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A blessing for weeks when we give thanks
As we in the United States prepare for Thanksgiving Day, many of us are caught in the space where we are grateful while wishing things were different at the same time. Our lives these days are anything but perfect, but they’re real, and there’s beauty to be found in that. One day we will look back and we will remember the pockets of goodness we were able to find in this time. We will be thankful for our beautiful honest things because they tell our stories, the stories of who we are today, right now, as we figure this new thing out.
So this week may we be blessed as we give thanks:
for a fridge that is full and children’s bellies that are too;
for music that soothes;
for the click of the heater turning on
and the weight of the knit blanket across our knees;
for the smell of orange peels and peppermint;
for the holy way we roll out dough on our countertops
like our mothers before us did
while they prepared to feed their families;
for health insurance;
for the technology that allows us to work from home
and still earn a paycheck;
for the psalms;
for the smaller, more intimate gatherings around our tables;
for a planet that is experiencing less air pollution
as we hunker down indoors once more;
for slowing down;
for morning light on the yoga mat;
for texts and voicemails from loved ones;
for medical advancements
and people sewing masks for those on the front lines;
for the doctors and nurses
and all those who work in healthcare
who are working tirelessly to care for our ill;
for teachers who love our babies
over screens and through letters;
for long division practice
and stories written in brightly colored notebooks;
for plastic whale sharks
and afternoon dance parties
and messy bookshelves
and soap
to wash the marker
and the germs away;
for books and Bibles
and bouquets of flowers.
May we have eyes to see our particular gifts this week, even if to others they appear to be simply ordinary.
And may we remember Blessing’s sister, Prayer, and may we recognize there are many for whom giving thanks this year is more difficult.May we pray
for the children who miss
playing with their friends
and parents who hear the cries
and feel the guilt because of deadlines;
for the elderly who live alone;
for the mamas wondering where the next meal is going to come from;
for the laid-off
and struggling small businesses;
for the grandparents who miss their grandkids
and those who can’t shelter
in place
because they have no roof over their heads;
for families afraid of losing their food stamps and
for families who hoard
at the expense of others;
for teens stocking grocery shelves
and tired cashiers
and our healthcare heroes
and transport truck drivers;
for children with cancer
and their families who face the
heartbreaking reality of having to say goodbye;
for those who live in food deserts and
out-of-grid areas
because our society still doesn’t see internet access
(or lack thereof)
as a human rights issue;
for leaders trying to do the right thing;
for those who quite simply couldn’t
care less
about a stock market crash
when they don’t make enough to pay their rent
or keep their water from being shut off.This week as we count our blessings may we do so with remembrance that we all belong to each other, and that we’re called to celebrate with those who celebrate but also mourn with those who grieve. May we find ways to be comfort to those who need it in these strange, socially-distanced times. May we remember to love our neighbors as much as we love ourselves and know that, through word or deed, we have the capacity to be be someone else’s blessing.
You are loved this week, friends. This week and every week. -
The Good Stuff: Summer 2020
Hi, friends. Been a while, hasn’t it? What a wild ride this year has been so far. We’ve been pretty much hunkered down since March (side note — I don’t know who needs to hear this but: COVID IS NOT OVER JUST BECAUSE THE WEATHER’S NICE NOW!), and even though New York is opening up, we’re still playing things pretty safe. And then there was distance learning (any other parents feel like there is just NO good option for school this fall??), and Breonna Taylor/George Floyd/Elijah McCain/SO MANY OTHERS (Black lives still matter even if your feed is back to normal, FYI). Oh, and I also started seminary during all this because *shrugs* why not, right?
In all seriousness, it’s been a tough season in so many ways, and I know I’m not the only one who’s been feeling alllll the things lately. A few months ago, I started sending out a monthly newsletter called The Good Stuff, which yes, is exactly what it sounds like. (If you’re not a subscriber yet, you can sign up here!) I wanted to give you a peek into my little pocket of the world and show you that yes, things are really hard right now, and yet there’s also a lot of beauty and joy in the midst of it. The two can coexist. Both/and, as my Poppa B always used to say.
So let’s get to it, shall we? Here’s all the good stuff that’s been filling up my soul lately.
What I’m Reading:- If you follow me on IG, you’ve probably heard me talking about The Lazy Genius Way, a book by Kendra Adachi (aka The Lazy Genius, who I am a TOTAL fangirl for) that’s available for preorder right now! A quote by my beloved Jenna Fischer is on the front cover (squeallll!) and it’s all about narrowing in on what is really important and meaningful to you — and ditching all the extra stuff so you can give what matters your full attention. It is LIFE. CHANGING. No word of a lie. Preorder now and get a whole bunch of goodies for free!
- The Dragons, The Giant, The Women by Wayétu Moore. Wayétu is Liberian, and this book chronicles her family’s journey of escaping Liberia during the Civil War and settling in the United States. As someone who lived in Liberia and now has a Liberian daughter, I think knowing the history of that beautiful nation is so important. Wayétu is a beautiful storyteller, and I definitely would recommend this (as well as her other book, She Would Be King.) You can find out how to order by visiting her website.
What I’m Watching:
- Hamilton. That’s pretty much it. Over and over, Hamilton. I am in love with the Mulligan/Lafayette/Laurens trio. Jonathan Groff as King George is pure genius. I cry during ‘Quiet Uptown’ every. single. time; Phillipa Soo, man. Her performance as Eliza is stunning. Daveed Diggs’ rap skills leave me speechless. And turning cabinet meetings into rap battles? GENIUS.
What I’m Cooking:
- Hazy summer days means I have zero motivation to stand in front of a hot stove. These days we’re eating a lot of what we call chopped salad. Basically, we shred a head of lettuce, add cherry tomatoes, diced red onion, cut up cucumbers/bell peppers/whatever other veggie I want to use. Then we cut up a pound of bacon and a pound of chicken breast tenderloins into bite-sized pieces; fry them up and add to the salad. We cook half a pound of ditalini or elbow mac and throw that in there too. Toss everything up, serve with some fresh bread, and bam. Dinner’s done.
- My daughter’s favorite dish is Liberian pepper soup, so I try to make that regularly as well. I dice up an onion and add it to a stew pot with a little bit of oil to start frying it up. Then I add four-five diced jalapeños (or two-three habaneros, but we can’t always find those in stores), 2 tbsp. minced garlic, two vegetable or chicken bouillon cubes, about 1 tbsp. tomato paste, and chicken legs or thighs. Add enough water to cover the meat (maybe 4-6 cups; I am so bad at measuring), salt and pepper to taste, then start cooking on medium heat until the meat is cooked and there’s about a quarter of a pot of broth left in the post. Serve over cooked rice; we also like fried plantains, mango, or pineapple!
What I’m Listening To:
- The Hope and Hard Pills podcast with Andre Henry. If you don’t follow him, you should. He writes, speaks, and sings about racial justice and social change, and his voice is so important during these times. His podcast is at fanlink.to/hopeandhardpills
- Lisa Sharon Harper’s Freedom Road podcast. Lisa wrote one of my very favorite books, The Very Good Gospel, and is the founder and president of Freedom Road, which helps equip people and groups in justice work. You can find episodes of the podcast on their website, freedomroad.us
- The Evolving Faith podcast with Sarah Bessey and Jeff Chu. Labeled as “a podcast for the wounded, the misfits, and the spiritual refugees to let you know you are not alone,” the first season is covering the talks and sermons from the very-first gathering in 2018. You can find information on it at https://evolvingfaith.com/podcast.
Other Things I’m Loving:
- I’ve posted a lot lately about how I’ve started tuning in to my body’s cycles, not only as a woman but also as a human being who’s been given the same 24 hours per day as everyone else in the world. I’m an Enneagram 1 with a tendency to overwork and have perfectionistic tendencies, and in the spring, I had a bit of a wakeup call when I ended up in the ER for a panic attack. That’s when I started realizing I needed to work smarter, not harder. (Nevermind that the hustle-and-grind culture is deeply tied to capitalism which makes you forget you’re a living being and tries to work you like a machine…but that’s a post for another day.) Anyway, I just started using the Do Less planner by Kate Northup, which helps women plan and achieve in a way that works best for them, their cycles, and the cycles found in the natural world. It’s awesome. I ordered the digital version for $25 but you can also get a print copy and supplementals if that’s your thing. Check out this link for more info.
- Black Coffee with White Friends. I started following her account a little over a year ago and have found her to be an inspiring Christian and a voice of truth-telling when it comes to justice issues and race. She has a Patreon account for her some of her writings called Mockingbird History Lessons, which are hugely helpful if you’re a white person looking to learn and dismantle your personal biases.
Kids’ Stuff:
- Since January, the kids have gotten monthly boxes from a subscription service called KiwiCo. They’re full of science, technology, and art projects that you can customize based on your children’s ages. Each box is $20 but you can try your first one for half off by using my referral code!
- We’ve been reading and/or listening to books found in the Black Lives Matter Instructional Library. Both kids have copies of many of these books in their own personal collections, but it’s also really fun for them to watch a read-aloud video. Bonus: they introduce kids to diversity, self-love and empowerment, activism and more!
Oils Stuff:
- I’m running a Christmas in July special for any new members who buy a premium kit and enroll on my team this month. You’ll get to pick a number to reveal an awesome prize, and that’s on top of an already-amazing welcome kit you’ll get (+ a great community of oilers that I absolutely adore.) You can find out more info about oils + some of my fave products right now on my site.
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On unfriending, living freely, and ghosts from the past
Somebody that I used to know recently unfriended me on Facebook. And Twitter. And Instagram. Oh, and blocked me.
Her reasoning was that she felt like she didn’t know who I was anymore and no longer recognized me in posts I have made. Fair enough. I could agree (to a certain extent). I’ll be the first to admit that I’ve gotten a bit of a reputation in recent days for not shying away from talking about things that make people wildly uncomfortable, both online and off. And she’s right; the Elena that I was five years ago, or ten, would have stayed quiet. Maybe because I was afraid. Maybe because I was still trying to figure out what I believed in. Maybe a bit of both.
And maybe there are many of us today who feel the exact same way, who are just finding their voices and using them to talk about messy things, hard things, things that convict us and challenge us and put everything into a brand new light. Maybe we were silent because we were unsure, or insecure, or threatened, or still learning. And maybe we now feel it burning, hot, like fire in our bones, just as the ancient words of Jeremiah said it would. We too become weary of holding it in, and like the weeping prophet who lamented and grieved and, ultimately, hoped–we say “Indeed, we can hold it in no longer.”
Life, seasons, love, loss: these things change us. They grow us, deep in our cores, and I truly believe they are meant to. And because my hope is in a good God who works all things together, I can lean into the winds of change and trust the process, but that doesn’t mean there won’t be tears or anger or sorrow or goodbyes; that there won’t be doubts, and questions, and maybe some of us will wrestle with God, and maybe we’ll lay ourselves bare like David did, and maybe the whole thing will feel bitter, and gritty, and hard.
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Sometimes, we don’t talk about these things on social media until we’ve already gone through the fire. And sometimes, people don’t recognize us anymore, because they know nothing of what we struggled through, because for a while, at least, their paths diverged from ours.
The older I get, the more I live through, the more I see: relationships, they’re fluid, you see, and they change, or maybe they lay dormant, and sometimes they even die. Some of the people who held me through the pain of my first husband leaving for another woman were not the same ones who celebrated with me on my wedding day to Kyle. Some of those who supported me when I lost everything and found myself on the mission field in West Africa were not there when I discovered I had PTSD, or when Ebola hit, and when I had to leave. They weren’t with me while I cried and mourned, while I screamed at God in a therapist’s office, while I asked God why he’d forgotten me, while I questioned if he really was good after all and if I even believed any more. Some of the people who helped me find my faith weren’t there when I was afraid of losing it. Some of the people who rejoiced with me over my marriage were not the same ones who did so when I welcomed Atticus into the world, and some of those people weren’t there in the early days of motherhood, when I was battling postpartum depression and anxiety. Some of those people aren’t here as our family walks the path of adopting J. Some people weren’t there as I talked to parents about their fear when their black and brown sons left the house. They weren’t there when I held dear ones who wept because they felt like the Church had failed them. Some people weren’t there when I sobbed over the deaths of Tamir Rice, Philando Castile, and so many others. Some people just weren’t there. Let’s not kid each other. And it’s okay.
The same is true even if the tables are turned. There are so many people I used to know, that I used to break bread with and share hearts with, who are little more than ghosts of the past now. I know nearly nothing of what’s going on in their lives, of their joys and sorrows, any of it. Our paths led us away from each other rather than closer together. Time, distance, other things we’re maybe too afraid to name; they got in the way, and the months would go by, then years, and then we realized we grew into different people somewhere along the line. But if we judge one another when we haven’t walked the same road, I’m afraid we’re only missing the point. Yes, maybe there are things we are sorry for; maybe we’ve been the wounded and the wounder, and if we’re Christian, let’s be honest; we are commanded to forgive. And I believe so strongly in the beautiful ministry of reconciliation, but I’m starting to see that the two are not always mutually exclusive, and it’s hard, and a little confusing, to work through all of that, isn’t it?
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I’m reading a beautiful book right now, written by a young woman who left behind her life in Tennessee to move to Uganda and be salt and light there. (Side note: it’s called Daring to Hope, and it’s available for pre-order now; I highly, highly recommend it!) There’s a line I just read that has been sitting with me all day, and I just can’t seem to let it go. “The truth is, I can’t fold my arms to the hurt of this world and simultaneously reach out for my Savior.” You see, some days the hurt of this world feels too much, too big, too heavy, and my inclination is to shut down and hide away from it all. But to hide from pain is to hide from the God who can heal it. So we dig in our heels, and we grit our teeth, and we start again. We post that article, we start that hard conversation, we challenge, we repent–sometimes online, sometimes off. We start again. Every day, some days every moment, I start again. Because my hope is that God can somehow use it. My hope is that he can use me. I read Luke 4:18-19, over and over again, looking for Jesus here, in these well-worn pages, these well-read words. The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to proclaim good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim liberty to the captives and recovering of sight to the blind, to set at liberty those who are oppressed, to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor. And then, later, Jesus again: Go and do likewise.
So we watch, and we look for what the Spirit is doing in our own little pocket of this messy-beautiful world, in the tension of God’s kingdom here and yet to come, the now and not yet. We watch, and we join in. We listen for what he is calling for us to do, and we do it, and we know full well that our calling might not look the same as someone else’s. The way we are walking out our faith might look differently and sound differently than the way someone else is. And that’s okay, too. God is big enough to be doing a work in both. I am secure in who I am and how God is living and moving in me right now. And we live with our arms wide open, to God, and to our neighbors, because it’s never been either/or. Both/and, remember. Both/and.
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And then we look at our ghosts, all the people we’ve loved and lost. We look them in the eye, and we wish them well, and we hope they do the same for us. We even pray for them. Not in a condescending way–“I’ll pray for you” and then, under our breaths, “because you clearly need it.” Not in a way that tries to wrangle and convince we’re right. Not in a way that diminishes the unique thing God is doing. What could be more beautiful than praying for someone in a way that trusts they hear the Spirit’s leading too, even though they might do this whole faith thing differently than you or I? We pray, we forgive, we let go if we’re called to, or reconcile if that’s where we’re led instead. And we remember: “The table. The bread. The wine. The feast. The promise of shalom. No one is left out of the meal. No one left out of the story (Curtice, K.).
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one word 2016:: grow.
in lieu of new year’s resolutions (and to show support and solidarity with the #oneword365 movement), i’ve spent the last several januarys of my life carefully choosing a word that i hope will shape the coming year. this is perfect for me for a couple different reasons:
a) it doesn’t lock me into anything. selecting a word over a resolution is open-ended. it leaves room for mistakes and loose ends, and it allows the year to unfold on its own, taking on whatever shape and form it wants to.
and b) i love words. seriously. LOVE THEM. anyone who knows me knows they are my truest love language. i eat them up hungrily, as if they’re a starving man’s bread. i hold them carefully within me, knowing they hold weight and power and beauty and meaning, and that one must always be careful with sacred things. “words are pale shadows of forgotten names. as names have power, words have power. words can light fires in the minds of men. words can wring tears from the hardest hearts.” (patrick rothfuss, the name of the wind)
words are more than just words, if they’re used correctly.
so for the past few years, it’s been nothing but words for me. 2012: forgive. 2013: grace. 2014: whole. 2015: home.
when this new year began, i honestly didn’t give much thought to what my word would be. one morning, however, as i sat down with some coffee and my journal, it introduced itself to me. grow. that’s my word for 2016.
this year, i want to see growth. i want to grow. i tend to think of grow in the agricultural sense. it begins with a seed being planted, and to plant, sometimes your hands have to get a little dirty and sometimes it’s hard and sometimes you get tired or hurt. then there’s the cultivation part: you give the plant, simply, what it needs to live. then comes the waiting, the patience, the trust. and then, suddenly–there’s growth.
this year, i want some things to grow that have years ago already been planted. i want to learn to wait well in the process, and to trust wholeheartedly. i want to care for and nurture the things that bring me life and yes, i dare say it, i want to even get a little messy, a little sloppy, to dig my hands into the earth and plant things. the process of grow-ing is my word for this year because it’s real and it’s raw and it reminds me that he truly does make everything beautiful in its time.
this year, my body will grow with the life inside of me, as will my heart, and i want to accept the expansion, especially after i’ve lived so long learning the art of shrinking, of not taking up too much space. this year, i will grow, and i will not apologize for the widening, the lengthening, nor the ownership of every inch i have been given. this year i will grow, in every single way, and it will be a good thing, because growth is the way of a rich and full life.
i will grow in discipline, in steadfastness, in the staying put and staying present when the going gets tough and the tough gets going.
i will grow in patience and boldness, in wisdom and in selecting my words carefully, in saying what i mean and meaning what i say.
i will grow in letting go and saying goodbye to people and places that, for whatever reason, are not walking with me on this new road in this new season. i will grow in wishing them well, acknowledging the hurt but refusing to allow it to paralyze me.
i will grow in seeing myself as worthy, as one who’s capable, as one whose value cannot be diminished by weight gain or a bad hair day or mistakes and failures. i will grow in being me: a lover of and beloved by God, a wife, a teacher, a friend, a daughter, a student, a mama to-be. i will grow in other ways too, other ways of being fully me.
i will grow in my ability to wear my heart on my sleeve and freely explore my emotions.
i will grow in listening well and listening carefully, to offer advice when it’s asked for and if not, to simply let someone know she’s been heard.
i will grow in my ability to smile and even laugh in both good times and bad, because i have found a well of joy, and i have learned to drink deeply from it.
i will grow in my passion to defend the powerless, to care for the weak, to give a voice to the voiceless.this year, i am determined that i will grow–and in doing so, i will become more and more like the woman i was always meant to be.
Image from Flickr//Creative Commons
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the long way home
a few weeks ago, i had a dream. one of those dreams that stays with you, not just into the waking hours, but days later. some dreams are just that–dreams, nothing more. but this one… i remain convinced this one meant something, means something still.
in my dream, i was at a graduation of sorts. i was waiting backstage in my cap and gown, ready to walk across the stage and into a new future. the strange thing? the graduation took place in Liberia, just outside the red metal gate of the team house, the same one i called home for four and a half years. with my graduation came my departure from Liberia; in the dream, i inexplicably knew that i’d soon be headed back to the States. so, while i was waiting around for my name to be called, i decided to take a walk around the perimeter of the house, make sure everything was closed up and locked.
my team was there, waiting for me. many people breezed through Liberia during my time there, but there was a core group of us that worked together, served together, did life together, for such a lengthy season. and so, after my walk around the yard, i joined them and turned over my keys. and it was then that i started to weep. i knew i’d see them again; that wasn’t my problem. what was difficult was the knowledge that everything was changing, is changing even now.
along with my keys, i took off four rings i’d been wearing, each symbolizing a block of time that changed my life: one i’d worn through my high school days, one through college, one from my first marriage, and one from my time in Liberia. i took them off, and held them in my hands, and cried so deeply i started to shake.
and then i woke up.
still, weeks later, this dream has remained with me. i’ve wrestled with it, prayed over it, held it up to the light to get a closer look. and here is what i know.
i am on the verge of a brand new, exciting season in my life–and that also means all the other seasons before have to end. i’m getting ready to start this incredible chapter, and i couldn’t be happier, truly. yet it’s still natural to grieve what was, i think. especially Liberia. that was a huge part of my life, my story. i’ve been thinking a lot about it, actually. particularly about my team, how i’d love for us to all to be together once again. in Liberia, we went through so much together. sickness. children who left this world too soon. culture shock. the art of sacrifice. learning to live in community. the balancing act of ministry and regular old life. discovering how to love God–and ourselves–better. being Jesus to not only each other but to the constant needs that surrounded us. burnouts. breakdowns. heartbreak. putting others before ourselves. homesickness. wrestling with the call…
that last one, i did that a lot. i knew God had called me to Liberia, but as time went on and i became more weary, i started to resent it. instead of it being joy to serve, it felt heavy. forced upon me. i felt like i’d been banished to exile–and maybe, in a way, i had been.
see, i didn’t feel released from Liberia until i’d learned what i needed to from that proverbial desert. learned that obedience, even when it’s difficult, is pleasing. learned that hard work is often worthy work, holy work. learned that life didn’t care about my timelines, my carefully constructed plans. learned that i couldn’t help every child, but i could help one at a time–and that was enough.
learned that God’s calling looked very differently than what i thought it did. maybe it isn’t this one, big, catch-it-or-you-miss-it-forever, once in a lifetime kind of thing. maybe walking with Jesus meant that life became a series of calls–some here, some there, some unexpected, some for a week, a year. maybe healing my heart wounds in a counselor’s office every tuesday was a call, one to health, and wholeness. maybe teaching underprivileged youth was a call, one to patience and mercy. maybe writing love letters to orphans in Liberia was a call, one to encouragement and steadfastness. maybe using my words wisely and writing out my story on this lil’ ol’ blog was a call, one to transparency and being vulnerable, to hold others’ hurts, to make space, to say, “me, too”.
maybe merging my life with with world’s most loving, most compassionate, most patient, most extraordinary man–maybe this is a call, too. a call to believe in better stories. to have faith in redemption with skin on. to see beauty from ashes.
maybe all these things were just as much a call as my four and a half years in Liberia. maybe they’re neither better nor worse, neither less important nor more. maybe it all matters.
maybe i’m just one of those people meant to take the long way home.
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photo from flickr; creative commons
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stay
yesterday, i put my heart on my sleeve for all of social media to see when i wrote this post:
IT’S BEEN A WEEK, Y’ALL. emergency rooms + doctor’s offices, car breakdowns + mechanics bills, grad school deadlines + the end-of-year blur. long days + short nights, weary bones + achy souls. it’s been a week of gritting my teeth + digging in my heels, of emotional highs and lows (mostly lows, if i’m being honest), of frustrated tears + counting down to the weekend, to this very moment. every part of me needs a break, needs to take off my life for a little while + simply rest. i need to stop + look + listen + wait for everything to come into focus again. i need to remember the light.it wasn’t really an easy thing for me to post. i don’t like to be weak. i don’t like to let others see my struggle. i want to be looked at the as the girl who can hold it all together, who knows how to take care of herself and still roll with the punches.
the problem is: sometimes we just can’t do this life thing alone.
in response to that moment of sheer vulnerability, i was overwhelmed with comments, messages, texts from people who wanted me to know they loved me and were praying for me. it was completely unexpected; i didn’t write it for the response. i wrote it because, quite frankly, i needed to word-vomit. but in that moment of weakness, i was reminded yet again that i need people. i need people to reach out and pray and console and encourage. i need people to stay.
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so this one is to celebrate all those who stay. you know the people i’m talking about. the ones by your side when the going gets tough. they cook you meals, bring you coffee, let you use their cars when yours is in the shop. they sit in waiting rooms, and they remind you to breathe. they stay up late because they know you need to talk. they let you sleep in because they know you need to rest. they don’t give you easy answers because they know that’s neither helpful nor healing. they point you to the light. they pass you the tissues when you can’t stop the tears. they love you instead of trying to fix you. they let you fall apart instead of putting you back together before you’re ready. they hold hands, hold hearts, hold secrets, hold their tongues, even. they’re simply present.
they put aside their own schedules, their own agendas, their own to-do-lists. they make space. they start conversations. they ask the hard questions, like “how is your heart?” and not “how are you doing?”, and they don’t pressure you if you don’t know how to respond. they nourish your body, your heart, your soul. they see all your messy parts, and it doesn’t scare them away. they get right down there with you instead; they make your hard places their home. “i’m with you,” they whisper. “i’m for you.”
and until the storm passes, they hold your face in their hands, and they remind you that is really is going to be alright.
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because it’s all messy, after all. “the hair. the bed. the words. the heart. life…” (w. leal) and if we’re all glorious wrecks when we get right down to it, maybe the best thing we can do is just to grab somebody’s hand and pull one another along.
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in the end, we always remember the ones who stay.
may we know them. may we love them. may we thank them.and may we be them.
[photo credit: flickr, creative commons]
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wordless things
i’ve wanted to write for weeks now, to sit down at a table with some coffee and a pen, and flesh out all the things i have inside of me. but every attempt ends up with the page blank and me frustrated and reeling in disappointment. and then i read this::
“I always find it more difficult to say the things I mean than the things I don’t.” (W. Somerset Maugham)
maybe the reason i can’t seem to find the words is because life in this season is full of the wordless things, things i shouldn’t speak but feel instead, in the slow beating of my heart and how my breath sometimes catches in my throat. those are the things i’m after, the things i live for these days. these are the things that make me weep silently into my pillow at night, the things that make me laugh until my belly hurts and my cheeks feel stretched and tight from smiling. they’re the things that make me want to create, make something beautiful with my words and my heart and my hands; the things that feel weighty and worthy, like they could weather a storm and endure the years long after i’m gone, be carried into generations yet to come.
these are the things i carry with me, and i long to share them with others, to open up this bleeding heart of mine and show you the wordless things, how they’re are all folded up inside of me. i want you to see, to understand, to maybe even tell me you’ve been there, too.
but these days, i just don’t know how to say it. it’s not even just in my writing. it’s in the way my mind never slows down and my heart always feels full and heavy, but no matter what i do, i can’t seem to get any of it out.
how do you talk about 4,000 people dying in west africa, in the same streets your own feet once walked? how do you talk about fear and guilt and shame in the face of such a crisis? how do you talk about helplessness? how do you talk about the exhaustion you carry around with you like a blanket, heavy on the shoulders? how do you talk about the ache associated with the in-between places, when you’re standing tall in the here and now though your heart already can sense what’s coming there, in the not-yet, and it knows it looks like starting everything over…again?
what are the words for love, for hope, for finally understanding what home feels like? for laughter and breaking bread with soul-sisters at the table? for dreams about someone you haven’t met yet but has been a part of you all along? how do you explain what it feels like to see rays of early light dancing on the asphalt, for the minutes you have in the morning quiet, a mug in your hands? for the moments of struggle and tension that come along this faith-walk, messy and glorious though they be? for sitting with the knowledge that all of us, we’re connected, somehow, and this, this very moment and whatever you’re doing in it, it matters more than you could ever know?
honestly, i don’t know. but i’m starting to wonder, and i like that, this feeling of wonder, of maybe. maybe life these days is more about wordless things than the ones i can explain away because it’s actually giving me some sort of favor, a blessing in disguise. maybe i’m learning how to simply be in the moments, to take them in and allow them to move me. maybe this is the only way: to feel and experience, to cry and laugh and ache and question and long and love.
maybe in doing that, life is lived instead of just talked about.
(Photo by Khaz // Creative Commons // Flickr)
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your words mean more to me when i get to see you speak them
attention, people of the internet; let’s do REALTALK for a moment or two here, okay? pour yourself a drink, settle in for a little bit, and stay with me here. i may not know much about some things, but i’ve learned a lot about knowing people, and something tells me i’m not the only one who’s been feeling this way lately.
i’m weary, y’all. weary of these false connections forged over computers, of the tapping of fingers on a keyboard, of likes + comments + notifications, of reading between the lines and flickering phone screens.i want more. i want relationships again. i want heart-and-soul connection, ones that are tangible, ones with skin on; i want what’s deep and real and rich and true. i want to memorize the way your hands cradle a cup of hot coffee or the way your lips curve as you spill out your stories and life-lessons in a torrent of emotion and weighty words. i want to see the fire in your eyes, to encounter the God that lives in you. i want your laughter, your tears; i want to create a safe space for you in which we can talk and share and feel and be changed, somehow. i want to hear your heart in full sentences and honest conversation, in inflection and the way we sometimes stumble over the words. i want to listen and be listened to; i want you to walk away and know you were heard. i want us to understand that time is valuable, but so is relationship; and i want us, like Mary, to choose the better thing that it may not be taken from us. i’m so sick of fraudulent emoticons that try and make themselves a substitute for emotional expression, and i’m tired of computer screens and vague facebook posts, of mass emails and group texts and trying to update those who actually care about your life in 140-characters or less. puh-lease. ain’t nobody got time for that, and life is just too. dang. short.
what happened to being a person and not a user name?
what happened to seeking as much as we’re saying, to listening as much as we’re answering?
what happened?somewhere along the way, i think we got a little lost, or the lines got a bit crossed, and we forgot that there are real, live, actual people on the other side of that screen; people with voices and feelings and stories and struggles, people who want to know and be known and be loved for it anyway.
[Photo by Rachael Shapiro, Creative Commons]the irony of me typing up this blog post on my macbook while i sit solo in a coffee shop filled with people is not lost on me, and i’m the first to admit that technology and online-living in this modern age can be an incredible communication tool. as someone who has many long-distance friendships, sites like facebook and twitter allow me to stay connected, in a way, even to those who are so far from me. and i’m sure many of you can relate.
but even so, there are still times when we need to take a few steps back and get outside in the sunshine, to breathe deep and breathe heavy, to fill our space and time and senses with those who are right-here and right-now, who need us and ache to connect just as we do. we’re all in this thing together, after all, each of us stumbling our way through this crazy-beautiful, messy-glorious thing we call life.
so do yourself a favor and shut down for a little while–shut down and shut off. unplug and reach out. say what you want to say, but say it face-to-face. seek ways to create community, intentionally, through honesty and emotion and one heart to another. catch up over coffee and not a computer screen. be a person, a person who loves people, and watch as you set the world on fire. -
an embodied story
back in my baby Christian days, i hated tattoos.
at that time in my life, the world around me was very much black-and-white. there was good and bad, “Christian” and not, and i hadn’t yet learned about the beautiful in-between, the sacred tension that comes from the gray areas.
tattoos were sinful in my book because of that one little verse in Leviticus that had been taken out of context, twisted to fit a certain ideology and wielded as a weapon by the mainstream church.
and then i got divorced. and then my whole world came crashing down around me. and then the very “brothers and sisters in Christ” i had so proudly linked arms with for nearly a decade deserted me.
and then i started to see that perhaps this faith-walk is not meant to fit into neat little boxes. i realized that life was messy and beautiful and hard, and maybe all the things i had been so sure of i didn’t really know all along.
so i got a tattoo, the word “faith” in small, delicate lettering on the nape of my neck. at that point in my life, faith was the only thing i had to hold on to. everything i had known, everything that had been comfortable and supposedly secure had been stripped from me. i was hanging on by a thread, and that just happened to be the last little bit of faith i had in me. it seemed fitting for me to mark my body with that one little word, to serve as a remembrance in later years that faith as small as a mustard seed truly was enough.
two years later, i got tattooed again. the word “hope” was etched into the thin skin of my foot, big and bold, hinting of promises of a better tomorrow. i had come out of the fire, tested and still standing on the truth. i understood that though i couldn’t change my past, Jesus could somehow make good of it and give me a new story in exchange for all my broken pieces. i came to know something of this Living Hope, one that could not be taken away by pain and circumstance. hope had become a mantra of sorts, something to cling to as i walked through my healing, and i wanted my body to tell the story.
shortly after, i packed two fifty-pound suitcases for a journey that would forever change me. i left behind the memories of another life, the woman i used to be, and traveled halfway around the world, settling in the small nation of Liberia, West Africa, to serve Jesus by loving orphans. in the nearly four years i lived in Africa, i healed, i laughed, i cried, i prayed, i loved. in the midst of poverty and the aftermath of war, with death and sickness and injustice all around me, i learned what it felt like to have my heart break for the very things that broke the Father’s. as i held dirty, hungry and dying children in my arms, i would weep silently, rocking them and praying that somehow my love would be enough to heal their heart-wounds. i grew to embrace a culture so very different from my own, a people who deserved so much more. Liberia took a lot out of me, and i have since left the mission field full-time. i gave when i felt like i had nothing left in me; i was stretched to the point i was sure i would break; i loved deeper, fiercer, wilder than i ever thought possible. but each time i look at the wrist of my right hand, i see a reminder of the place that taught me what true love looks like, a land of red earth and green trees and blue sky that i will carry with me for the rest of my life.
and this i know, friends: my story is not over. there are chapters still being written, still unfolding, even as i write this today. i may not mark each of them with ink, but they will be no less real, no less permanent, no less a part of me. i regret not one of the tattoos i’ve gotten; i wear them proudly, my battle-wounds from the crazy-beautiful mess we call life. and i believe one day i will sit at the table with my Jesus, and i will show him these scars, and he will show me his, and we will talk about them and laugh and cry and remember.
{this post was inspired by the A Deeper Story synchroblog. for more information, check out this tribe of inked storytellers who have embodied the good parts, the bad parts, and everything in between. xo}
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when i have to say goodbye
i.
a pile of folded clothes sits atop the black suitcase, ready to be packed. photos come down off the walls, the closets are cleaned out and bathroom shelves cleared off. two large duffel bags, fifty pounds a piece, contain four years of memories. i think of the boxes and bins waiting for me back home and marvel at this, a life lived in such a way, packed up and stored at a moment’s notice. i suppose that i should be thankful; i’m free, refusing to be weighed down by possessions and all my stuff.i am thankful, but i’m also a little sad.
ii.
i sit at her feet, this liberian mama of mine, and clutch her hand while i pray for her. daily, she and i hug in the kitchen, laughing and talking about kids and food. i realize who she is to me: a friend, a sister, a mother, and i choke back tears. she’s taught me so much, about love and humility, serving others, living by grace.i pray, and i cry, and i don’t think i’ve ever loved her more than i do in this moment.
iii.
it’s four a.m., and i lay awake under the mosquito net. my head feels heavy from fatigue and allergies, yet i know sleep will elude me. another restless night–i’ve had so, so many.in less than a week, i’ll be in a bed. it will be quiet; i will be comfortable. i dream about sleeping away the exhaustion of the last three months.
iv.
she shows up for work crying, and she somehow seems smaller than even the last time i saw her. they stole from her last night, broke into her home, her sense of safety and security, and took what wasn’t theirs. she swallows her tears and doesn’t want to talk about it. everyone rallies around her, offering sympathy, understanding, murmurs of encouragement. people here are forever losing, losing children, losing the things they scarcely have to begin with. when does it end?and i, in my excess, feel guilty, ashamed.
v.
“auntie elena, you will not forget about me, yeah?” she whispers it softly into my ear as she hugs me goodbye, and time suddenly stands still. little hands claw at me, begging to hold, to be held, but all i can focus on is this one before me, jaw set with resolve, tears and questions in her eyes. i cup her face in my hands and meet her gaze; i can scarcely choke out the words. “i will never forget you. never. i love you.”i see she believes me, and she rests her head on my shoulder. our hearts forever connected, our tears mingle in tiny pools, soaking the red dust of the earth where we stand.
vi.
i sit and stare, at nothing in particular, really. i think nothing in particular, feel nothing in particular. emptiness. it’s all that’s left. every word has been spoken, every prayer been prayed. the season comes to its close, as i always knew it would, eventually.i lived well here; i loved well here. i did what i came here to do, did it the best way i knew how.
and then i hear it, an echo in the emptiness, a hint of hope in this barren heart:
“this chapter may be over, but the story’s just begun.”
