About Forgiveness.

 It’s taken months for me to come to a place where I could tell this story. I didn’t expect today the day to be the day I found my voice. To find my way home, but here I am.

This weekend marks the last time I felt like the me I remember. Various family members had been sick with all kinds of crud for the preceding week. Any minor discomforts I had was shrugged off and attributed to intensified workouts. I am a push through and persevere kind of person. I thought I was doing quite well, and I remember entertaining my young niece overnight. I took her around to various attractions and pulled out all the stops back at the house. I tried for the kind of over the top weekend of love and spoiling I want her to remember in the years to come, just as I remember the love and comfort my own aunts lavished upon me. By Monday, abdominal pains set in with no respite for a couple of weeks. I would successfully mask those pains and a raging migraine for the next week or two until they subsided.  A month later, I would push through an evening 3 miler, feel triumphant and good enough; that night, I would wake up with my heart pounding and struggling to get a breath. 

In between the two events, the world had exploded and shut down. Covid had come to call. 

A call to my brand new to me doctor, whom I had met a month earlier, yielded a glib pronouncement of acid reflux and an advisement to eat a low fat diet, get some exercise, take a pill, and watch my stress levels. None of these suggestions were adequate. I asked for one of the almost nonexistent Covid tests. It took me weeks to get one. It was negative. For the next two months, it was as if my body had gone haywire. I know of no way to explain this to someone who has not lived it. The complete unreliability of my body was overwhelming. I finally got an antibody test. I had none. 

Once, I ran 10 miler without stopping. Another time, I registered and completed a ½ marathon on short notice. I have a black belt. Now, I struggled to walk a mile.  Like breadcrumbs on a trail, I would spend the next 15 months sorting out ways to find my way back to a healthier version of myself. I became a compulsive reader and self experimenter. I cobbled together data that would help shift me into something enough like a reasonably heathy person that my new to me cardiologist allowed that perhaps he’d been too hasty to write off my plight as that of a middle aged woman wrought with too much news anxiety, and perhaps there was still much for doctors to discover about this new virus. I cannot overstate how grateful I was. How it felt to finally exhale. How it wasn’t enough to cut through the noise when a family member announced in the hearing of my child that I had become a hypochondriac. How it wasn’t enough to stop the anger that was emerging as the shell of my new self emerged. And I was angry. So angry. At 10 months out. At 15 months out. Even at 20 months. I remember confiding in someone that I was struggling with anger, and they challenged me. Why should I be angry? To whom was my anger directed? That was easy. I was angry at those who downplayed the virus. I was angry at those who mocked mask wearers. Who said the virus couldn’t kill you. Or could only kill the weak. I helped bury a love one from Covid. I guess they were weak, let me tell you, it was no consolation. I watched what felt like everyone go back to their old lives. They ate and drank whatever they liked. I was angry *and* envious. Those days were long gone. I watched church after church person announce that precautions were giving into fear and thus one step towards Satan. I bristled with every buoyant person who wrote it all off as bunk and cavalierly shared germs. I was also angry at me. Really though, I was just angry. Why me? Maybe I was being punished for not being giving enough when my family needed me. Maybe it was the sins of my youth catching up to me. Maybe, maybe, maybe. They nagged at me all the time. 

Somewhere in all this, was the growing knowledge that I don’t want to be defined by my anger, just as I do not want to be defined by sickness. I still desire to be an unstoppable, workhorse with a soft spot for G-d, children, animals, and my fellow fringe dwellers. Yet, here I was. 

Last Easter, I finally made it back to church. I found one with an outdoor service, because that’s where I was still at. I wept with the impossible hope of it all. It was a while before I made it back again. This fall, I went to visit a dear friend back from one of our many stops.  For different reasons, she was also at an in between place. Sunday came, and playing a game of which church, we found ourselves at an outdoors kirkin o’ the tartan. The morning was crisp; there were bagpipes. This was new to both of us. I pushed back the urge to take off my shoes. Holy ground. I vowed not to be such a stranger.

I came home and started visiting a few churches around town. I’ve been in this spot before. I have reconciled myself to the fact that whatever may come, I am as a moth to a flame. 

Oh, but that anger! It can sneak up on a person. One moment, I’m living in the glow, and the next, I’m ready to rage that people just won’t see. Won’t act. Can’t see. I found myself singing “Gonna lay down my sword and shield,” and I would think, not now. Please, Lord; not now. I stumbled forward. More and more, I found myself thinking, “I am ok. I am really ok.” Then, I began to say, “I am happy. I am really ok and happy.” Finally, I came to a place where I could still taste the bitterness of this new life of dietary restrictions, rashes, headaches, fatigue, hair loss, dizziness, grief, and uncertainty, and I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, I am not only ok. I am good.  I was the toddler who suddenly realizes they don’t need the coffee table to stand anymore. Even so, I faltered.

I thought I knew which church I would visit today. Except that someone needed something, and so once again, the clock made my decision. Or something like that. And so, I returned to that Easter church, but inside now. Masked, but open; listening. The fact that I’ve seen this preacher before, on one of our old stops, is not lost on me. The fact that it was during a rough patch is something with which I have wrestled. I wasn’t sure I was ready to hear anything from that season. Yet, here I am now. Taking it in. Jesus forgiving those who do not know. Those who know and do it anyway. Those who cannot. I breathe it in, this air for which I am not ready, for which I cannot live without. The air that can make me whole. There is communion with this wine I still cannot drink. And yet, in this moment, I do not care. Water can be wine.  I feel a fresh surge of forgiveness. I wonder if others feel it too. Whoever I was and wasn’t is no more. I am reborn. Let there be new wineskins. 

I don't speak for other people working through similar situations. I cannot. We've got to walk those lonesome valleys by ourselves. As much as I understand the desire to make people pay for suffering, I don't think I can bear the cost of constant vigilance and outrage. I don't know to whom and to where my anger is best served. I am tired. 

It’s two years today. It would have also been my mother’s birthday. On a whim, I text my sister in law to invite my niece to over to play. We hula hoop in the living room, while listening to Mary Poppins on vinyl. Later, there is play doh; I will make her favorite food. I am a lot of things this weekend, but I am not angry. I am tired, thankful, relieved, peaceful, and not angry.  The memories, while still close, are receding. I’m ready to lay down my sword, but not quite ready to lay down my shield. So I’ll keep the mask for while longer. After all, forgiveness doesn’t necessarily mean letting someone drive the car when I know what kind of driver they are. Maybe by next Easter though. Or the one after that. Baby steps, my friends, baby steps. 

Happiness Surrounded

A friend took pictures of me the other day. It was kind of a wild experience. I'm *ok* with pictures, but it's not something I do all the time. The last couple of weeks, it's happened a lot. I feel exposed. Even though I know I'm just one little light in a grand sky,  I'm often worried I won't look right. People might see my flaws; I'll be found out. I'm playacting. This is my friend though; she gets me. I trust her. I'm thankful for the joy, creativity, compassion, and wisdom she brings to the world, and curiosity peaked, I went with it. It's all over now;  I keep looking and thinking back to one in particular. I don't know what she calls it, but I've taken to calling it Happiness Surrounded. Nestled among a few favorite instruments, dozens of memories float past. I try to catch them for a second, but then, I just breath and feel their companionship and  resilience. I don't sing or play spectacularly well. Twelve years ago, I didn't even *have* an instrument of my own.  At best, I'm fair to middling. If I'm in a group setting, I can almost guarantee someone or maybe even several someones will be better at everything than me. Although I try not to dwell, I can still remember some painful moments when I've been given helpful hints by people. Or even silenced. And yet, here I am.  Still plugging away. Making mistakes; finding my way. Adding new instruments. Stringing together the moments when it turns out right. When it fits. When I wobble but I walk anyhow.  When I can't.  When I crash. When I'm so raw, imperfect, and judged that I can barely breathe. When I'm still trying to figure out things I saw/heard months out even years ago. Here's the thing though: I don't think it matters exactly what our wish list items are or how well we do it: painting, writing, sportsmanship, careers, relationships, adventures...  I could go on.  We could wait a lifetime for someone else to tell us when we're good enough to do it--when we've earned it. That would be a waste. In case you haven't noticed, the days aren't getting longer. We can't pause time. It's hard to wish our way past the losses and fear. My uncles says we have to bushwhack our way past sometimes. He's right. So go. Find your perch. Find your people. Jump. Fly. Walk. Crawl. Live. String your joys together like a bazillion stars and let them guide you through the darkest moments. Name your constellations; tell your stories. Live them. Mourn them. Celebrate them.  It's risky; I know. The world is not always an easy place for Dreamers. Doubt *is* sticky. Falling *is* hard. *Living* is hard. Whatever you do, don't waste any more time waiting for someone else to open the cage. You have always held the key.  Your happiness is waiting to surround you. Don't outsource it. 

  

Cohabitation

There’s nothing quite like returning home after a long absence to discover mice have moved in. To be clear, this wasn’t the first time, but in retrospect, the last time, they were so darned polite. Sure, they’d partied a little, but aside from a few mouse droppings and scattered leaves, it was almost like it hadn’t happened. With barely any clean up required, I was lulled into a false sense of security. That’s how they do it--those sneaky boogers.

Plain and simple, I let my guard down. I got cocky, and now, I almost hummed as I unpacked and wallowed in my suburban nesting rituals. Oh sure, there was that one suspicious bit of something that could have been mouse poop. Really though, who’s to say it wasn’t a random grain of black rice? It was nothing I couldn’t ignore, and so I continued on in my self-induced haze. Isn’t that what life is all about? 

It was all going well until I went to turn on the washing machine.  It was the ramen noodles in the make shift wash closet pantry that tipped me off. They really are zealous little beasts. As my hand pushed past what should have been a solidly reassuring rectangle of individually wrapped rations, my fingers closed around a noisy vat of stickiness. It was only then that I realized the box was empty save a few packs of those glorious foil enshrined squares of MSG goodness. As my hand withdrew, my eyes focused on the mouse poop. The droppings were *everywhere*. My eyes rolled back into my head as a sigh escaped.  Of course this was happening. While my inner twins Petulance and Ironically Amused dueled for top billing, I pulled out all the shelves and started a 9 pm cleaning spree. Forty five minutes later, with visions of a hot shower dancing through my head, I made my way to the sock and underwear drawer to fish out clean clothes. And ramen. So much ramen. 

I’m a naïve soul though, and I just wasn’t ready to give up hope. It wasn’t until the next day that the true scope of their clever industry hit me. As I slid my feet into a pair of boots, I did not have to look to know the lovely crunchy debris was ramen. I did not have to look as I shook the boots empty, but like driving by a traffic accident, I did. Even so, I kept the hope. It wasn’t until the second night that the full scope of my defeat and lost territory hit me. For there, in the darkness, I heard the little fugitives running.  I imagined them living it up through the house. Prancing. Cavorting. Eating all the snacks. What was left of my fire and optimism sank into the mattress. From beneath my sanctuary of covers, I could only murmur, “Don’t stay up too late. Some of us have to sleep.”

This Train.

 When I was a child, Reader’s Digest was my favorite magazine. It was a window to the world, and I loved curling up with it. Cystic Fibrosis? I learned about in in RD. Cholesterol? RD. Elvis Presley? RD. Pope John Paul II? RD. By the way, he spoke 12 languages. I was in awe. Mother Theresa? RD. Iran? RD. I hounded my grandmother and mother for copies, and scoured back issues at the library. It was in Reader‘s Digest that I first read of The Troubles between the Republic of Ireland and Northern Ireland. I don’t know why that stuck with me. For the next several years, I was drawn to both factual and fictional stories. I don’t know why exactly, but the idea that sometimes it’s very hard to sort through what is and isn’t righteous anger is hard work resonated. Equally hard is figuring out who the good guys are and what’s the appropriate path for building bridges. I didn’t yet know that sometimes we are all of the things and none of the things. I didn’t yet know that we can both know and not know simultaneously. Last year, about this time, I finally went there. I didn’t spend a lot of time talking about my trip. I rarely do. How does one convey the feeling of being cracked open, depleted, yet full, constantly both energized and on empty. Neutral, yet pulled back, like a rubber band, ready to pop? There are some things I struggle to say without diluting it. Besides, everyone is sifting their own thoughts, and there is enough noise. It takes me awhile to decide what if anything I want to share. It takes a while to assess risk. This week, I have been reminded of that trip. This morning, I was reminded of my visit to the Ulster Museum in Belfast. Struggling to take it all in, I carried a notebook dumping all my thoughts as quickly as I could write. I wrote all the questions. All my hatchling ideas. It was The Peace Train that was my undoing. Derided by some, it was the pie in the sky effort to create a movement in which real people across the two countries and many cities, towns, and villages shared their personal stories of The Troubles. It was meant to highlight their collective and authentic humanity, grief, and resolve to find a way forward. If I could have laid on the floor beside the glass case of index card stories, I might have. It felt like a Holy and sacred space. Even now, I am almost breathless with the enormity of that moment. These days, I spend a lot of time thinking about our own Troubles. I wonder when, if, and how we will find a way forward that doesn’t suck the joy, ingenuity, resilience, and humanity of our nation. I desperately want to believe this is just a hiccup and that we’ll regain footing. I know from every time I’ve ever lost balance, that I need to regroup, reframe, and rebuild. Sometimes, I have to take some steps back to properly assess. To be human. To be a Phoenix. I loved that story when I was a kid. I go back and forth. Am I more Phoenix or my more recent love, giraffe? In the end, I am neither. Not really. I’m just a flawed, incomplete person who desperately wants to figure out how to hear all the stories and find the best home for them. I do not have my own Peace Train, I don’t even know if I could be a depot. But maybe I could be. Maybe strangers will keep sharing their stories with me. Maybe friends will keep sharing their first hand accounts and other friends will take time to hear and see them. Like an old school party line operator, maybe we’ll all listen in, and maybe instead of using that to fuel our despair, distrust, anger, and grief, maybe we’ll take what we learn and choose hope, humanity, and healing. The flag is out at the Phoenix-Giraffe stop. Stories rarely stop here; they always get get passed along in some fashion or form. Ripples across the pond.

Two birds in one hand

This election cycle is driving me pretty much batty. I cannot figure out how one follows both Jesus and Trump. Having now spent a good portion of my life trying to follow Jesus, and trying to surround myself with others on the same quest, I'm completely baffled by the number of people claiming Jesus one minute and Trump the next.

It is the most decisive separation of church from the state I have seen in my lifetime, except it is not a separation. It's an attempt to hold both Heaven and earth in one hand. It's greed and fear and anger.
I hear it's possible to have and be both, but I cannot see it. I'm at a loss. I wish someone would tell me.

 I feel both grateful and chastened to have so pronounced example of what it means to lose one's life for Christ. We cannot have the economic, political, and social security that is being touted like a diet pill and honor the quest to act justly,love mercy, and walk humbly with our God.

And yet, in some crazy way, I'm also profoundly peaceful. This is the unrested, insane world that Jesus stepped into, knowing full well not everyone would take what He offered. Some wouldn't see the need, and some couldn't let go of what they had.

And the rest? They tried real hard to cobble unity from a smorgasbord of people and ideas. Here's to hoping.

Spotty Pingers

Deep discussions are critical to my well being. A relentless questioner with a need to sit with all kinds of ideas while simultaneously wanting to protect my interior self,  I am prone to pinging those around me like a bat, hoping to find My People.  In Improv, this is called giving or sending an offer. on the stage and in life, we make bids for interactions. As adults, we rarely give unstructured invitations, relying instead on structured events and activities. Those provide a backdrop for the many diverse bids we toss to those around us. We throw out words, expressions, and gestures to see who accepts and what becomes.

Every time a live one picks up on a bid, a new storyline emerges. Old ideas receive fresh air. I get all excited. Cue the Snoopy dance. We take turns tossing about questions and ideas. We hold each other's hopes and fears. We take note and celebrate the accomplishments and the growth. We witness the hard things, the disappointments, and the anger. We encourage one another. We turn on the light so we can see better. We belong to one another, and thus, we care for one another.

I know what to do with the wonderers and dreamers. Likewise, I know what to do with the doers. As long as it overlaps with my interests. And if it doesn't spoil into my need to retreat and process. So, if you want lofty conversations while hiking or traipsing across town, I'm in. Listening during home or yard chores will do nicely, and a sing along or musical jam is like a winning lottery ticket.

 Unfortunately, I don't know what to do with the ones that don't pick up my offers or the ones that send out their own wayward pings. On this list, one can find family members, friends, the weird woman at pickleball who invades my space and gives me constant instruction, and the woman who showed up late to a group activity and let me know I wasn't filling in correctly but offered me a chance to redeem myself. Yup. I stink at all that. There's a good chance I take disinterest, criticism, and false praise about the same. Poorly.

So why bother? There's a great argument to be made for choosing to be with the people that meld beautifully into our lives. They validate and encourage us. They inspire us. How much energy must I expend on people who drain or otherwise challenge my serenity. I wish I knew.

Tonight, I had the opportunity to be with the easy people, and do the fun tasks. I also had the opportunity to encounter someone who didn't easily fit in my world. They sent out all sorts of offers. Some I accepted, some I refused. They didn't respond when I pinged; their requests didn't mesh with my expectations.  Because of the goal, I chose to accept the offer, if not the delivery.
Driving home, a week's worth of wondering hit me. The space between ourselves and the Other can  hold a whole host of feelings: irritation, boredom, disdain, anger, loneliness, fear, safety, peace,  and pride. The longer we stay on one side, the harder it gets to hear and receive requests. The harder it is to see one another as friend, family, and community. The harder it is to care. The harder it is to react. The space grows to fit both our experiences and our feelings.

So as I sit here tonight, thinking about how to fight all the injustice and ugliness of the world, I'm also thinking about what it looks like to choose to close the gap between myself and Other. I'm wondering how much space is enough to guarantee my own safety and someone else's, because at the end of the day, I still believe we need one another more than we often think. Much work is needed to restore justice and beauty to an unjust and hurting world. There's a very good chance I'll need to share skills, energy, experiences, and curiosities.  I might need to rely on pesky people who get this pinging business all wrong, and I find myself hoping someone else is willing to work with my own spotty pings.

Making room for the Manger. An early Advent.

I feel like I've been fast mapping ideas a lot lately. Some of those ideas will eventually make it here. Some will never leave the pages of my journal or my oh look, there's no one around me out loud rambles. All of which makes it very hard to join the rest of the world in every day walking around things. It is very hard to go from pondering the enormity of Heaven and how G-d breathes life into this world and give a whole lot of thought as to whether there is mayonnaise in the fridge and whether the dog been out recently.

My notebook comes out more often in polite company, and I find myself sharing more of my thoughts. They are spilling over. My Rip Van Winkle awakening is complete, and I am in spring cleaning mode. I'm sifting through everything and shedding a thousand skins, even as the world is hemorrhaging. Perhaps because the world is hemorrhaging. I am escaping into that which I know. Grain  by grain.

Across the board, I am examining, discarding and fleshing out my ideas and purpose. I am for the first time in some time, sinking into the knowledge that I'm out of sync, and relishing it. Even as I find myself disengaged with some people and in some arenas, I have been cheered by the discovery of more members of my tribe.

In church, I feel smaller and more settled with that. Questions that once seems so  pressing now seem both less and more settled. Even as mad men run trucks into people, driven people drive the restless into political and personal frenzy, and we all point fingers at one another and bemoan the uncertainty,  I feel more certainty.

 It is awfully dim sometimes. We do batter and bruise one another. Those who profess neither G-d in heaven nor G-d in Jesus are certain we can fix it if we find enlightenment. Those who claim G-d often wait for redemption. Sometimes we get panicky and try to out do G-d as we try to hear and be everything to everyone.

It could easily be said I spend too much time thinking about what makes Jesus divine. seeing how little I have to show for my musings, I will concede. I am inefficient. 
I cannot help but think that Jesus's ability to see both heaven and earth and choose earth anyway tells a story. His ability to sit with those with whom he had little in common, and see them as whole tells a story. His willingness to be messy tells a story. It all tells a story of Heaven creeping into the cracks of humanity to save our cracked souls. To bring water and manna.

Truthfully, it's not one I can tell or live well. Because I'm not Jesus. I'm not even John the Baptist. Or Mary, Martha, or Mary Magdalene. I'm kind of a nobody. Just like pretty much everyone else I know. None of us hangs the stars. Most don't even know their human names. Not even the big deal stars. So we're probably not going to figure out how to stop the shootings today. We won't cleanse our nation of its racial or misogynistic sins. We won't even figure out who is the most capable, truth telling candidate in time for the next election. We're stumbling in the dark

But good news. One is coming who is and was and will be the one that can settle us and pull us center. And like every other time I've entertained a houseguest, I can get ready. I can clean the closets, take out the trash, and pull out the chairs and clean linens. I can make room.

On this July day, I cry Advent; I whisper Emmanuel. I prepare as much as I can, knowing I don't have the answers because I am not the One, but wanting to leave room for the one who is more than I will ever be.

I in Christ. Christ in Me. And with all who would also make room for the manger.