Everybody knows you can't fool Nancy Drew! And that I am the modern personification of this girl detective! After all, Wikipedia describes her this way:
Nancy has often been described as a supergirl: She is "as immaculate and self-possessed as a Miss America on tour. She is as cool as a Mata Hari and as sweet as Betty Crocker." Nancy is wealthy, attractive, and amazingly talented. At sixteen she 'had studied psychology in school and was familiar with the power of suggestion and association.' Nancy was a fine painter, spoke French, and had frequently run motor boats. She was a skilled driver who at sixteen 'flashed into the garage with a skill born of long practice.' The prodigy was a sure shot, an excellent swimmer, skillful oarsman, expert seamstress, gourmet cook, and a fine bridge player. Nancy brilliantly played tennis and golf, and rode like a cowboy. Nancy danced like Ginger Rogers and could administer first aid like the Mayo brothers.
What?? Quit laughing. . .
Moving on. . .when we came home on Friday night we noticed that the previously non-kissing Dutch kids were kissing again. . .and our prime suspect still wasn't home. That's when my fine "powers of suggestion and association" along with the "study of psychology in my schooling" kicked in.
Yeah, it did. Quit arguing with me. . .
Reasoning that the "perp" always returns to the scene of the "crime" we expanded our circle of suspects. Ali's analysis of the situation deduced that there was a particular someone who had the means, motive and opportunity because of the recent cleaning of a garage that belonged to someone who might have enjoyed kissing Dutch statues. Combining that with other virtual visits to the "crime scene" and we had reason to question the "suspects."
We virtually interrogated the "suspects" and it wasn't long before they cracked under the Nancy Drew-like rationale.
Yeah. . .they did. Quit denying it. . .
Now, everybody knows that despite the trouble and presumed expense to which she goes to solve mysteries, Nancy never accepted monetary compensation. Of course we wouldn't either. But after the kissing Dutch kids disappeared to wherever it is that kitschy concrete statues go, this appeared it their place.
The very cutest kind of kitsch!
Yeah, it is. . .quit arguing with me. . .
To the "perps" – thanks for the laughs; for the four days of entertainment; for the unexpectedness of the kindness; and for the cute little gazing ball! You guys rock! =)
I'm beginning to believe that we have the dumbest squirrels on the block in our back yard.
This is his second one in two weeks. I'm starting to feel like the squirrel coroner. And I'm starting to think of Oliver as a serial killer.
Last Saturday morning, very early, I peeked out the back window and saw Oliver playing with something. I had a gut feeling it wasn't something good so I walked out into the back yard. It was a squirrel. The body was missing the head and, worse, he was pulling organs out of the hole where the head was supposed to be. Gross.
And, no Oly, – I don't want a kiss.
I didn't know what to do with the body, so I looked both ways before chucking it over the fence into the neighbor's yard – a decision I immediately regretted. The neighbor has a coon dog named Gracie, but since she's about 74 years old I knew the neighbor would figure out that she hadn't actually caught and killed that squirrel all by herself.
So, last night I was in something of a body disposal quandary. I couldn't risk another fence maneuver and the city trash pickup is a week away – and it's 95 in Ohio. I didn't have a lot of time to think the matter over. Ali had a softball game and I needed to pack her a sandwich and meet her at the ball field so she could eat. So I came up with a quick plan.
I put the squirrel corpse in a plastic grocery bag with the intention of taking it out along a country road and disposing of it there.
I made Ali a sandwich, put the lunch bag and the body bag in the car and put the dogs in their crates. Everything was going according to plan. As I headed out towards River Road I had the windows down in the car. The wind was rustling the bags and that kind of freaked me out. I knew the squirrel was dead but I couldn't help but think he was trying to get out.
I drove out along the river and saw a tall grassy spot that would make a nice final resting place. In a hurry to get it over with and get that thing out of my car I grabbed the bag and started to dump the body. What fell out was a peanut butter sandwich. . . I stared at it, kind of dumbfounded for a second. What the hell?? I had grabbed the wrong bag out of the backseat.
Then a mental image came to me that made me laugh like a crazy woman, standing along side a country road all alone – Ali opening up her bag expecting a peanut butter sandwich and finding Oliver's latest treasure.
I must admit that it crossed my mind just for the fun of watching her reaction.
My phone rang as Ali was pulling out of the driveway. I looked at the caller ID screen and answered with, "Yes dear?"
"Did you put something in our front yard??"
"Nooo. . ." I answered. "What are you talking about?"
She was laughing so hard I had trouble understanding her. "Go LOOK!!"
This is what I found.
We have no idea who thought this up. . . we do know a few suspicious characters however! I'm putting on my Nancy Drew, Girl Detective hat and doing some sleuthing though!
To whomever is responsible – I'm thinking a version of this is coming your way!
We are offering a reward for clues to the culprit. And since Nancy Drew always solves the mystery you might as well confess now. . .
We've lived in our house for 14 months now. When people come to visit for the first time we tell them our address and then say, "But we don't have a house number. Yet."
The yet has been hanging there for a good long while now.
I bought those classic brass-looking numbers with every good intention of putting them up. Never did. They just seemed so boring. . .
Then, one day, we came up with the idea for this:
We searched flea markets and junk shops for old license plates that contained the right numbers and letters. Cutting them out was a bit of a task but finally we found heavy duty tin snips that would do the job. Yesterday morning I finally finished the cutting and Ali suggested that we use a board off the fence in the backyard that the dogs had pulled off to nail the pieces to.
She's a genius I tell ya!
While I was busy snipping tin, sawing boards and nailing numbers, Ali busied herself with her latest project.
Yes, it's another new (huge) flowerbed! I don't know why I bothered with the new house numbers. . .all we have to do is tell people that it's the only house on Hurd Avenue that has no grass!
A lot of folks we know are in Columbus today. It's Pride Day.
I know that what I'm about to write is anathema to much of the gay community, but it's my blog and I get to write what I want. Consider yourself warned.
I've been going to Pride for more than 20 years. That many years ago the world was a different place for gay and lesbian people. We were a mostly silent community by necessity. We could lose our housing, jobs, families and even our lives by being too "out." It was the era before Ellen DeGeneres had a talk show, before Queer Eye for the Straight Guy, before we knew things like Iron Chef Cat Cora was carrying her partner's embryo and vice-versa, and before we could legally marry in five states. Going to Pride back then meant stepping out of the shadows and amassing simple numbers for the world to see.
I don't really know what Pride means for the gay community anymore.
If I were in charge of today's Pride Parade it might look something like this: On the lead float are two women getting their kids ready for school - packing lunches, tying shoes, singing songs and wishing them a good day. There would be hugging and laughing.
The second float would feature two men with their baby in a stroller, walking their dog. Maybe they are on their way to get ice cream cones for the family.
The third float might be full of people doing their taxes, cleaning up the house, working in the yard and taking the recyclables to the curb.
Throw in a marching band, some horses and kids tossing candy to the crowds.
Sounds pretty mainstream, huh?
That's the kind of gay community I choose to celebrate. And, I'm disheartened that the only parts of my community that will be shown on TV tonight are the 6'8" mostly naked men wearing rainbow feathered boas and knee-high platform boots waving a rainbow flag.
It only feeds the ugly stereotypes and fuels the kinds of hatred that still exist against me and my family. We just don't need to reinforce any more ignorance in the world.
So, we are at home celebrating Pride. We celebrated by working in the garden, mowing the lawn, buying groceries and eating pizza at home.
You'll have to excuse me now. We're going walk ourselves and the dogs down to Dairy Queen!
art, object or design considered to be in poor taste because of excessive garishness or sentimentality; sometimes appreciated in an ironic way
I think we might need an intervention.
Last night Ali announced that she thinks we need to make new flower beds on the other side of the sidewalk leading up to the house. I secretly think she's trying to get rid of all the grass so she doesn't have to mow anymore, but hey – that's OK with me. As long as she weeds. . .
The problem lies in the amount of kitsch we're slowing adding. We have a tricycle, an old kids chair, buckets, oil cans, copper pots, enameled pots and ceramic pots. Oh yeah, how can I forget the old, peeling ladder?
Last week I made this.
Yeah. It's made out of buttons. Got a problem with that?
I glued them over a wooden birdhouse I got on the cheap at Hobby Lobby. It requires a lot more patience than you might think to find the right amount, size and variety of colors to cover the whole thing. Then I grouted it. Messy, but entirely enjoyable!
I need a favor though. Will you promise to do something if you drive by one sunny afternoon and see anything like this?
My most sincere apologies to anyone who has a concrete goose on their porch and enjoys dressing it for each season and holiday. When it comes to kitsch - to each his own! =) Obviously I have NO ROOM to judge!
We were sitting in the dirt of our newly roto-tilled flower bed, butts black with the soft soil. Sifting through the earth and removing the clumps of grass was a chore but it had to be done so that our new roses would have as little competition for resources as possible.
The sound of birds and squirrels chattering with each other was in competition with kids down the street riding their bikes and playing with chalk on the sidewalk.
"I never knew I liked this so much," Ali said. "It makes me feel so peaceful. It's like I'm right where I'm supposed to be."
We went back to silently sifting. Our feet, hands and sit-upons were firmly set in the medium from which we had come and the state to which we will eventually return. Sitting there on that late spring afternoon we were touching the stuff from which our bones are made. We were handling the decomposition of other life that is vital to the success of life to come after.
It was the the junction where human past meets human future.
Yesterday seemed to me to be a good day to transform my $7 black plastic bird from Walmart into our very own Bluebird of Happiness. This little piece of art is now charged with guarding our flower gardens and making everyone who passes by on the sidewalk smile.
The mythology of the Bluebird of Happiness has deep roots that go back thousands of years. Indigenous cultures across the globe hold similar myths and beliefs about the bluebird. It is a widely accepted symbol of cheerfulness, happiness, prosperity, hearth and home, good health, new births and the renewal of life.
We had an incredibly good and satisfying weekend. I had this post all ready to go with pictures of the sweetness that composed our days.
Then the bitter stopped by.
My first inclination was to scrap what I already had written here. But then I remembered that life is nothing more than a mix of delicious, horrible, charming, frightful, bitter, sweet and astounding moments.
Then I also remembered that the unpleasant and frightening moments in our lives don't get the last word.
So here's where we are – I found out this morning that my dad has cancer. And a brain tumor.
We haven't spoken in years. My head and heart are spinning. Yet the essence of who I am continues celebrate the life and love that I have.
That human beings are capable of experiencing both joy and fear simultaneously is nothing short of a miracle to me.
The sweetness that sustains me:
:: We had sleep over for B. on Saturday night. He brought his metal detector and he and Ali tore up the backyard looking for "treasures."
Here is their "treasure" pile!
:: We got awesome haircuts, right in our very own kitchen. It felt like the best kind of family.
:: We joked with the next door neighbor about his landscaping projects. When he put this ugly mushroom sculpture on the curb with a FREE sign on it, we liberated it - just to make him laugh. What do you think? Maybe with a new paint job??
:: A complete stranger gave us this old stump after I mentioned that I wanted one for my garden. It's going to get planted with moss roses. I love it when people you don't know show unexpected kindness.
So here it is. The bitter and the sweet. It's where I am this Monday morning. And where we are most of the time if only we are paying attention.
There's just something so special about working in retail.
A very large lady came in to the shop today. After a few minutes of fumbling through a single folder - that only had two sheets of paper in it - she managed to hand one sheet to me and ask how much 100 color copies would cost.
"Color copies are 40 cents a piece," I replied.
She stared at me with a completely blank look on her face. There was an excruciating pause while I tried to figure out what she was waiting for. Finally she picked up the calculator that was on the counter and slammed it down in front of me.
"HOW MUCH WOULD THAT BE?? I SAID I WANTED 100 COPIES!!!"
Taking a deep breath before speaking while silently counting backwards from 100 I said, "At 40 cents each, that would come to. . . $40."
Long pause. 92. . .91. . .90. . .89. . .88. . .
"Would you like me to make the copies for you?" I asked.
No answer. 87. . .86. . .85. . . Perhaps she hadn't heard me so I quietly asked again. 84. . .83. . .
I looked at the large lady in the nearly pornographic scoop neck top. 82. . .81. . .80. . . To my utter stupefaction she reached down her top, stuck her hand into her bra and pulled out a cellphone. All the while I'm standing there trying not to let my wonder and amazement at this encounter show on my face. My mind was simply racing with thoughts – Why in the hell does she have a purse if she carries her phone in her bra?? What else could possibly down there?? EWWW! You don't really want the answer to that last question!! . . .82. . .81. . .80. . .
She makes a phone call while I'm standing there. Waiting.
Again I ask, "Would you like me to make the copies for you?"
"Can't you see I'm on the phone here??"
79. . .78. . .77. . .76. . .
Finally I make the copies. We settle the bill and she tucks her cellphone back in it's nest. I'm sure she goes about her day without another thought about our little encounter.
I took my coffee out on the front porch this morning to sit and look at our new garden. If you just walk by on the sidewalk you might not notice how much things change in those beds every day.
Since yesterday there are three plants that have their first blooms opening. One is a dainty little variety of perennial geranium with delicate, tiny blue flowers. Two blossoms opened up this morning.
How many things do I miss every day simply because I'm not paying attention?
There are many Buddhist teachings on slowing down and being present for each moment. Christianity has its own proponents, chiefly Brother Lawrence. Born poor, he joined the Army in the 1630's and it was during this time that he began his personal spiritual journey recorded in the bookThe Practice of the Presence of God.
In seeing a barren tree in winter, waiting patiently for the hope of spring's abundance, he began to understand the extravagance of God's grace. He saw himself in the tree, almost dead, but waiting for a time when God would bring wholeness to his life. It was at that moment that it "first flashed in my soul the love of God" that would never leave him.
Sometime later an injury forced his retirement from the army, and after a stint as a footman, he entered the Carmelite monastery in Paris as Brother Lawrence. He was assigned to the monastery kitchen where he developed his rule of spirituality and work.
Brother Lawrence writes, "Men invent means and methods of coming at God's love. They learn rules and set up devices to remind them of that love, and it seems like a world of trouble to bring oneself into the consciousness of God's presence. Yet it might be so simple. Is it not quicker and easier just to do our common business wholly for the love of him? It is not needful that we should have great things to do. . . We can do little things for God; I began to live as if there were no one save God and me in the world." Together, God and Brother Lawrence cooked meals, ran errands and scrubbed pots with an attitude of love.
As I sat on the porch this morning I thought about Brother Lawrence. I thought about how life and creation are so abundant and how important it is to quietly watch and listen for God to make even the tiniest things holy.
Wakefulness is the way to life.
The fool sleeps
As if already dead.
But the master is awake
And lives forever.
The masters watch.
They are clear.
How happy they are!
For they see that wakefulness is life.
How happy they are,
Following the path of the awakened.
With great perseverance
They meditate, seeking
Freedom and happiness.
– Buddhist teachings on being present and open to each moment
My prayer this morning? To open my soul and breathe the air of being present right now.
A small list of some of the things I am thankful for on this Monday morning:
1. That my back hurts so much I'm having trouble moving. It hurts because we spent the weekend creating this:
A small price to pay for such beauty, don't you think? I may be able to walk again in a week or so!
2. That I was able to be part of watching Ali discover something that she didn't know she would love doing so much - getting dirty planting flowers!
3. That my mint plants so graciously offered to flavor my coffee this morning. Just a handful in the brewing basket made the scent and flavor irresistible.
4. That, while sitting on the front porch this morning, I was able to watch a robin find breakfast in our new garden.
5. That a good, good friend brought us a trailer full of mulch - for free.
6. That another good, good friend encouraged us to make such a beautiful garden. And then came over to help edge.
7. That it's raining this morning. I think the garden prefers God's water to city water any old day of the week.
One of my favorite chores this time of year is watering all the flowers that call our front porch home. There are scores of blossoms – all with an insatiable thirst. I don't mind. It gives me an opportunity to enjoy the sunrise and listen to the birds.
This morning I noticed that the flowers in the picture above are following the sun. Almost all of the hundreds of little blossoms had their faces turned west.
How do plants and trees know to grow towards the light? How can something that looks so spindly and fragile bend and twist towards the nourishing rays of the afternoon sun?
All I can figure is that they possess some kind of intuitive wisdom to look up.
Perhaps the flowers on my porch have a lesson for me.
Psalm 121 1 I lift up my eyes to the hills— where does my help come from? 2 My help comes from the LORD, the Maker of heaven and earth.
3 He will not let your foot slip— he who watches over you will not slumber;
4 indeed, he who watches over Israel will neither slumber nor sleep.
5 The LORD watches over you— the LORD is your shade at your right hand;
6 the sun will not harm you by day, nor the moon by night.
7 The LORD will keep you from all harm— he will watch over your life;
8 the LORD will watch over your coming and going both now and forevermore.
Some people bring back salt and pepper shakers as a way to remember their travels. Some folks like refrigerator magnets. For others, no trip is complete without a souvenir t-shirt proclaiming where they went and what they survived while there. Others look at their postcard collections, carefully arranged by dates of travel so they can remember exactly where they were at any given moment in their wanderings.
Objects a traveler brings home for the associations formed with it.
During my 44 years of travel I think my souvenirs are old church hymns. Hum a little bit of In the Garden and I am immediately transported to Mamaw's front porch swing, the sounds of her singing floating through the old screen door while she cleaned up the breakfast dishes.
And He walks with me
And He talks with me
And He tells me I am His own
And the joy we share as we tarry there
None other has ever known
Holy, Holy, Holy was the first hymn I ever fell in love with. It was hymn number 1 in the old, red Baptist Hymnal. When I was old enough to read, but not old enough to understand why the sermon droned on and on I would pull out the hymnal and try to entertain myself. Today when I hear the majestic chords of this grand old hymn I'm a little girl again, bare legs sticking to the wooden pews, trying not to wiggle so as to avoid the glares and pinches of my mother.
Holy, holy, holy! Lord God Almighty!
Early in the morning our song shall rise to Thee;
Holy, holy, holy, merciful and mighty!
God in three Persons, blessed Trinity!
It seems like I spent most of my childhood in church. We were there Sunday morning for Sunday School and then worship. Sunday nights had potluck dinners and more worship. Wednesday nights in our small town were sacrosanct - no school activities were allowed, no homework was to be assigned. It was Church Night. We had GA's (Girls in Action), RA's (Royal Ambassadors) and then Prayer Meeting.
When I think of all this church the hymn that comes to mind first is Just As I Am. I've probably sung this song more than a thousand times. It's an "invitational." In the Baptist tradition, every service is an opportunity for you to come to Jesus and be saved. While the congregation stands and sings the pastor waits at the front of the sanctuary for someone to come.
Just As I Am had become kind of a joke to me until Ash Wednesday of this year. It has about eight verses and sometimes, while waiting for someone to go forward and get saved, I would put my head down and pray for someone just to go. get. saved. – Get. it. over. with. – I. am. hungry. But Ash Wednesday surprised me this year. I was in an Episcopal Church. (Baptists don't celebrate Ash Wednesday. Way too Catholic.) I was feeling spiritually lost and wondering how to find my way back. Quietly the choir started to sing.
Just as I am, though tossed about
with many a conflict, many a doubt,
fightings and fears within, without,
O Lamb of God, I come, I come.
I remembered my way home. I wept. The very nice lady who was sitting next to me, being as welcoming to a stranger as she could possibly be, making sure I could navigate the Episcopal Prayer Book, handed me kleenex and never said a thing.
When I got a bit older my dealings with the church became more complicated and painful. My dad was now a Baptist preacher. I was learning things about myself that I couldn't reconcile with the pictures of God that were being painted for me. More than anything in the world I wanted to please my Dad. God? Well, hopefully there would be time to iron that out later.
Softly and tenderly Jesus is calling,
calling for you and for me;
see, on the portals he's waiting and watching,
watching for you and for me.
Come home, come home;
ye who are weary come home;
earnestly, tenderly, Jesus is calling,
calling, O sinner, come home!
The more I came to understand myself as a lesbian the farther I felt from home. It wasn't that I wanted to go. I just didn't see any other way. Everything I knew about God said I had to go. In a tit-for-tat attitude I declared myself free of the religious straight-jacket I felt was being thrust upon me.
Then one day, years later, I made a friend. He was a gay, recovering Baptist too. We were on a car trip to Chicago and were playing a game only two nerdy, churchy adults would play in the car – trying to stump each other with a church hymnal. One of us would call out the name of a hymn and the other would have to sing it. He had as much baggage with God and the church as I had. I called out Blessed Assurance and of course he knew every word. What Baptist worth his salt doesn't?
Blessed assurance, Jesus is mine!
Oh, what a foretaste of glory divine!
Heir of salvation, purchase of God,
Born of His Spirit, washed in His blood.
This is my story, this is my song,
Praising my Savior all the day long;
This is my story, this is my song,
Praising my Savior all the day long.
I can't speak for him, but I suspect that both of us heard the refrain of that song with new ears that day. We also have a story. We also have a song. Our story of encountering God might be different from most other's stories. It might be painful. It might be difficult to hear, but we have stories too. They are ours and we are loved.
All of these hymns are my souvenirs. They are the yardstick that measure my life journey, the criterion by which I keep myself on course. I'm sure that more will be added to my collection as the years progress.
There is one that means more than all the rest. It's been in my "life hymnal" from the days of barely being tall enough to see over the pew in front of me. I've sung it when I just wanted church to be over. I've sung it when my heart has been broken and I've hummed it under my breath when I've celebrated all the life that I can handle.
I want it sung at my funeral as one last glimpse of the way I desired to live my life.
When peace, like a river, attendeth my way,
When sorrows like sea billows roll;
Whatever my lot, Thou has taught me to say,
It is well, it is well, with my soul.
Though Satan should buffet, though trials should come,
Let this blest assurance control,
That Christ has regarded my helpless estate,
And hath shed His own blood for my soul.
My sin, oh, the bliss of this glorious thought!
My sin, not in part but the whole,
Is nailed to the cross, and I bear it no more,
Praise the Lord, praise the Lord, O my soul!
And Lord, haste the day when my faith shall be sight,
The clouds be rolled back as a scroll;
The trump shall resound, and the Lord shall descend,
Even so, it is well with my soul.
And, let the people of God, even the gay and lesbian ones, say Amen!
1 personal belongings packed in suitcases for traveling; luggage.
• the portable equipment of an army.
• figurative past experiences or long-held ideas regarded as burdens and impediments : the emotional baggage I'm hauling around | the party jettisoned its traditional ideological baggage.
I was Facebook chatting with a friend yesterday and we were talking about relationships. I said something about all the baggage we drag around and force other people to deal with. After a long pause she said, "Can't we call it life experience?? That sounds a lot better than baggage!" I'll concede the point.
Potato. Putahto. We've all got it.
The conversation came to me again when our little family was relaxing on the couch last night. We were watching the movie Defiance and everyone was a little sleepy and quiet. Sammy was upstairs on the bed and Oliver was dozing, completely draped over Ali's lap like a little black and white spotted afghan. When the movie ended Ali slid her arms underneath Oliver and moved to lift him to her shoulder and carry him to his crate for the night.
When she did this he panicked. He snarled and lunged at her face, teeth bared with a wild, sleep crazed look in his eyes.
Panic ensued. There were tears of hurt, surprise and fright. Oliver immediately acted as though he wanted to die of remorse and shame.
It's not the first time he's reacted this way when being awakened from a deep sleep. Sometimes his terrors happen when he's all alone and no one touches him. It's scary. I don't think he knows why he does it. We certainly don't have a clue.
Something that should be peaceful and restorative has become anxiety-ridden and shameful for him.
Oliver has baggage. Apparently he has some disagreeable life experiences that have affected his ability to function when he's sleeping. He didn't come to live with us until he was more than a year old. All we know is that he and his brother Frank were on the streets for quite some time. Where did they sleep? What happened that made him so wary when he's awakened suddenly?
Last week we found out that he has an almost paralyzing fear of fire. When burning some branches that had fallen during a storm, Oliver was so crippled with fright that he was unable to move. His fear was so debilitating that we had to carry him into the house. As soon as we crossed the backdoor threshold he was fine.
Something that is warming, relaxing and mesmerizing to me is a cause for stomach churning, tremor inducing fear for him.
Have you ever tried to climb inside another's skin, just to see what life looks like when looking through their eyes? Haven't you ever wanted, more than anything, to be able to slip into the heart of someone you dearly love to feel what they feel? To find out why their fears are so real and yet their joy can be so boundless?
Perhaps that would be the spiritual practice of holding another in reverence.
Reverence stands in awe of something. Reverence allows me to acknowledge the smallness of my own experiences and then forces me to respect the vastness of all that I cannot know or feel about another. It might help me remember that all the fears, insecurities and failures that have scarred Oliver are no less real than the experiences that have scarred me.
This weekend I started reading Barbara Brown Taylor's new book An Altar in the World: A Geography of Faith. It's a follow up to her incredible book Leaving Church and in it she shares how she began to find life, purpose and God outside the walls of the institutional church. This book had me hooked from the introduction. On the third page she writes that when she was asked to speak at a church in Alabama she struggled with what to say. The wise old priest asked her a single question – and this question has been burning a hole in my soul since I read it.
"Come tell us, what is saving your life right now?"
What is saving my life. . . right now?
My answer has to be that somehow, every single day, I am learning to be just a little bit more alive. Somehow I am learning to forget the rejections that would only lead me back to a time in which I questioned my value as a child of God. I am remembering that permanence is a mirage and that in the beginning God brought order out of chaos. I'm remembering that God still brings creation out of chaos and that God calls it good.
I'm also remembering that Jesus loves me, this I know, for the Bible tells me so, little ones to him belong, they are weak but he is strong. Yes. Jesus loves me.
Those are the things that are saving my life. Right now.
It's been two years this week since Open Door asked me to resign. It's kind of funny, but I just remembered that today. And, rather than feeling like a punch in the stomach, the way it has felt for the last 24 months, today it just felt like a road sign of the edge of life's highway. I saw it. I read it. I kept right on driving.
The evidence of how far down I had gone in the last two years was that it never really occurred to me until today that all the pain that I had been experiencing was plain old, garden variety, run of the mill grief. I was mourning the death of a dream and coping with the loss of so many things – my personal calling, a church full of family and friends and the certainty of the purpose and vision that had driven me. In metaphorical ways I had laid down my life for something, and then, with no warning, it was gone.
I could have, and would have, pointed that out to anyone else. It took me two years to figure it out for me. I went through all the stages, some of them many, many times. That anger one, even now, still raises its ugly head every now and then.
1. Numbness, Denial
2. Yearning, Anger
3. Sadness, Withdrawl
4. Reconstruction, Working Through
5. Acceptance, Hope
Moving towards acceptance and hope is the stage where I'm finally beginning to feel the sun warming my bones again. The anger is beginning to be transformed into laughter. When I got the call that told me that a certain leader in the congregation who was instrumental in my departure is now stripping in a bar with his new boyfriend I laughed out loud. I laughed until it hurt. I laughed. But, I didn't cry. That's moving towards acceptance.
I can't change the past. I can't change him. I can only change me. Changing me is all that matters. I get that now.
Later on in her book Barbara Brown Taylor writes about the spiritual practice of getting lost. For her, every human foible is an opportunity to meet the Divine. In writing about the spiritual fruits of our individual failures she says,
"When we fall ill, lose our jobs, wreck our marriages, or alienate our children, most of us are left alone to pick up the pieces. . .When the safety net has split, when the resources are gone, when the way ahead is not clear, the sudden exposure can be both frightening and revealing. We spend so much of our time protecting ourselves from this exposure that a weird kind of relief can result when we fail. To lie flat on the ground with the breath knocked out of you is a solid resting place. This is as low as you can go. You told yourself you would die if it ever came to this, but here you are. You cannot help yourself and yet you live."
And yet I live.
What is saving my life right now? The laughter that comes with acceptance and the hope that warms me like the sun.
Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning.
