Truth Is (or Lessons from a Funeral)

It’s just that I’ve been a little afraid. Afraid to break into the darkness of the silent space; afraid to be transparent. But I’m also afraid to stay quiet, afraid to keep everything locked. This is my first crack of light in a long time; patience is appreciated.

There was a funeral today. And I did my job; I was responsible, professional. But on the inside, I wasn’t feeling patient or kind or forgiving. I was feeling weary. I was feeling empty.

There was a funeral today. And I sang the song they asked for.

“Truth is I’m tired.
Options are few.
I'm trying to pray,
But where are you?
I'm all churched out,
Hurt and abused.
I can't fake…
What's left to do?”

There was a funeral today.

I wish I had a good answer when people ask me how I’m doing. I wish I didn’t have these seasons of grief and uncertainty. I wish I made all the right decisions, all the time. I wish, sometimes, that I didn’t feel pain in the ways I feel it. Or didn’t carry other people’s pain quite so closely to my own heart. It feels jagged, it cuts, it hurts.

But then there was this funeral, and they asked me to sing that song.

“Truth is it's time
To stop playing these games.
We need a word
For the people's pain.
 So Lord speak right now.
Let it fall like rain.
We're desperate.
We're chasing after you.”

When did I stop chasing? When did I stop listening and learning and loving with an honest heart? An open heart? When did I start accepting silence – expecting silence?

This was a hard season. Harder than I expected; harder than I think I even knew. Slowly, bit by bit, I numbed it. I denied my grief or hurt or disappointment. I deflected, evaded, isolated. But my bones felt it. Can you see? My bones felt it; that aching in joints that yearn for peace, for rest – for real rest.

Then today brought fresh tears, new heartbreak. And I can’t keep silent… but I have no words. Maybe just that tune, a song to ride the winds of change and grief and time.

And so there will be another funeral. For a friend who believed in me, in all of us. One who saw it all, pain and peace and grief, but didn’t keep silent. And I will miss him. The fire will be cooler without him, but the call was stronger because of him. And the song will forever speak deeply of this season.

“Take me to the King.
I don’t have much to bring.
My heart is torn to pieces,
It’s my offering.
 Lay me at the throne.
Leave me there alone
To gaze upon Your glory,
And sing to You this song.”

My love & gratitude rest with you friend.

Becoming Familiar

Wow, six months. Somehow it's been six months since I left the most familiar place in the world, the most familiar people in my life, and the two most familiar "grown ups" I know (that would be Mom & Dad).

Since then, life has been filled with a lot of really unfamiliar stuff. And while I've had moments of feeling like I'm really on to something here, I've got to admit that there is a good chunk of time on a good chunk of days when I'm still kind of wondering how this happened; how I ended up in this brand-new, unfamiliar place surrounded by lots of friendly, but still unfamiliar, faces.

Of course, I do know how it happened, it wasn't like I woke up one day in a new apartment. I weighed the options, did the calculations, prayed for wisdom; I asked my parents and close friends for their input. By complete happenstance, I even had a quiet week in the woods to ponder it. But moving can be a little bit like death - even when you know it's coming, it's still a shock.

When I first got to Redford, that shock felt a lot like those first few hours of freshman dorm life. I cried a little as my parents and friends drove away, but tried to remember that I'd survived freshman year, and I would survive this. I would survive the missed electrical appointments, and the stop and start internet hook up. I would survive the first phone call to my dad, and would even be able to hide the fact that I started to cry when I heard his voice. And I would survive the newness of a place that would hopefully start to feel like home.

In some areas I didn't just survive, but thrived. I jumped into work with both feet, and managed to keep a healthy balance with personal time - even if I didn't have a clue what to do with that time. But I feel good at my job, and I love the possibilities and flexibility of the work I do. In those first few months, I did some of the most balanced work I've ever done.

Especially compared with these last few weeks leading up to Easter, which were the most stressful since I've been here. Tight time frames and expectations around church traditions - ones I'm learning by the seat of my pants - it had me a little on edge. But as I've been reflecting on my constant exhaustion, and the number of times my friend-slash-boss asked if I was okay, I'm thinking that something else was at work in me.

And now that I've crossed that six month marker, I think I can admit it - I've been missing the "familiar" something fierce.

I miss turning left at the one way heading into downtown. I miss opening that back door and smelling three different kinds of coffee. I miss silent writing sessions with a partner, musicians who can read me by the way I take a breath, and Wednesday nights with my best friends.

But what falls into the "familiar" and "unfamiliar" camps has also sort of shifted over the past months. My friend Amy, who I didn't know existed six months ago, is now a cornerstone of my little support system. Falafel sandwiches whenever I want them have become a nice habit. And I couldn't imagine going back to my bat-infested rental in Midland. I'd even miss these bright yellow walls of my apartment that I thought I'd hate by now!

In a couple days, I'm going home to get a little dose of the familiar, and I could not be happier. But I also know that a few days after, when I head back again, I'll feel just as strongly that home is here too. I guess that's just how it is for now - home is where the heart is, even when the heart is in more than one place.

February ... a 31 Things update

This year, I've decided to challenge myself to complete a list of 31 things that will challenge, inspire, and renew me. You can find the complete list here. 

I hope you'll let me know that you're following my adventures by clicking on the link to the left that says "Join this site" or by entering your email. I appreciate having you here and always read every comment!


February... the month of love, Mardi Gras, and paczki. Not, however, a month of great "list-crossing-offing-ness". But nevertheless, here is an update of my not so stellar February:

#4. Perform at a poetry open mic
I did this! Yay! :-) And it was an amazing night. I've written more about my experience and also shared my final poem in "Thirsting".

As the year goes on, I may try to come at this one again. If there were a rule-keeper of my list (which there is NOT), it could be said that helping to organize the poetry night where I spoke might not make this as much of a challenge as say, going to a regular open mic event in front of other poets and strangers. But still, I'm counting this one as done.


#25. Watch a film at the Detroit Film Theatre
A couple weeks ago, I went with a friend to see the Oscar-nominated short films (animated & live action) and it was SO worth it! I meant to write a longer entry about this, and might still come back to it, but this was one of the highlights so far of living in metro Detroit.

One reason for my list of 31 things was to find some interesting, challenging things that I could write about here. And of course, it's just nice to fill my life with interesting, challenging things. But I also wanted to use the list as a way of exploring and enjoying my new city. After watching this collection of incredible short-films, I drove back to my apartment feeling lucky to live in a place that celebrates art and beauty and diversity in the midst of difficulty.


#26. Grow my savings account
This is ongoing, but I'm still (attempting) to follow the 52-weeks Money Challenge AS WELL as a $100/month plan. I've had to dig into it once already, but my savings is still more than it has been before, so I'm counting it a win! (...for now...)


And that's pretty much my update... as I said, February didn't quite pack the punch I'd hoped it would in terms of my list, but there's still a lot of year left!

I have plans to make TWO new recipes (#3) this month (to catch up...) and to get started on some reading (#7). The books are on my iPad, I just have to sit my butt down and do it! I'm also toying with an online Photoshop class or possibly a one-day art class (#12). (Unfortunately, it's been difficult to find a class that doesn't conflict with other work responsibilities.)

Thanks to everyone who has been encouraging me in my adventures, either by sharing them with me or throwing new ideas my way. I love (and need!) the encouragement, because as you know, it is so easy to let the mundane parts of life swallow us up.

Check in next month to see how March goes... and in the meantime: 

What new adventures or challenges are you facing this year? Leave a comment below!

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.

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?

Seeking Advent

My wonderfully insightful friend Jeff Nelson has been recording a daily Advent video reflection. He’s encouraging others to join in his conversation – this is my response.

Each year, I struggle to journey through the dual realities of Advent: what it is and what it should be. I suppose I’m seeking to find where those two sides of Advent overlap. And how that overlap might change my understanding of what the event of Christmas was and who the person of Christ is.

As each day draws me nearer to Christmas, I find that my heart is just a little more open, just a little more vulnerable, just a little more willing to see the joy and beauty and simplicity of a world that welcomes babies every day. And also a little more easily hurt, a little more easily broken. Sometimes in the midst of the hurt, I can’t see beyond that. But God isn’t breaking my heart, God is opening my heart.

If broken is what Advent is then open is what Advent should be.

I’m in the midst of reading and teaching from Adam Hamilton’s book, “The Journey”. He includes a DVD segment each week filmed on location in Bethlehem, Nazareth, and the surrounding countryside. Nine months ago I stood in the same places that I see in his video footage. I walked alongside the same buildings and looked into the same scenes.

What I learned from being on the ground of that place is that it is not so different from any other place. It is not covered in the shadow of angels’ wings or the soft sparkle of star light. There are wise men, but also dumb men and mean men and just average men. There are new mothers and old mothers, scared mothers and those who would be mothers. It is an every day kind of place where families have lived for generations. For these people, in this place, the Holy Land is not a place to deepen a theology but a place to find a husband, to build a home, to build a life.

If miraculous is what Advent was then normal and everyday is what Advent should be.

As I wrote about last week, I find the joy of Christmas is often overshadowed by long hours and impossible expectations. Some of us in ministry – myself included – are the worst offenders. We pick and prod at each other, complaining about lighting and greeters and poinsettia arrangements. The season should thrill us with excitement and energy. But we seem to spend most of our time exhausted.

In the last three years, I’ve watched three close friends each experience the joy, surprise, and pain of pregnancy. In each circumstance, the waiting and expectation began long before a pregnancy was confirmed. Each one spent months, even years, praying for a child, hoping for a future full of new life. These women have taught me that our time of waiting and our desire for new life often begins before we even know what we’re waiting for. And often continues long after we’ve prayed and wished and begged for it to become reality.

If desperate is how Advent leaves us feeling then hope is what Advent should inspire us to seek.

From one seeker to another – don’t allow the bright lights of Christmas to drown out that more important inner light that Advent provides. The wisemen, the shepherds, the seekers and the dreamers who sought a baby they hoped would be king didn’t do so because all the stars in the heavens pointed the way. They sought one star, one direction, one truth. They sought a difficult and winding path because of the light in their own hearts.

Be merry. Be joyful and full of laughter. Rejoice in the bright reality of Christmas. But also keep your heart open, live simply and have hope that the true shining light at the summit of the season is a light that remains in you always.

Faith. Hope. Love. But the greatest of these is love.

Prayer and Laments

Two of my very dear friends have endometriosis (more fully explained here). Both have experienced multiple treatments and medications and adapted to ever-changing pain management plans while also: working on their marriages, raising their children, and being amazing friends to me.

These wonderful women are part of my small group that meets each Wednesday. We’ve cried and lamented and shaken our fists. And we’ve lifted thanksgivings and given praise. We’ve done everything we can think of on their behalf in our conversations with God each week. And still our friends are in pain.

And while one of our friends seems to be finally finding some relief, our other friend’s case is decidedly more difficult and complex, with what seems to be a never-ending list of complications.

I won’t lie. I am pretty upset with God about this. Why God? Why would you be faithful to some and not to others? Why would you turn a deaf ear to all of us who literally beg each week, each day even, that you would heal this hurt and end this suffering? Why would this faithful, trusting, joyful person who does nothing but look to you in thanks and hope still be lying in a bed with a broken body? Should she suffer until her spirit is broken too?

As a small group, this has become a difficult storm for us to navigate. Often when we meet to study or discuss, we’re able to find answers in scripture or in history. We turn to the words of Jesus and the stories of faithful people. We turn to a tradition that lifts up psalms and prayer as a means of connecting with God. Of being heard by God.

And yet our deepest prayers seem to be left unanswered.

Last night one of us raised the question: “Why do we pray?” One response was that we’re not entirely sure; we don’t really know what prayer does. And we talked a bit about it before going off in another direction.

But all the way home I continued to roll that question around in my mind. Why do we pray? Why do I pray?

Personally, I’m not so sure God changes events in the way some people seem to believe. I’m not sure if God heals our physical bodies or stops us from crashing our car in the rain or moves tornados from a particular path, although I know people pray for those types of situations (and have even done it myself).

My experience is that through the Holy Spirit, God is able to provide peace, wisdom, patience, perseverance, and other similar things. For example, I often pray that God would “multiply my time”. And even though I know it isn’t literally happening that way, I find that I have focus where I didn’t before or wisdom in responding to people that I wouldn’t have had otherwise. I can’t quantify it but I know that those things aren’t coming from me; they’re coming from the piece of God that’s in me.

These days I often question God’s work in the world. In fact, I sometimes question whether God is at work in the world or whether God is waiting for us do the work. I suppose it might be a bit of both. And if God is working – through us or through some supernatural intervention – why would God choose not to work in the lives of deserving people who are hurting despite the faith of a million mustard seeds.

But in my questioning I’ve also discovered that, despite all evidence to the contrary, I do believe God answers my prayers. It’s just that sometimes (or probably almost all of the time) I’m asking for the wrong thing.

I guess it’s kind of like this: If I go into a shoe store and I ask every clerk for a new coat, I would feel like no one was providing what I need. Because that’s not what clerks at a shoe store provide. So when I turn to the Holy Spirit and pray for my best friend to stop being a jerk, I might feel like God isn’t answering my prayer. Because that’s not what God provides. But if I instead ask for patience, wisdom and clarity, I find that most often my prayers are answered, because that’s what God does provide.

I have always been a relatively healthy person and have never had to deal with any kind of chronic pain. But I doubt that I could do it with the grace and patience of my friend. Every email, every hospital text message, every plea for prayer she’s sent has included equal amounts of praise for what God is doing in her life. I’m constantly astounded at the joy that is in her heart, even while disease is in her body. Her living testimony is a complicated, compassionate reminder that God is a mystery to me.

I pray for her almost every single day. And they are complicated, compassionate prayers. But through them, God reminds me that he is a complicated, compassionate God.

Sometimes in the storehouse of God’s resources, I am desperately seeking a coat – to cover myself or those I love in new layers of protection; to weather the winds with a custom made, rain proof exterior. Perhaps though, God provides me something else: a new pair of shoes to support me through the storm; that in all things I might first be standing in his love.

And what girl can’t use a new pair of shoes.

What about you? How have you experienced God at work in your life? How has God been responding to your prayers or laments?

Unraveled (pt. 2)

(Part 2)

A few days ago my friend Steve called me from North Carolina. Steve is probably one of the only people who actually knows everything about me. I don’t lie to Steve or sugarcoat things. I don’t talk around my mistakes or tell stories to make myself look better. With Steve I lay it all out there. Everyone should have a friend like that.

Steve is working at a job he can barely stand, having been forced out of the job that moved him south in the first place. The last few years have been hard and he is finally in a place that allows him to look forward in his life, instead of just getting by. He called to tell me he’s thinking of returning to school which probably would mean moving again and certainly would mean thousands in debt. It could put his already long-distance relationship in a difficult spot and the application process is bound to bring up some past mistakes he’d rather not relive. But it could also mean following a dream and living a better life.

I know this decision must weigh on him and on anyone who is thinking of making a change in the horizon of their future. On the phone he admitted to especially wanting to talk with me because we’ve often chatted up similar dreams in my life. As he said, I would know what it’s like to have big goals; things I want to do – then don’t.

What a strange way to be known to someone, as a person who didn’t do the things she said. And while I would have entered this as further damaging evidence of my unfinished, unraveled lifestyle, for Steve it was somehow a comfort. Hearing me think big or dream big but not always do big, gave him the space he needed to speak this big idea out loud. It gave him room to talk about taking a hard turn and it gave him room to talk about not taking it.

I often avoid the turns. Ninety percent of the time I choose the easy road, the smooth road. I am not particularly taken with the road less traveled by. (It seems to me that if it’s so poetically appealing, more people would be traveling it.) The danger of choosing the easy road over and over again is that somewhere along the way you begin to buy into your own hype. You begin to think that you’re on the easy road because you’re not capable or equipped or called to a more difficult road – a road of potholes and loose stones and road-kill.

But the truth is you just made a choice, then another choice, until you ended up where you’re at. The end of a long road of choices, littered with big dreams and small dreams. Paved over with passion and poetry and past loves.

If you could look back on my road, it’d be easy to see those disregarded exit signs, those plans I made for the life I’d be living if I hadn’t steered clear of the curves. Along the way you’d see the skid-marks and the litter and the laundry, all the baggage I’ve thrown out the windows over the years. But what you’d really be seeing is the road between fear and faith. It’s the junky, bumpy journey that happens between the dreaming and the doing.

Honestly? Yes, I would like to go back and smooth a few things over. If that’s not true for you, then you are the only perfect person I know. But I wouldn’t ever give up the journey, even the parts of it that circle back on itself.

I’m not looking to suddenly turn around and say I’m proud of not finishing things, of being unraveled. But I am proud of being a dreamer. Of being a thinker and a wonderer and sometimes a wanderer. I’m proud of myself for not giving up on me.

So here’s to the ones who don’t give up. To the dreamers and the doers. Here’s to you and me, stuffed in bags beside borrowed couches, waiting for another row to be added, another strand to be woven. We’re unfinished, not quite raveled, but I think I’m okay with that.


(This makes the most sense when you've already read Part 1 - be sure to check that out if you haven't yet!)

Sincerely.

I want to tell you that I think you are wonderful. I want to tell you that I am who I am today in unspoken ways – ways I don’t even know about yet – because of you in and around and throughout my life. I want to tell you that I feel welcome in this world and relevant in this world because of you. I want to tell you that I would have written this out by hand because that’s so nice and ‘personal’ but I had so many things to write, I couldn’t have been fast enough. I want you to know that I don’t like you. I love you. I want to tell you that that is so much more important and I can’t believe I forgot to put it first.

I want to tell you that I think people who make you feel un-liked are silly people with scrunched up brains and they should all have to sit in time-out in the middle of a small pool. And I will go out and tell them to think about what they’ve done and why they have to sit with their pants all wet and how I don’t care. And I will tell them they were wrong to not be careful with their words and their attitudes. And I will tell them that they should say they are sorry to you.

I should also say ‘I’m sorry’ to you. Because you came to me for a hug and it is a lot easier for me to do that with only my arms than it is with my spirit and my words. I’m sorry for that. Right after you left I thought about why I didn’t have the right words. Why I couldn’t seem to say the right thing. About the words I didn’t seem able to speak.

It is hard for me to see you hurting, which is a sad, silly, selfish excuse for not speaking from my heart. I know you are just a person like I am just a person, but you are also more than that to me. You are part of my story.

That is mostly what I wanted to say.

I am sad for you and hurt for you. I wanted to say that I will carry what I can for you and I would carry more if I could. And I will give you a hug everyday if it will make you feel better. Even on days when I feel like a slob and don’t want anyone to touch me. I will hug you even on those days.