of the photos that are actually worth looking at, nature photos that accompany most pieces and provide the extra layer of meaning to my words. I am honored yes, but so deeply touched to be entrusted with his work. Which brings me back to birds. Last night I received a new batch of pictures, ones taken during a recent trip through Texas. Struck by one in particular, a majestic heron spreading its wings, I realized quite possibly the basis of my bird fascination.

I have never seen, not to say it hasn’t happened, but I have never seen a bird spread its wings and knock into another bird. How do they know how much room they need, how do the others know when to back away? When the urge to stretch and wave those magnificent wings, do they venture far enough away from the rest of the group so as not to hurt any others? How do they get it just right? I haven’t noticed other birds around leaving because one needed to stretch. They all have wings, surely they all desire that extension of muscles, that loosing of crimped tendons, that great royal flapping before tucking it all back in. Just a momentary lapse into madness maybe, a temporary jaunt into jazz, then back to searching for food, swimming with the group. Dear God, what if all relationships allowed this bit of crazy, this time of wild flapping, then the welcoming back into the fold as if everyone has that moment? What if grace met the spreading of wings and the eventual tucking?

The older I get, the more I understand that Red Hat Society thing, the ladies group that just doesn’t care anymore what people think. They are flapping their wings. I understand all the memes and the comics about just letting go. They are encouraging me to flap my wings which are itching to stretch out. But the key is to not hit any other birds when I expand, to create no damage. My show of glory cannot be anyone else’s downfall, I can’t knock anyone else over. How do birds know the intricacies of relationships, to manage their own wing span and that of those around them? One heron extending its wings does not diminish the beauty of the others roosting around? Each is glorious, the camera finds them all in turn. Understanding the necessary space for all to survive, the safety in being close, the desire to move to the edges, this is the incredible wonder of all relationships. The birds already have it figured out. No wonder the bible uses birds to teach us about worry:

25Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothes? 26Look at the birds of the air: They do not sowor reap or gather into barns — and yet your HeavenlyFather feeds them. Are you not much more valuablethan they? 27Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to his lifespan? Matthew 6:25-27

 Who can add a single hour by tucking in his wings, playing it safe? Who can add a single hour, stretching out so much that others are hidden or knocked off balance? Birds intrigue me, they have it figured out, the delicate balance.  I could learn much from them, instead I just watch and wonder.

Ever Moving Shifting Tilting

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

I have known my story forever, aware of the pieces and how they fit. I have categories and labels, every memory neatly organized. Like a puzzle with a thousand pieces, I sit back and look at the completed picture, admire how neatly everything fits, how well I managed to create something of beauty out of all the little random bits. Unlike the boxed puzzles though, I am not done, I keep finding more pieces, some that I would rather cast back, some that enhance the scene. Adjusting, scooting, shaving, rearranging, I am forced to make room. I gaze again. Get comfortable with the new arrangement, determine what it all means. Own my new story. Like the snow gently falling outside, more pieces swirl, my story changes again. My puzzle is ever growing, some days too large to manage. I want to be that person I was, back when I looked like, well, before addiction, before estrangement, before unemployment. But that means no Plum, can’t I keep those pieces?

Constantly allowing more into my story, owning truthful pieces with sharp edges that slice  as well as the sweet cottony sections that glitter with joy means my story isn’t done. I don’t get to sit back and admire. I am not that flat 1,000 piece boxed set that creates a scene to be admired, maybe glued in place and hung on the wall, maybe dismantled and put back in the box. Still that puzzle always go back together in the same way. Look for the edge pieces, find the corners, fill in the center. My story has no outer edges, I can’t find the corners. New information causes a complete readjustment, a tree is no longer brown and green, the sky isn’t filled with clouds. This is what it is to be a kaleidoscope, a shifting puzzle that changes with every movement. Finding that one glorious combination, it is next to impossible to share the view with any one else without a nudge or a slight tilt changing what they see. And just like that, they move the device towards the light and create more color combinations, find their own glorious stories. Who can resist a chance to find rainbows and joy in moving crystals? My story is secondary, only I know what all those pieces meant.

My story will keep changing, I get to tell and own my parts until my last breath. After, the telling will be handed off to those who choose which pieces are important, how they fit together, what it means, how it looks. Will they remember the section over here where we shared love and laughs, filled with light and or only the scenes that hold menacing clouds and monsters and caves?  This is the stuff of legacies, this is the stuff we can’t control. For now, I adjust my puzzle pieces, I make room for more of my story. I embrace the monsters and offer them cookies. I wait for more pieces to arrive, I tilt my kaleidoscope.

 

Still, The Light Shines In

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

I broke a glass in the dishwater. Drain plugged, steaming water filling the sink, soap bubbling up, dishes added and left to soak while I drank coffee and fed beasts. I returned to discover shards of glass hidden amongst the suds, one long stem of a wine glass no longer viable. Knowing danger was waiting, understanding other, safer choices were possible, I slide my hands into the water. The secret rush of wondering whether I would get cut. Would I beat the odds, could I find all the pieces and still get the dishes done? A ridiculous game to play for one who avoids risk. A really stupid choice for one with no health insurance. Yet I wanted to win over the brokenness. Just this little battle, a private struggle at the sink, a wine glass, some soap and me.

I am an expert on broken things. I have little sensation in my fingers so I often drop whatever I am holding, I usually keep lids on my cups. I have the same issue with my feet so I trip and stumble as if just learning to walk, especially after a long day. I break stuff. It is no longer remarkable around our home, we use plastic mostly. I don’t bother with glue, usually I create a mess beyond repair. More than that though, I am broken inside. I know my broken soul, my broken heart. These fractures are not meant to be mended either. The words of the great Leonard Cohen express it best, “There is a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in.” My brokenness allows for grace, opens me up for growth. But fractures hurt. Each snapping of a relationship, a connection severed, carries shock-grief-aching-howling-wondering why-rush-to-fix time. I can embrace my broken soul, I give that to God. My heart, though, not so readily. I still howl, I still ache. I resent the cracks, I don’t see the stitched together portions as beauty, I want wholeness. Gifting love to another comes without their promises to handle with care, their assurances not to trip or stumble. Giving without strings, keeping that thread to close our own wounds, unconditional love, agape. This is how we break inside.

Like the glass in my dishwater, many broken things will never go back together, their purpose in my life complete. Facing that reality is easy with a wine glass, unthinkable with a marriage, a career, a child. How do we go on, do we howl forever, do we mourn continually, do we sit in the broken shards, naming and counting our cuts, watching our life drain away? The greater risk is to get a new glass, a fresh start, some Neosporin and a bandaid. Each step moving us away from the pain, maybe edging us to newness, to light. I didn’t get cut when I reached into the water. I walked away whole this time.  I have more glasses, I have a healing broken heart. I have new relationships and other wounds still fresh, maybe never to be fully restored. Still, the light shines in. Just as a prism reflects one light into a rainbow, God uses my broken heart, brighter more colorful lights reaching His other broken hearts, a beacon of welcome, a guide to find our way home. With Him as my Healer, my glue, the One to stitch me back up, I howl and cry more softly, I ease toward a new day.

 

Be Not Afraid

On By LisaIn Faith, Plum, The ChefLeave a comment

I am afraid of heights and mostly conquered that with my trip through the mountains on the back of my brother’s Harley. Unclear on the origins of this fear, I haven’t found it to be too disruptive in my daily life. I still accept all trips on planes, I climb out on the roof to fetch whatever Plum decided to toss up there. This fear hasn’t stopped me. I am also uncomfortable on bridges. I love pictures of them, I am deeply moved by the symbolism. I prefer to be on either end, not on, not crossing. I think there is a story in there, another day perhaps. My longest standing fear though has roots in childhood, is not proportionate to danger, is difficult given that I live in the country. I am afraid of mice.

Friends and family who have spent time with me in the fall, in the winter mostly all have a story of their own, a story that most often begins with a scream and the rushing of help, a bewildered look at me, then the rescue. Always unclear if they are saving me or the mouse but creating distance and secure boundaries is critical for each of us. A colleague many years ago offered to help, to do systematic desensitization. I knew this would help but I was too afraid. Phobia level. My response is automatic, deeply imbedded. I don’t want long term help, I don’t want any mice near me. For the record, I also don’t visit pet stores without knowing the floor plan, not chancing an unexpected encounter. By extension, gerbils, hamsters, oh dear God ferrets, all on the no-go list. Doesn’t it make sense that before I had children I had a pet snake? Of course I couldn’t participate in his feedings, but loved that he took an active role in easing my pain. So it is with great concern that I must admit I have been dreaming about mice for the last month. Dreaming, in my bed, in my safe sleep time. Mice.

When I woke this morning and remembered the mouse who visited was actually a rat, I knew it was time for help. Firing up my laptop, researching the meaning of “dreams about mice” while the coffee brewed, I needed answers and then solutions quick. This is getting out of hand. What I found was interesting, thought provoking. I generally am able to identify the themes in my dreams rather easily, I know what I am avoiding, what needs to be faced. I know how my brain nudges me when I am more vulnerable. I trust my dreams, I think God speaks to me then. Many years ago when I was particularly distressed about my brother’s death, when I just felt the ache of things not said when suicide changes everything, my brother came to me while I slept. He told me he was fine, he was good, to let him go. He said he loved me and he was safe. Then he was gone. I woke feeling peaceful, knowing truth. Every once in a while, my daughter and granddaughter visit me in my dreams, at first this was startling. I no longer hurt when these visits happen, I cherish the peek into her life, I hold onto the vision that God has shared with me. I wake with a hopeful heart, storing up these night time moments as if they were photos on my IPhone. I trust my dreams . So what to do about these visits from mice?

In considering these dreams, I realized I am never afraid during these encounters. The mice are not the focus, just a side story. My friends are often the ones who handle the mice, who interact with the rodents while I am doing my other dream business. I don’t wake afraid, rather annoyed that it happened again. My Googling explained I may be avoiding a small problem. Um, always. Or I may need to see mice as survivors, a species that uses ingenuity and creativity to solve problems. Hmm. Or maybe, if I see mice as dirty, I am feeling shame. Well, none of this narrows it down. I want that one concrete answer to solve my mystery and give me the steps to stop mice from scurrying into my slumber.  Maybe I need to trust what has already worked, to look to God rather than the internet.

“Do not be afraid of them, for I am with you and will rescue you,” declares the LORD. Jeremiah 1:8 (NIV)  What if the message is just that? What if God is summoning visions of friends who will help, opportunities to show me Chef and I have nothing to fear? My greatest phobia is meaningless when challenged with faith. I don’t wake afraid. Emmanuel, God with us. I can rest easy knowing my shame, my doubts, my worries are nothing compared to the power of my God. During this season of great uncertainty, finances and futures looking bleak, God is telling me not to be afraid. Who am I to doubt?

I am not going to lie, I am hoping that by looking into the mice dreams, finding the message will stop the visits before they turn into more rat roamings. I am saying loud and clearly, I got it! We are firmly in God’s care, we will come out of this trying season exactly as God wishes as long as we continue to follow the path He is laying before us. We are not promised easy, we are not guaranteed riches. We only have the promise of His mercy and love. Sometimes that looks like handling mice for me. Always it means handling much larger problems. I don’t need Google to tell me that.

 

 

 

Carrying the Candles

On By LisaIn Faith2 Comments

Last week at church, the candle of hope and the candle of expectation for the advent wreath were brought to the altar by two young ladies of our congregation. I have watched these girls grow from almost infancy, I see them weekly in the seats with their families. On this occasion though they were transformed into holiness, gently dancing in bright blue dresses up the center aisle to the sounds of the praise team singing “King of Heaven Come Down,” by Paul Balochi. They floated, they glided, I felt them carrying my hope,my expectation. This breathtaking arrangement was created by our pastor’s wife, an artist with incredible musical talent. Her vision to make the arrival of the candle into something we would remember, something we would feel, what a gift. Plum and I were playing on the floor as usual, our bits of Lego already in action when the music started. As the girls began, Plum got back up on his chair and was mesmerized. Tears trailed down my cheeks, my gratitude tokens to all who stopped us in our rustling, playing, thinking, ruminating and reminded us about hope.

This week, a member of our congregation closer to my age wore a blue dress and bravely danced before us all. She carried the candle of love. How many of us would volunteer for this? To wear something that clings a bit, flows a lot, drawing all eyes to ourselves, not a quick trip to the altar but gliding, lifting, swaying, stepping back and forward, slowly reaching our goal to place the candle in the wreath? My friend next to me wept. The holiness of women carrying these candles, offering themselves up to all of us in that we might experience the true meaning of each is just beyond any sermon I might hear. I spoke with the “love candle” carrier after the service, she said it was way out of her comfort zone. Isn’t carrying love to all exactly that? She does this daily, overseeing several ministries that reach the outer edges of our membership. She shows love every day, she helps us all do so in tangible ways. How appropriate that she carried that candle.

It would have been easy to just walk the candles up or even have them already at the altar, ready to light. It would have even been amazing to have the same young women bring them up each week. But how much stronger is the message, how much deeper is the lesson, to have our hope and our love carried in such a way? Hope and Expectation from our children, Love from one who has lived a little more. I am greatly anticipating next week, when Joy arrives.   The advent candles have never meant so much to me, ever. Well done, ladies. You have my attention.  Anxious for the arrival, reflecting on the meaning, longing for the coming.  You have transformed a rite, captured the holiness of the season with a dance, with a song. My soul hears, sees. Thank you.

 

King of Heaven, come down
King of Heaven, come now
Let Your glory reign
Shining like the day
King of Heaven, come
King of Heaven, rise up
Who can stand against us?
You are strong to save
In Your mighty name
King of Heaven, come

(Paul Baloche)

Truth Tellers From Patches of Light

On By LisaIn FaithLeave a comment

Honored to have my words shared on another writer’s site!

Damn Elf

On By LisaIn Faith, Plum, The ChefLeave a comment

That “Elf on the Shelf” thing seemed like a great idea a couple of years ago, back when Plum was living with us all the time. My need to create magic and joy to cast out some of the hurt and anxiety was in overdrive, Christmas was just the way to bring the sparkle back to his eyes. I sent away for our own elf, scoured Pinterest for ideas, created elaborate scenarios each night after he went to sleep. It was wonderful. Chef and I took pictures each evening, proud parents documenting the birth of elf activities. We all had sparkling eyes.

Life has since stabilized for my Plum, he no longer needs me to create his magic, bring back sparkle. Yet I am still stuck with this damn elf and I have to admit I am over it. I feel guilty writing that, I know this is very likely our last year in which he will believe such nonsense. I should be going all out. Still, the elf has about run its course, I am broke, exhausted and fully aware that any vista I create I have to clean up as well. Ho Ho Ho, merry Christmas.

Because Plum is only here a few nights a week, I could conceivably manage this. Yet he is so excited to see what “Elfie” has done that he wakes up several times throughout the night asking if he can get up. The beasts wake up, the cats run through the hallways, I say no and try to go back to sleep. Plum has my sleep patterns unfortunately, when he wakes it takes him forever to go back to sleep. We both look like hell at this point. I have explained that I am ready to contact Santa to see if Elfie can go back, Plum is calling my bluff. Is there an elf-recall hotline?  I put a digital clock in Plum’s room, taught him that the 6 has to be the in the first place before he can get up. This helps, he knows he can’t go downstairs. Now we need something that reminds him he can’t lay in bed and holler for me until the clock says 6 also. Or we need an Avenger, Captain America or Hawkeye, to come rescue us from the evil elf. I’m getting desperate, Elfie is no longer bringing joy.

I do have really cool ideas for the elf this year, I just don’t have the motivation by the time he goes to sleep and I am free to set things up. I am done by then, I am ready to sit for 5 minutes and then go to bed myself. Last night I was actually in bed when I remembered the elf, remembered he was waiting for his adventure. A certain level of denial is necessary for all of us to get through the holidays, suspending logic, relying on faith. I prayed for the strength to get out of my warm bed, back into the cold air, head downstairs, rousing the beasts, firing up the cats, all to set up the scene. A lame scene by Pinterest standards but Plum doesn’t scroll through that site yet. I am still only compared to myself, maybe memories of last year, but those are hazy in a child’s mind. I think. Elfie made it through another night, we barely did. “Gran, I’m thirsty.” “Gran, my tummy hurts.” “Gran, will you put the dog on my bed?” Each of these requests come about 2 hours apart, I am not equipped to deal with 2 hour wakings anymore. The Elf is going in time out, on strike, wicked away by reindeer, God help me, something.

I have at most 8 more attempts to make this elf rock, 8 more nights to reinforce the magic.  We are completely invested in telling the real story of Christmas, Plum is rooted in the faith. But just for a bit longer, I want to keep some magic for a little boy who hasn’t always had much to believe in. So today we are going to have a very serious discussion about sleep. A talk about waiting, about advent, about longing for things to come. We are going to remember all the people who waited for the Christ child, who walked and roamed and followed the star. We are going to consider how tired they were, how much they longed to rest. We will wonder what they did to prepare for the coming of the oh so special babe. Then we may just take a nap. Holidays are rough, elves are not so helpful, but the star is always leading to our true sparkle.

Truth Tellers

On By LisaIn Faith3 Comments

I am not a Kardashian follower. I don’t get the point, but don’t fault others who are. I don’t buy magazines with celebrities on the cover, eager to discover the latest events in the lives of the rich and famous. I just don’t actually care. They are just people to me, I wouldn’t buy a magazine with your picture on it and hope to delve into your secrets either. Yet I know I have my own idols, albeit nerdy ones maybe, but still, folks I have put on a pedestal and give extra weight to their words. I wait for a new post, I devour their phrases.  I find myself just enough in them to relate but know they are wiser, funnier, they never burn their own hair or wear mismatched socks. They are writers and women of substance, women who have it figured out and can help lead me along. It works great until I forget they are still human, women first. The fall off of the pedestal bruises us all.

Recently a woman I have followed and suggested to many others has taken a turn I cannot support, leading me to a place of choice. Baby with the bathwater? I read as her millions of followers fell over themselves to lay flowers at her feet, shout loudly about what a brave woman she was. I was looking for someone to say, “Hey, wait, I am a bit concerned. This doesn’t seem so healthy for you.” When you develop such a huge following built on relationship, don’t we have a responsibility to speak up or do we just take? I have wondered about all the stars who have gone astray, don’t they have anyone who tells them no? Where are the folks who’s heads go from right to left rather than always up and down?   I was saddened to see no posts telling this woman the truth.

Truth tellers are gift givers, they are the best kind of friends to have. To have opened yourself up to someone enough that they can hold your soul so gently and reflect back honesty is holy. We serve no one by building idols of each other or those in entertainment, athletics, any position of high profile or power. We serve all by building relationships of trust, becoming truth tellers and hearers. Yes hearing is the necessary other piece of this. To that end, I wrote an email to my “idol,” sharing concerns that the path she was following was fraught with danger. I didn’t expect a reply nor have I received one. Yet my soul felt easier after hitting that send button, I knew she was no longer on the pedestal but I found room for her in my grace-filled world.  I no longer devour her words, I know her choices are complicated right now. Still, I am better for it, softer for allowing her to be among us and not above us. The pressure to be perfect, by my definition or that of any of the millions who follow any idol have to be exhausting.

Maybe our idols aren’t the stars or great writers. The ones who follow are merely those in a congregation, lifting a pastor to a level not sustainable. Expectations of those who preach from a raised platform elevate with each step up. Remembering that these people have a calling, a gift, yes, but do indeed step back down to walk amongst us is critical in allowing them to remain human and not idols. They are walking with us: fallible, seeking, searching, stumbling. Maybe the ones we follow blindly are friends on social media, the ones we are sure have it all figured out. Comparing our real lives to what pops up in a picture, a newsfeed, makes it too easy to believe they are better at, well, just life. But who benefits from idolatry? Certainly not the idols. Certainly not us.

Telling the truth to ourselves, about ourselves, is that precious gift of humility so necessary to keep us focused on the One who IS perfect. Telling the truth to others is tricky, requires a level of trust and relationship, a respect for privacy. Prayer, though, for those we follow, requires nothing. I am deep in prayer for those I have elevated, beseeching God to put truth tellers in their paths and imploring God to open their hearts to hear. I pray also for my own soul, that I may always be wise enough to hear the truth from those who offer up this gift to me. After all, in the words of Ram Dass, “We’re all just walking each other home.”