We pulled into the driveway at my brother’s home after an hour-and-a-half-long ride up the thruway. We used to love rides like this.
The New York Thruway is reliable —mostly tree-lined and smooth. It’s winding path synced to a meditative flow that makes a familiar drive still feel mysterious. Now, the ride we used to love feels long. The space and silences between us tangible markers of an uncomfortable distance.
The shrinking sphere of our minivan magnified every problem. Dried coffee in the cup holders, goldfish on the floor, that parking ticket we’ve yet to pay—I wanted out.
It wasn’t one thing. It was everything. Middle-age is a special mix of madness and a couple going through it with children have a special demon to face. We’re taking care of aging parents and teen-aged children, wrestling with the storm of midlife crises and the onset of menopause. We are broken and vulnerable.
I felt the familiar procession of family behind me as we shuffled toward the door. In addition to a tribe of children, we made our way up a trio of steps carrying still warm trays of food and gifts to exchange with my family. It was Christmas Day.
I saw it on his face first.
I don’t know why I looked back. But I did, and that’s when I saw it. He was tired. And so was I. Our seams were showing; our love, a sadly worn Velveteen Rabbit that neither one of us wanted to claim. It was time to take our love off the shelf.
Our love was now old, wise, beautiful and experienced. But our love had struggled with the weight of becoming. This was soul recognition of the deepest magic.
That night I knew the shadows, the depth of the valley and I didn’t run. It was the night that I willed myself to believe for the other side. That night I knew our union would be loved to life. I wanted to see us real.
But it would be hard, and it would hurt.
On the lonely walk toward death, an uncommon faith fired within me–an inner assurance of resurrection. That first love, though blameless, would be crucified. It would be the sacrifice.
I became certain that, as difficult as it was to be in this place, what lay before us would be harder. It would be the hard and holy work of burying the dead.
I didn’t feel well this week. An unexpected cold and a scramble for childcare left me with all but the bare minimum – undone. I’m practicing a little self-care and letting that be alright. In the middle of the week I almost wrote off, there was light – epiphany, illumination, so many reasons to keep moving forward. Everywhere. A moving chapel service and a hymn I’d never heard, a heart to heart conversation with a friend and a touching story about adoption. In spite of the crazy, the light of God was everywhere. Here’s a little of the brilliance that followed me.
Keep your lamps trimmed and burning,
keep your lamps trimmed and burning,
keep your lamps trimmed and burning,
for the time is drawing nigh.
Children, don’t grow weary,
children, don’t grow weary,
children, don’t grow weary,
for the time is drawing nigh.
“For You are my lamp, O LORD; And the LORD illumines my darkness. 2 Samuel 22:29
“May it be a light to you in dark places, when all other lights go out.” ― J.R.R. Tolkien
“Doubt isn’t the opposite of faith; it is an element of faith.” – Paul Tillich
Commit your way to the Lord and put your trust in him : and he will bring it to pass. – Psalm 37:5
Lord give us a good start, and the grace never to give up. – Book of Common Prayer
Part of my intention for the year is to feed my interest in lectio divina, embodied movement and prayer. Taking a class in Ritual performance and critique is part of that exploration. On Thursday I lead my first group offering using the ideas I’ve incorporated since taking the class and those I’ve gleaned from researching the work of Celeste Snowber, a respected dancer and performance artist who writes often on awakening our souls to God through a physical practice.
I felt nervous and stressed about my presentation. Every exploration requires a revealing and putting my heart and thoughts on display in any creative form is what both enlivens and frightens. I doubt. And question. This inner dialectical parrying takes me from questions about my gifts and abilities to worries over calling and career, to family (all thoughts some how, circle back to family) and faith.
On the walk to school I forgot everything I already know. My memory lapses and my faith feels like the blank space where my heart used to be.
I tell anyone who asks – I know within my knower that I’m in the right place. It’s hard to remember a time of such assured synchronicity. Where what I feel is matched so clearly with what I want to do. My longing and love for the church is renewed and my appetite for learning is insatiable. I live in enraptured wonderment. Each new day is a surprise and each day I am reborn. God knows each outcome and has promised me an expected end.
I didn’t remember that when I stopped at the deli for the least expensive and best tasting cup of coffee in the area. I stop there before class after my twice weekly walk. I walk to give myself enough time to work through whatever feels heavy. The stop at the deli is my last chance to collect my thoughts before entering the building.
Thursdays walk was about doubt. This little talk with Jesus was about how I still struggle with believing without seeing, how I still challenge him for evidence of his love – how I laugh before leaning into the truth – that he is faithful.
I’m in good company. God gives plenty of examples in the lives and callings/ ministries of Thomas, Gideon and my good friend Sarah. This doubt thing goes way back.
Would I be stronger in my faith if I, like Abraham, simply gave glory to God by believing, if I didn’t doubt?
I walked into the building happy to come in from the cold that night. Pulling out my identification I noticed her on my left – my personal seminary angel Requithelia Allen. I knew it as a timely God placement, a what I need, when I need it, miracle. I walked toward her and buried myself in her love just like I was supposed to. Fully and completely. I can’t tell you how many times that’s happened this year. She pops up just before tests or presentations, when the combination of full-time motherhood and a full-time seminary workload feels impossible. Or times like this – when I’m simply doubting my ability. She is a gift of grace and powerful encouragement. Her hug helped me remember.
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Here’s what I’m learning.
It is wholly human to wrestle with doubt as we practice our faith – to unearth the sweet fragrance of hope, confidence and truth by remaining curious, continuing to wonder.
Faith is fluid. Doubt and questioning are the foundation of a faith that breathes – a faith alive.
God grants us a faith strong enough to handle doubt.
Our questions are based on what we need to grow our faith…from any given point. From here… to there – ever moving toward greater understanding. I’m learning to embrace doubt as the foundation of a spiritual life. A shaking of the foundations may be just what we need to maintain the sense of longing needed for a fully embodied pursuit of Christ. There is never one cold, static unchanging experience of who He is. He promises an adventure and that is a good news, good God thing.
I can’t wait to see who I’ll become on the other side of this experience but now, I’m in the tough and tangled trenches. And doubt is part of it. It is a challenge to engage. It’s a place of examination and re-discovery, where I re-enter the story to encounter God, again and again.
At the heart of my faith is the mystery – a reverence for questions, a life lived in the thin space between doubt and wonder. Each encounter leads to a greater sense of serenity until the next time – when the soul-stirring unrest begins … doubt, wonder, questions …
Let your handmaiden find grace in your sight … #GiveMeGrace
I purchased a desk from a young man a few weeks ago. He’s moving to pursue a career as a screenwriter in LA. I need room to write and dream. It’s simple – a level surface, a single drawer, thin legs for support. But its space and I love it.
For some time now I’ve craved something I couldn’t name. The desk is that thing. The desk is the fulfillment of a quiet wish for space, for room to think and breathe. Giving a name to that need fills me – it satisfies.
I needed to own my need for space without feeling guilty. My life as a wife and mother is full, my dedication to the call of parenthood, passionate and intentional. But not until I slid a chair under the desk, with my body in a seat, did I know what or how much I’d been missing.
Acknowledging my need has opened space for a ritual around it.
mama (my favorite lady) and me
The desk is my way of carving out a space for my midlife heart to dream. Sitting at my desk before sunrise has become a sweet ritual. I’ve learned to center my thoughts for a day full of meaning. It’s there I drink my first cup of tea and where, I savor my last.
I blessed the table before moving it into my bedroom. Palm down, I ran my right hand across the surface of the dark mahogany stain – all the while, whispering a prayer. One long, slow stroke. One soul breathed prayer. I prayed God would use the desk in my life, that it would be a blessing and inspiration. That I would continue to grow and change. The desk is a promise to humbly surrender to Gods reconstruction of my life. I purpose to give Him room.
What I imagined as a one time prayer has become ritual. The desk itself profoundly significant as a symbol of hope – renewed. I rub my palm over it in gratitude every day. It’s my way of thanking God for the gift of space, for every word read or written …
and for a young man in LA living his dream.
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inspiration from the collection of Geoffrey Holder
We’re on similar journeys he and I. We’ve spread pieces of our individual puzzles across the same piece of wood. It is a shared testimony – of gathering and hunting, seeking and finding. Now, wedges of a mystery are being assembled in another state and me? – I’m opening a new box. I’m starting again. I’m fingering pieces for familiar shapes and mining the box for segments worthy of reclaim. Some, I won’t find. I won’t keep them and that’s okay. What’s left, what’s true – I’ll lay down.
I’m making room.
It’s much like what’s going on over here.
We’re growing. And God is giving us space. He’s adding pieces and people and we’ve got a hope to tend to, a surface to care for.
Sandra Heska King has graciously asked to add a few of her puzzle pieces to the table at Give Me Grace. I remember her as the only woman to wear a dress each day when we spent a few days together at Laity Lodge last year. I do revere the dresses and skirts and Sandra wears them well.
Our pairing feels natural. I hung out at her place before inheriting Deidra’s Sunday Community and saying yes to that has been a gift. To share how these women have made room for me in the blogosphere is another story. (We can talk about that at Winsome Retreat. Are you going?)
Hosting the link-up has kept me accountable and given my writing a home – a community to grow with. When Sandra asked I prayed knowing the answer was yes. I’d only need grace to cover the details and I trust God for that.
So now… the weekend gathering has a single address.
We get to do what we’ve always done – share our lives and faith, bless and pray for each other. We’ll make room for each other by offering space to sit in stillness or to lovingly listen as we each grow – in grace.
We’ll meet here like we always do on Saturday and continue the love through Sunday.
If this is your first link up or if I count you as one of the tribe that holds me close with faithful participation –
Welcome! I’m glad you’re here.
Let your handmaiden find grace in your sight … #GiveMeGrace
