Into Silence

DUSK IN THE FOREST by Roberto Nieto

When I was a girl I went to an overnight camp in northern Michigan. Year after year I went, until I was too old to go back. I considered applying to be a counselor, but never did, and now the camp has shifted locations and doesn't look at all like it used to when I was younger.

But back then, it was the best thing that ever happened to me. It taught me reinvention and self-discovery. Camp brought me experiences that were beyond any I would have imagined for myself -- love, heartbreak, travel, adventure, laughter, leadership, silliness, restfulness -- camp helped me become more than I was.

I remember one night standing a ways outside of my cabin. I was one of the older campers by this time, and we had a smaller cabin with more freedom and privileges than others. It was late at night, past the final bell, and the cabins had gone dark. They were spread out across a large wooded area, so far I couldn't even see them all. But on those nights when the air was clear, you could hear everything. And those were the nights I would sing.

"Amazing grace… how sweet the sound…." 

I stood on a small bridge, maybe three large steps across, and sang into the night. It wasn't always the same song.

"Scarlet ribbons… scarlet ribbons… for her hair…" 

But I always sang. And looking back I don't know why I was never nervous or anxious. We were a fairly large camp, maybe a hundred heads laid down those nights. But when I sang it was just me, on a bridge over a stream, singing to the night.

I miss that girl. That girl I was on those early evening nights. Those camp years blur together; I don't even remember how old she was, much less how she managed those moments. How she always found a song, always sang into the silence.

One of my 31 things this year is to spend a whole day in silence. To be honest, I haven't given that one much thought since I first put it on my list. Even now, I'm surprised to be writing about it. But I think that the girl might have added that one to the list. One day for us to be together on a bridge over a stream, listening to the wind while the lights go out.

Life will always have an audience. Music and ministry have taught me that. But the moments that change us, that carry us from one shore to the next, are the times when we speak into the silence first. Standing on a stage, in an airport, at a chalkboard, under a spotlight, in the beat of silence--that is where the discovery happens, where we reinvent ourselves.

What memories from your childhood do you carry with you? What experiences helped you become who you are today? 

Leave a comment below - I read every one!  You can let me know that you're reading by clicking on the link to the left that says "Join this site" or by entering your email.

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.

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.

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.

So It Begins

In my book, fall isn’t officially over until Thanksgiving. This means that the winter season can not officially begin until the leftovers are finished. Because I might love fall, but I pretty much hate winter.

The only thing I don’t hate about winter is Christmas. It is totally cliché, but I love Christmas. I love lights and garland and Christmas trees. And I especially love early evenings spent reading by a fireplace or watching one more holiday movie. (As always, I suggest: Elf.)

Christmas is one of the few protected holidays in my family. We don’t go anywhere. We make no plans. We simply get up, stay home, and practice being a family. I know that as my brother and I get older, we will eventually have families of our own and may want to start new traditions. But that only serves to make these remaining Christmas Days all the more special.

This year, Christmas falls on a Sunday. Now for you, that might not make you shake in your boots. In fact, you might think that sounds awfully nice, kind of fuzzy and warm, to celebrate Christmas Day on the traditional day of weekly worship. I would wager that you probably didn’t have a small panic attack when you looked at the calendar and in fact, it’s not unlikely you didn’t even know Christmas was on a Sunday until I just wrote it here.

Well not me.

I knew since last Christmas that this year’s Christmas was on a Sunday because I work at a church and Sundays are kind of our thing. I love the church at Christmas time. It feels warm and friendly; Christmas is the time when I’m reminded that the church still has hope, still has a chance to reach people, to help people, to be a good and tolerant place. But it’s also where I have an office during a crazy busy season.

Earlier in November when work was a relatively normal state of busy, I started to wonder if maybe I exaggerate the work load of the weeks leading up to Christmas. I mean, shouldn’t it really be one of the easiest seasons at a church? We basically do the same things as last year and the year before that. Jesus was born, away in a manger, while shepherds harked to herald angels on the very first noel. Joy to the world!

And I have another tradition each Christmas season – believing that this year won’t be so crazy. Each year I enter the season thinking that this is when I’ll get everything right. I won’t work long hours, won’t commit myself in too many places, won’t wait to do Christmas shopping until the week of Christmas. This year will be my year.

Basically that means my tradition is to lie to myself. But please don’t burst my Christmas bubble. I need some denial to get through the season.

So if we see each other, maybe we should just talk about blinking lights and frosted cookies. Maybe you shouldn’t mention that I have two concerts in as many weeks and don’t know the music to either. Or that my brother is moving away and this might be the last regular family Christmas we have. Or that our office is barely managing a schedule change for the New Year and I’m feeling pulled in so many directions I might actually fall apart. Or that I don’t know how I’ll afford any Christmas presents this year.

And when Christmas Sunday finally does arrive, maybe you could let me lean on you just a little bit. Maybe you could remind me that Jesus didn’t enter the world so that we could run faster through the check out lines or become trapped in traditions or exhaust ourselves for the bigger and the better.

Maybe on Christmas Sunday you could remind me that Jesus was about peace and love and rest. And if you feel like reminding me of any of those things a little early, that’d be okay too.

And who knows – maybe this really will be the year.

Do you find yourself overwhelmed during the Christmas season? Or is it a season of rest and renewal? How do you make time for family and traditions during Christmas?

Music.

All the songs quoted here are from Page CXVI, "Hymns - IV". I strongly encourage you to visit their site here to stream these songs live. If you do it now, you can even listen as you read!

\\ The air feels thin \ Hard to breathe \ Fill our lungs Lord, fill our lungs \ On darker days \ We lift our eyes \ We find a trace, we find a trace \\ Bursting through the sky with glory \ A savior comes to save the saints \ Redemptive eyes, we see your mercy \ You made the choice, you took our place \\ I’m coming home \ I’m coming home \ To a place, to a place \ Of love and mercy, truth and glory \ I’m home, I’m home \\ I’ve got a home in glory land \ Outshines the sun \ Outshines the sun \\ ("Song of the Saints", track 4)

This weekend has been a reminder that I’ve been missing something in my life. Music. On one hand, my every day is filled with nothing but the business of music. But just like the business of worship is not worship, the business of music is not music.

On Saturday, at a children’s festival, I saw anew the joy of experiencing music with one’s whole body. An amazing reminder that through music we praise a loving, living God, who revels in our dancing and loud clashing cymbals and full expression of the Creator-placed love within us.

Saturday night I went to support a friend’s band and was filled to overflowing with the peace of music, the way in which music can fill you with a feeling of contentedness. I was in exactly the right place, in need of nothing outside the music. His is an eclectic sound – a melting together of rhythms and melodies that speak into the night.

Music draws us together. It calls to a deep, ancient part of us that seeks connection and understanding. A part of us that acknowledges our lives continue only in relationship with those rhythms – internal, external and eternal.

\\ I will sing to you this song of thanks \ For giving me abundant grace \ You broke the stones around my heart \ In you I’ve been redeemed \\ Amazing grace how sweet the sound \ That saved a wretch like me \ I once was lost but now I am found \ Was blind but now I see \\ ("Amazing Grace", track 1)

In my world, I have a tendency to ask how music can serve others. So much so that it can become the only way I look at music – supply and demand. And in my experience, that is exactly the point at which music ceases to be. Music is never about supply and demand. We don’t sing along with our favorite song because it’s demanded of us. Most any musician would say that if they made music on a supply and demand schedule alone, they’d probably never make music.

But indeed music is my job, or at least a big part of my job. As such I get lots of emails and samples of new music to preview or download. Sometime earlier this year I received a sample of some new tracks by a band called Page CXVI and have become enamored by their collections. (Even as I type, I have my headphones on and find myself pausing every few minutes to close my eyes and rest in the sound.)

Maybe that is the center of what divides music from the business of music – rest.

\\ God is my shepherd \ I won’t be wanting, I won’t be wanting \ He makes me rest in fields of green \ With quiet streams \\ Even though I walk through \ Through the valley of death and dying \ I will not fear, ‘cause you are with me \ You’re always with me \\ Your shepherd staff comforts me \ In all my fears and the presence of enemies \ And surely goodness will follow me \ In the house of God forever \\ ("House of God Forever", track 6)

I have been reading and seeking a deeper meaning of rest. Of sacred, spiritual rest. Only very recently have I been rediscovering the power of music as mediator; its power to bring about this sacred rest.

I’ve been told that when people who self-mutilate are asked why they cut they respond that cutting makes sense of the pain. It gives the pain a center, a tangible location. And don’t we do this in less drastic ways all the time? Lash out at our friends, our children, our parents, our colleagues – ourselves. We find a center for the pain; a point to focus pain that otherwise confuses us and spins away.

\\ Don’t lose your heart \ To doubts and fears \ Take in his word \ And rest in his grace \\ He laid out a path for me \ That I may see \\ I sing because I’m happy \ I sing because I’m free \ For his eye is on the sparrow \ And I know he watches me \ Ah… \\ ("His Eye Is On the Sparrow", track 2)

The storm has begun to feel like a familiar place. In some ways, I suppose that’s just how it is sometimes. Certain times of our lives are stormy times. But there is a difference between the storms that surround us and the storms that are self-inflicted.

I spend hours upon hours in an attempt to control the chaos around me and maybe more to control the chaos within me. But music is my safety net. It offers me peace, a lullaby in the storm. It redeems me.

\\ I’m so glad I’ve learned to trust thee \ Precious Jesus, savior, friend \ And I know that thou art with me \ Wilt be with me ’til the end \\ Jesus, Jesus how I trust him \ How I’ve proved him o’er and o’er \  Jesus, Jesus, precious Jesus \ Oh for grace to trust him more \\ Jesus, Jesus \ How I trust you \\ ("Tis So Sweet to Trust In Jesus", track 7)

I truly believe that music can heal us. Music speaks to our spirits, opens our hearts and purges our pain, nurtures our joy. In our creating, appreciating and resting in music we mirror a Great Comforter who creates, appreciates and rests.

In a complex, dissonant, sometimes cruel world, I am seeking just such simplicity. Heart to hand, breath to lips, fingers to dancing.

Tis a gift.

\\ When I feel lost and clouds arise \ I long for a home \ As hope within me dies \\ Jesus is my portion \ He sets me free \\ I sing because I’m happy \ I sing because I’m free \ For his eye is on the sparrow \ And I know he watches me \\ ("His Eye Is On the Sparrow", track 2)

Mud.

I vaguely remember being on a community soccer team when I was in elementary school. And every practice or game was a reminder that I am not cut out for such things.

I remember playing once after it had just rained; it was miserable and wet and muddy. And I hated it. All I wanted was for the game to be over. I honestly felt with all my might that I could actually die in the middle of a stupid soccer field while my miserable, wet parents looked on.

In an unusually athletic(ish) maneuver, I tried to kick the ball away from an approaching player – and failed – landing instead on my wet and muddy rear end, while the game went on without me. I remember sitting there, thinking:  This. This is what my life is at this moment. I think I hate this. Why am I DOING this?

Well, mud; I’m back.

Half a year and many moons ago, I wrote what I foolishly thought could be a final chapter on weight loss. And for such a significant part of the year, I felt a new-found sense of control over food. But if that was a peak, then the rest of it has been a muddy ditch. And once again I repeat:  This. This is what my life is at this moment. I think I hate this. Why am I DOING this?

In the game of weight loss and new-life living, I can't really pinpoint any one moment of failure. I can't even tell you when I peaked because, not knowing I was about to slip, I didn't think to notice. All I know is that somehow I lost my footing and slid down to here. Again.

In an attempt to grab some traction, I recently quit my second job. It was a logical, intellectual decision about time and Sabbath and living a sacred lifestyle, but in those silent moments that I've created, I don't know what to do with myself. So I end up watching episodes of CSI or Bones or Ugly Betty. I sleep a lot or build villages with the help of computer-generated pirates. (None of which is very sacred.)

Truth? What I want is a brand-new me: a brand new start and a brand new life. I don’t want to figure out how to live this new life; I want to have lived a different life. Before writing this, I read someone else’s blog that said something like:  People sell the idea of going from misery to happiness in three simple steps. But really, it takes more like a million steps.

I guess the part they don’t want to tell you is how many of those steps are going backward.

Life is a lot more like ‘Chutes and Ladders’ than a three-step self-help book anyway. You exhaust yourself trying to climb up to yet another vantage point, trying to stay in control despite the unknown spin that may or may not move you on to the finish line. And then, just when you’re so close, you slip and go all the way back down to some stupid square you already passed by three times.

My brain gets it. It gets that my life is not so bad. It gets that what I choose to do or not do with my time is ultimately up to me. It gets the logical reality of cause and effect, decision and consequence. But sometimes I feel more like I’m back to playing a game I never wanted to play. And I want some assurances that if I do climb back up, there won't be some surprising fall again.

But, sigh, there are no assurances.

There is just the next roll or spin; the moment after you fall on your ass in the rain. Not the moment when the world closes in and not even the moment when you slap at the helping hand of your friend or coach or teammate. It’s not the moment when you lose your breath; it’s the moment when you find it. When you put your hand on the ground and push up into the rain. Into the miserable reality that in fact the game isn’t over yet. And maybe you aren’t the best player, but you can sure do damn better than sitting in the mud.

Have you ever fallen and given serious thought to just staying down?

Spoken word

Note: As a result from the combination of watching too much "Brave New World" (slam poetry) and working to break through this writer's block.... my most recent attempt at a new post very quickly gained rhythm and rhyme. It is somewhat without the same meaning when it is written and not spoken, but I'm still posting it as proof that I have in fact been trying to write.

Inside me is the small and tiny truth that speaks out to why I live like this.

Because I feel like this.

Because maybe I think I deserve this.

A space so cluttered with garbage and trash and dirt that it makes my head spin

and physically forces me out before I’m ever really in.

That small and tiny voice has become my daily enemy and I’m fighting.

Fighting to keep my sanity and my spirituality.

Today I am going to begin to listen to that voice more carefully

and recognize its cry for help.

The crying out to help myself

out from under this mess where I’ve stored myself.

I will remember to listen to me,

to be a friend to me,

to be the life I was created to be.

I will see God’s child in me and not God’s enemy.

I will clean and wipe and sanitize and take time out from other, lesser things.

Things I do to earn my place but have become just time I waste.

I will write and dream and think out loud,

unashamed of what comes out

because who I am is good enough.

Who I am is strong enough and smart enough.

And who I am is made of tougher stuff.

Who I am will listen to me

and be that friend to me.

That small and tiny place will be erased

and I will rise up,

rise above and love the me in me.

I will learn again to know the truth and see

that I am not God’s enemy.

I will forgive and see that what I have, I am,

God’s child in me.

I will embrace and love and see that who I am, whose I have come to be:

God’s child in me and not God’s enemy.

SWF Seeking Self

Has it really been TWO MONTHS since I wrote an entry? ...I am shamed. It'd be appropriate to say life's been crazy and all that, but it's not really an honest excuse. I just haven't been taking much time out for things like self-expression and introspection. For that I actually am ashamed. And the toil it's taken on my life and my body and my surroundings is bad, bad, bad.

I read an article recently that talked about speaking self-affirmations everyday and have decided I might take it up: "I am responsible. I deserve a good life." It was surprisingly difficult to come up with the shortest line(s) that would encompass the most. Really I was thinking about the mess in my house and was trying to come up with a positive, affirming way of saying: "Stop being an irresponsible pig." That is definitely not affirming. Anyway, we'll see how it works out.

What I am NOT feeling these days is empowered. I seem unable to accomplish things or maybe just unable to acknowledge the few things I do accomplish. In conversations, I've done some complaining of post-holiday blues, which is probably true. Although, I doubt if it's the only thing that's going on. It mostly goes back to the lack of spending time with me.

One of my current favorite movies is Sex and the City, which will always have a special corner of my heart because of the amazing times I've spent with girlfriends watching episode after episode. Towards the end of the movie [spoiler alert!] Samantha breaks up with Smith and gives as a reason the thing that "you're never supposed to say." She's been in a great relationship with him for a number of years, but she's been in a relationship with HER for much longer and THAT is the one that needs work.

I guess that's how I feel right now -- that I'm neglecting myself in a pursuit for something "else" or worse, for nothing at all. If I weren't kind of stuck being me, I would definitely break up with me.

This isn't the tone that I usually choose for this blog, but I figured putting down what's going on right now is some small piece of an explanation for the gap in entries. Maybe I'll buckle down and write something with purpose soon. Stay tuned!

prayer.

One of my favorite things during the contemporary worship at my church is the prayer time. It’s the communal aspect of sharing prayer requests—the painful and the praise-filled, the simple and the profound. I find my perspective is widened when I hear what others are going through in their lives. It reminds me of the grace of God in our lives as individuals but in that special time of worship, I glimpse what God is doing in our one united life as a church.

Prayer in a personal sense and in my everyday life has always been a difficult thing for me. I find the most meaning in personal prayer when I speak out loud. I am not an on-my-knees kind of pray–er, nor do my prayers ever have much structure. Those rare nights when I do take the time to pray, as I 'lay me down to sleep' I struggle with feeling foolish. Foolish in the things I say which at times seem without depth or honest substance. In my head and in my heart, I know that all things should be taken to God in prayer, but in my gut I often feel petty, selfish, self-righteous, hypocritical and superficial.

Those times I ‘pray the Lord my soul to keep’—I’m not thinking about peace or the environment or wasted resources or consumerism or Tibet or women’s rights or gay & lesbian rights or tolerance or discernment for the church. I care deeply about all these things and more, but I don’t find myself bringing any of these things to my conversation with God. Instead I am plagued by prayer requests, pleas really, of a much lower variety. Help me stop eating fast food at midnight. Help me make music again—my music. Help me start exercising. Help me not feel guilty so often. Lead me not into temptation. Deliver me from evil. Help me love myself.

Prayer is a funny thing. We have unison prayers, prayers of confession, pastoral prayers, prayers for peace, the Lord’s Prayer, prayers of the people, prayer responses, a National Day of Prayer. In January, my church congregation and several others shared in an ecumenical prayer celebration to recognize a week of prayer for Christian unity. We sat on cold pew benches in Saint Brigid of Kildare Catholic Church and sang hymns and songs meant to unite us in spirit and purpose. Different denominations were represented throughout the service in the welcome, the confession, unison readings, scripture; all the elements of the service were shared. And, of course, we prayed. The celebration was titled: Pray Without Ceasing.

In her message, the pastor spoke of the Holy Spirit as a river running underground. Although pools may form on the surface, the river is constant. It is in motion below us and we do not need to see it or touch it or hear it for the water to flow. Like that river, the Holy Spirit is below us and above us and around us. And we do not need to see it or touch it or hear it for it to carry our prayers in its current.

In truth, God doesn’t require a structured, formulated prayer in order to hear my needs and know what is in my heart. God knows my pain and distress about peace and the environment and all human rights and about the church. I am loved and heard and cared about. I am riding the river and sometimes I see its presence in pools of assurance and springs of grace. But even when I feel dried up or barren or hopeless, the river rages on under me and above me and all around me.

“ Always be joyful. Never stop praying.
Be thankful in all circumstances, for this is God’s will
for you to belong to Christ Jesus.
Do not stifle the Holy Spirit.
Do not scoff at prophecies,
but do test everything that is said.
Hold on to what is good.
Stay away from every kind of evil.
May the God of peace make you holy in every way,
and may your whole spirit and soul and body
be kept blameless until our Lord Jesus Christ comes again.
God will make this happen, for he who calls you is faithful. ”
—from 1 Thessalonians 5:16-24 (New Living Translation)

Best Laid Plans

Sometimes it feels like everything around me is about schedules.

At the coffee shop, it's about scheduling shifts over the week: Who needs this day off? Who can only work in the morning? Who can work but is probably going to be hungover?

At the church, it's about scheduling events over the course of a year: When will new members join? Which choir is singing on each Sunday? When is it NOT a three-day weekend, to schedule the children's groups?

If it's not about actual Sunday morning worship, it's all the special events that happen. Soon it becomes less about 'schedules' and more about 'conflicts.' Then you're really in trouble. Don't schedule one choir because the other choir is available. Don't put that special event at the start of deer season. Aren't most kids gone at camp... do you really want that activity scheduled? Or I like this best: let's schedule a meeting to talk about these schedules. (Yeah; I have so much free time to do that.)

I just went through most of last year's files and pulled a year-long music schedule, three or four different choir schedules, my own personal schedule, the proposed school-year schedule, events that conflicted during last year's schedules..... Oy. All to come up with more schedules.

Don't get me wrong, I don't think there's anything wrong with having an organized schedule. In fact, one of my favorite things to do is to sit down with my day-planner and look at an upcoming week. It sits open in front of me and I can fill in little appointments, draw arrows during my coffee shop shifts, write down little to-do notes on the appropriate days. There is a sense of excitement as I take in everything that I hope to accomplish in the coming days. (Also, my brain is so full of senseless information that there is no way I would keep anything straight without my not-so-little black book.)

But.

What about those time-slots with no appointments, no arrows, no shifts? This is where I have my problem. I have become so accustomed to filling my days with 'business' or indeed 'busy-ness' that I feel guilty about unscheduled time.

Unwashed laundry, dirty dishes, and an empty refrigerator is the practical result of my need to fill my days. I'm nit-wit enough to become caught up in the To-dos of each day that my internal pendulum swings too far and I don't do anything that's NOT in my to-dos. I mean really? Should I really have to write down 'wash your dishes'?

And in my faith-life... oh boy. I schedule church. I schedule bible-study. I schedule choir practice. I work at a church, so I even have scheduled meetings in scheduled rooms with scheduled prayer. It's not like it's forced on me, it's just right there. I know it's coming. I'm ready, I'm prepared, I've drawn my arrow and reserved that time.

Now, scheduling time for faith, meditation, fasting, study, etc., I don't think that's bad. In fact, most leaders in my life have pointed out the importance of setting aside time for those things. When we do that, we are making a choice to hold our faith and spiritual life to a high importance. But in my life, it is sometimes the opposite. I can get so caught up in doing my 'job', that all of my scheduled 'faith' time is about just that - a job.

Our yearly 'gathering of the schedules' and the related upcoming meetings will this year serve another purpose for me. As I look forward and begin to plan for the months ahead, I will embrace those 'unscheduled' blocks of time. When I see an hour without an arrow, I will not seek out a new appointment. Instead, I will think of what amazing and spontaneous things might happen when that hour is at hand. Perhaps I will feel like a walk at the nature center, maybe I'll go to this great hill I know and fly a kite, or I could open a book I haven't 'had time' to read.

Life is full of opportunities, I'm learning. It just takes a little planning ... or perhaps a little un-planning.