Aching

This past Saturday, my brother and I moved a truckload of furniture from Traverse City down to Detroit in the most miserable conditions of the season. It was raining and cold, and by the end, every part of me was soaked to the skin. It was a grueling, altogether horrible experience, which I plan on never repeating.

Since then, my body has been in a constant state of Ache. My feet hurt, my knees hurt, my back hurts – even my eyebrows hurt. I’ve slept and taken drugs and had plenty of water. There’s just no stopping the ache.

A few Saturdays before last Saturday, I made a similar move with a different truckload of stuff (or rather: a truck, an SUV and a minivan of stuff) from Midland to Detroit in altogether different conditions. The weather was nice, the company was good, and the move was relatively easy. And yet still – the ache. A different kind of ache, but just as real, just as present, just as untreatable. An ache for friendships changed, people lost, the moments left behind. An angry aching for leadership and truth. I ache for what was, and I ache for what will never be. I am in a constant state of Ache.

To be honest, I’ve been really afraid of saying that I’m aching; afraid that I might not be able to climb back up the walls of that dark place. That by admitting the ache, I would shake the foundation of this new place I’ve found. But I was wrong. Because whether I stand my ground, jump in, or fall down, the walls still close in; squeezing slowly until all that’s left is the Ache.

It is so incredibly counterintuitive, but the only way to deal with these walls is to face them. Not to climb or smash through them, although I have tried both. Not to hunker down or to bury yourself under them, although I have tried those too.

No, I have finally internalized that there is only one right way for me. So here I am – at 11:59 PM – in that time between today and tomorrow, facing the wall and feeling the ache. And finally, once again, writing it down.

This might not make a lot of sense to you, this entry. But it is the beginning… again; one in a long line of beginnings that I’ve needed in the past ten years or so. And if ever I were to actually write a useful guide to faith, I know it would always end here. With an ache and a beginning. Again.

A Love Story

Sometimes when I’m driving a topic will come to me that I know I want to write about. Often times it’s certain words or even complete sentences, and in that moment I know it will probably never make it onto a printed page. Because when I write, I release, and even if I’m writing only in my head, by the time I make it to my iPad or a computer, I’ve already let it go.

I’m hoping this is not one of those times.

Today is Maundy Thursday and I’m writing in what little time I have between leaving work and heading back for worship. Today kicks off a series of services that revisit and reflect on the days in Christ’s life leading up to his trial, execution and Easter resurrection. It is generally a time I revere with a mixture of morbid respect and genuine worship. It is also somewhat exhausting.

As I was driving to catch a quick bite from Burger King (who gets my thanks for having veggie burgers on the menu) I was thinking about why it’s so exhausting. Today, for example, I didn’t do much at all in terms of preparing for the services. That was done weeks, even months, ago. I spent today planning for worship services happening weeks from now, answering emails, hanging posters; in all, I spent today like I would normally spend today. But as I left the office, I felt totally spent and zeroed in on the reason. Guilt.

Guilt is this nasty cloud that hangs over the season of Lent and especially this weekend. At some point in every service I’ll go to, I will hear the words that Christ died for me. And for you and the salvation of the world. How can I not feel guilty? Christ died for me and I overeat. Christ died for me and I forgot to wear my good shoes to church. Christ died for me and I ran out of toilet paper. Christ died for me and I do all sorts of stupid things that don’t honor his sacrifice at all.

Last year I (and half the planet) discovered the songstress Adele, and I fell completely and totally in love with her. On her first album she recorded Bob Dylan’s Make You Feel My Love. God, with generous help from Miss Adele, has imprinted those words on my heart. This is what I hear…

Katy,
When the rain is blowing in your face and the whole world is on your case, I could offer you a warm embrace to make you feel my love. When the evening shadows and the stars appear, and there is no one there to dry your tears, I could hold you for a million years to make you feel my love.

I know you haven’t made your mind up yet, but I would never do you wrong. I’ve known it from the moment that we met; no doubt in my mind where you belong. I’d go hungry; I’d go black and blue; I’d go crawling down the avenue. No there’s nothing that I wouldn’t do to make you feel my love.

The storms are raging on the rolling sea and on the highway of regret; the winds of change are blowing wild and free. But you ain’t seen nothing like me yet. I could make you happy; make your dreams come true – nothing that I wouldn’t do – go to the ends of the earth for you to make you feel my love.

To make you feel my love, God

So those are the words I sang in my car while I was driving to Burger King with a supersized case of guilt and exhaustion. Jesus loved me. I mean, the human Jesus maybe didn’t, since he didn’t know me yet, but that part gets a little confusing and trinitarian. But I definitely believe he loved his friends that he shared Passover with, the last supper we remember tonight on Maundy Thursday. If there was ever a time to start laying on the guilt trip, it was that night. But Jesus didn’t do that.

For Jesus, the many days we have come to honor as Lent were not about a shadow of guilt or doom. They were about a singular purpose: Love. There’s this line in the song: “I’d go hungry; I’d go black and blue; I’d go crawling down the avenue. No there’s nothing that I wouldn’t do to make you feel my love.” It doesn’t say: “there’s nothing that I wouldn’t do to make you feel like you owe me” or “there's nothing that I wouldn't do to remind you that you don’t deserve this.”

I’m not saying we don’t owe Jesus and I’m not saying we do deserve forgiveness and the promise of peace after we die. I suppose I must be saying that we do owe Jesus and we don’t deserve it. But my point is: that’s not what He is saying. 

He is saying something more like “I could make you happy; make your dreams come true – nothing that I wouldn’t do – go to the ends of the earth for you to make you feel my love.” 

God, I confess I have not loved you with my whole heart. I have not remembered in my weaker moments that you are there with me, within me. And yet I draw from your strength in my weakness and from your weakness in my strength. You are my source of humility and honor. You are love. Amen.

Wild Stillness

What is prayer? How often do you pray and when do you do it? Do you pray for specific things if people ask you to? Do you say the same thing or nothing at all?

It’s no secret that I rarely desire liturgical prayer as a way of sensing God’s presence. I never seem to find that elusive “still voice” during Traditional Prayer. But, as in previous posts here and here, I’m coming to realize that what I’ve sort of always assumed was how everyone prayed is not, in fact, how everyone prays. So it was probably a good thing that my small group sat down last week and had a conversation about prayer.

Recently I’ve discovered that I find great comfort in writing my prayers. I don’t do it often, but when I do I always feel more in touch with God and that Spirit-core that I believe is in each of us. I started writing my prayers as an exercise in praying for others. What really sparked the idea was that I could look back at the prayers later, maybe check in to see what God had been doing. (I guess maybe I wanted to keep tabs.)

So I began writing out prayers for two of my close friends. (For transparency’s sake, I must admit to having become remiss in this practice as of late.) But in the process of praying for them, I found that my own sense of well-being was changed. My soul felt strengthened, my energy was renewed, my peace was returned. I was also reminded of the need for honesty in any conversation with God.

I should mention that when I talk about “writing” my prayers, I mean by hand. Like with pen and paper. When I type I am a compulsive editor. I rewrite almost every third sentence without even blinking and barely notice how often I backspace to use a slightly different vocabulary word. Putting pen to paper is a different animal altogether, requiring thought and good penmanship.

But even with pen in hand the desire to “correct” my prayers was much stronger than I had anticipated. As I wrote, I’d find myself wanting to change pronouns or write with a more Theologically Sound vocabulary. As I prayed for a friend’s marriage, I found myself wondering if the words I was using were the “right” words. Would these words be good enough? Would they be strong enough to bring the kind of healing that was needed?

One night as I was writing and the urge to edit was especially strong, I suddenly realized how very self-important I was being. I had censored myself before God. Not out of a desire to know God more but out of a desire to prove that I knew God best. In that moment I knew that God was indeed speaking to me. And he was saying quite clearly: Stop that.

Recently one of my pastors read of the prophet Elijah and his retreat to the wilderness. And so it’s Elijah I’ve been thinking of these days. He was afraid, running from a rumored threat against his life. He is beat up, tired, and wants to have it out with God. Why are you here? God asks. Alone in the wilderness, God speaks to Elijah, but the prophet is so full of his own importance that he can’t understand. The wind, the fire, the earthquake, these huge displays of power and God says: Nope, that isn’t me. I am the silence, the peace, the stillness. But Elijah doesn’t want to hear that. He’s still tired, still afraid. And God’s response remains mysterious: Why are you here? God asks. Why are you here?

In the end, Elijah receives instruction to go in another direction, to continue his ministry. But I’ve been wondering if there isn’t something missing in the story. Did Elijah miss the bigger opportunity? Sure, God gave him direction, took pity on him (as God is prone to do) but Elijah had a chance to really talk with God. To sit for a moment on the mountainside and say: God... I’m lost here. I’m lost here without you. And all the prophetic words I speak, the great speeches I’ve made, the words and plans and futures I’ve spoken of, have left me somehow empty. Needing you. So I’m tired and I’m afraid and at the end of the day, I just want to be with you. Not the earthquake, not the fire, not the wind or the rain or the great winds – just you, in the quiet of the early evening. 

A year has gone by since I looked out over the rolling hills of that same wilderness where Elijah spoke with God. It was a sunny day. The shadows from the spotty clouds made the empty land look like a watercolor. It was surreal and somehow eternal, frightening and comforting. If I had walked even a mile in any other direction I would have been entirely alone.

There are wide sections of wilderness throughout the holy land of Palestine, Israel and their neighboring countries. They have held the prayers not only of Elijah, but of Moses, John the Baptist, perhaps Mary and Joseph as they traveled to Christ’s birthplace. And for 40 days, they sheltered and shaped Jesus himself.

Not only is God not absent in the wilderness of our lives, he seeks it. But as with Elijah, his answer to our cries is unsettling. We look to the sky for the lightning bolt, the crashing thunder; we anxiously stand, waiting for the earth to move beneath our feet. But God does not come this way. God is something else entirely. God is wild stillness. And in this stillness, God asks: Why are you here?

Perhaps Elijah did open his heart to God that day. Perhaps he left unrecorded the words he desperately needed to share with God and God alone. Or perhaps he did miss an opportunity. One thing is certain; God was there, as God always is when we run to him. So write, sing and cry out; kneel, bow down, or stand up. Lift your arms; press your palms together. However, wherever and whenever you seek him, know that God will meet you in your wildest places. And if you hear him question, answer honestly and find rest in the wild stillness.

Four minutes

If I had four minutes to tell you something meaningful and blog-appropriate it is this: 

Welcome everyone. 

Listen without inserting your own inner monologue. 

Do not multi-task. 

When someone gets mad at you for a bunch of little things, ask them what is actually wrong; and don't take it personally. 

When something is wrong, don't get mad at someone for a bunch of little things; tell them what is wrong.

Take one moment each day and imagine something.

Write your prayers and don't edit them.

Love yourself as you would have others love you.

The Middle

Do you ever feel equally self-aware and clueless? Welcome...

I desire reflective writing. I love the idea of sitting and filling pages with stream-of-consciousness writing. But when I sit to give form to fleeting thoughts, I inevitably come to a place where I just stop. The place where my judgmental self catches on to what is happening and shuts it down. It’s as if I sneak onto a movie set to make my own original and fabulous film, and then I’m suddenly caught; the cameras stop rolling, security is called and all is wrapped for the night.

But not today. Today I’m going to be extra sneaky. I’m going to battle through, which means a good portion of this will not ever make sense. In fact, I’ll probably delete those parts, so don’t you worry about it. Just make believe. The magic of Hollywood.

Last week I ventured to the TEDxMidland event and was mediocred. Is that a word? Let’s just say I was not wowed. But I was inspired to come home and immediately begin watching TED talks that did wow me. Talks and presentations and conversations that just blew my brain to pieces and made me remember why I love new ideas and new people. Innovation is not about business or finances or technology. Innovation is about people and humanity; it’s mystery and imagination.

One talk was given by the author of “Eat, Pray, Love”. She was funny and witty and beautiful, and I now want to be like her in every way. Have you ever met someone like that? Or watched them in some interview or presentation and in that moment, they are everything you wish you were? Not only that, but they actually inspire you to recognize that you could indeed be that put together and brilliant, if you just tapped into the amazing brilliance inside?

So anyway, back the witty and beautiful author. First of all, she should have played herself in that movie. More to the point, she expressed some amazing thoughts on the creative process. Recounting the ancient ideas that muses or geniuses or daemons were outside forces that came upon people, inspiring their creative endeavors, she promoted a return to the ancient practice of separating oneself and one’s self-worth from the creative process.

Here is what spoke to me:  We have some responsibility. We do not however, have all the responsibility. We do not owe our soul to our art. We may find some sense of meaning from that which we create, but those days when inspiration is out of reach, should not lead us to conclude that we have somehow lost our meaning. All of us are called to create – I truly believe that – but that doesn’t mean that every day we’ll create something we want to keep.

Back at the hometown TEDx event, one presenter (not quite as lovely as Ms. EatPrayLove) spoke on the importance of failure. We must fail often, he professed. We should crave and seek opportunities that may or may not lead to failure. We need to take risks and relish the process, even if the process leads us to a total flop.

Not so easy, says I. The challenge the presenter talked about is in finding ways of measuring or recognizing small moments of progress along the way. How do we celebrate the small steps that might lead to larger failures? Do we only rate ourselves on the end product? I think so. And I think, as did the speaker, that this is the major flaw in most of our processes.

Just the other day a friend introduced me to a new blog writer – new to me anyway. She (the blogger) is a recovering addict, a mother, a writer, a liberal Christian and, in short, a perfect fit for me. I was reading one of her earlier entries about her first days of recovery from alcohol addiction. I was astonished to hear her describing my life. She writes about sitting in her room one day with her sister and looking at what her life had become, or at least the outward signs of her life. Sitting on her bed, they surveyed the mess of clothes and wine bottles and old magazines that littered her bedroom. In that moment she realized she no longer knew how to value anything. Boom. I thought of what I see from that same place in my own house; empty shoe boxes, piles of clothes, trash, old books, just a mess of things that pile up and take up space in my house. Then I thought about all the other vantage points in my house where things are even worse. I realized that I too have lost the ability to value things. Or at least, my spectrum is skewed.

For some time now, I have been seeking some help with this predicament. About six months ago, I finally began to go to therapy to deal with… well, whatever came up I suppose. To be honest, I first went to therapy because someone finally said this to me: You are an amazing and insightful person; I think you should try going to therapy.

It doesn’t exactly sound like those two sentences go together. Maybe I’d always thought I couldn’t be amazing or insightful to anyone as long as I was broken and in need of therapy. So I chose to ignore one or the other, depending on the day. Until I finally got the memo that I could in fact be both. So I started therapy. I’m not sure if I like it or not, and I’m not sure if it’s helping me. I know that I’m thinking about certain things differently than I have before. It might be worth it for that reason alone. But that is another story for another day…or days.

I suppose that’s the point though. That at The End of any self-reflection is actually a Middle. There is always another story for another day. Heck, I literally wrote most of this story on another day. But none of it means anything when it’s still just an End. It only starts to mean something when it becomes a Middle; when we’ve disentangled the muse and can look back at our lives, or the products of our lives, with some degree of distance.

So if you’re looking for a good, solid wrap-up ending, this is not that entry. But check back, I’m sure it will make much more sense in the future.

The Middle.

Unbuilding the Wall

Typically, when I come out of a counseling session, I am entirely content leaving everything behind me on the proverbial couch. But back in November I had the bright idea that I would start to journal after my sessions. It’s not going so great. Counseling itself is going fine, but the whole post-therapy reflecting – not good. Every so often though, a session just demands it.

I knew going in that this week’s was going to be one of those sessions. The kind in which I start crying at deep and prying questions like:  How was your day? or Did you have a good weekend?

The type where I feel completely transparent, completely exposed, hoping when I leave that no one asks:  Katy, are you okay? Because basically the answer to that is always no. If I don’t look okay, I probably don’t feel okay. And if I don’t feel okay, I probably don’t want to talk to you about it. I want to put the wall back up and put you decisively on the other side of it.

In fact, as I start getting closer to all those raw emotions, I’m discovering how little I want to talk to anybody. Supposedly that’s why I started to blog and pound out some of those feelings in my writing.

So here goes.

I am sad and frustrated and I feel really alone a lot of the time. Like, maybe even the majority of the time. But I work really hard at not feeling that way and harder still at making sure no one else sees when I’m feeling that way.

I’ve made sure the wall between us has fun, bright graffiti on it, covered in equal amounts poetry and punch lines. It’s a very presentable wall and I’ve spent somewhere north of 20 years building it. I am a master wall architect.

For the most part, my frustration boils down to a common problem; I want something that I simply don’t have. When I have a bad day, I want to go home and talk to someone about it. When I have a good day, I want to go home and talk to someone about it. I want someone else to empty the litter box or tell me they like my sweater or see me when my hair is really messed up in the morning and laugh with me. I want someone who matches me; someone who fits. (And I really do want someone else to empty the litter box.)

Unfortunately, these days that means I don’t want to hear about the little fights my friends are having with their husbands or their wives. I don’t want to know when their kids say silly things or dress up like a cowboy. It doesn’t make me giggly to hear about the “incident” with your lipstick or your husband’s briefcase. Actually, it makes me sad and sometimes, if I’m honest, a little bit mad. Not at you really, or your husband or your kids, just at life or myself or maybe my therapist for making me think about it in the first place.

All the little hurts, the single-moment memories that I’ve stored up like old wine bottles, have not aged well. And when I spend a 50-minute hour taking down those bottles for a taste, I can’t help but leave a little tipsy, not sure which way is up.

I do want to know about your kids and your partner and your silly stories. But you might need a little extra patience these days. That distant look isn’t because your kids aren’t cute, it’s because hearing about them makes me just the tiniest bit sad.

If therapy is teaching me anything, it’s teaching me that I’m not quite as wise and not quite as ready for the future as I thought I was. And that any significant change between me and the world outside my wall is going to take a little more transparency and a lot more time. Transparency with those who love me and can handle the bursts of crazy that come out, and a lot of time being honest with myself about where I am, what I want and why I’m not there yet.

Do you carry an unrealized dream around with you? How do you deal with those feelings?