We sat chair to chair, stood shoulder to shoulder crammed into the 2nd floor studio rental that served as our church. Trying to boost teen attendance, we’d organized a Christian version of American Idol – the latest craze in televised singing competitions. A city-wide open call for “youth” cast a wide net. The place was packed.
Her name was Vandie.
I knew her mother, a single mom who’d joined the church at the prompting of a friend. We got together a few nights before the show for a pre-performance coaching session. At 9 years old, Vandie was perhaps, the youngest participant. She’d choreographed a solo dance segment and already impressed the judges at the audition. But I’d never seen her in action…the little one who blew them away.
Vandie walked into the studio with the confidence of a self-assured young woman. Handing over her music selection, she commanded space in the center of the floor. I pressed play. And watched and listened, mesmerized by the beauty and maturity of a little girl on fire. I marveled at the experiences she must have had – to choose such a song. Vandies’ heart belonged to Jesus – every step an anointed offering. Vandie was an artist.
She didn’t need a coach. Vandie was a gifted performer and story-teller. She danced the redemptive hope of a God who carried her. And I could tell….she’d lived the words of this song.
You carry me
You point the way
You steady my feet
You hold my hand
You are the strength of who I am
The world down here may think I’m strong
But they’re wrong
You carry me – Shanon Wexelberg
Underground…we all go offline. We used to anyway. A few of the highly trafficked stations in the city offer wi-fi now. But generally the subway is an internet free space. Once in a while though, between stations a signal will come through, some kind of portal in the cosmic free space opens and a message escapes. You’ll hear what has become an unfamiliar sound down under. A message notification.
The notification was mine. Balancing 3 grocery bags at my feet, I tucked my book under an arm to grab my phone. It was a message. 4 messages in a row. All from family members. The stream of texts highlighting my maiden name connected me to my childhood. My life as daughter, sister. I thought of my mother.
She hasn’t been well lately. Early signs of age related dementia have changed her life. The past year, the worst. And I’ve felt guilty because I haven’t been able to keep up. In the mess of my daily life I haven’t transitioned well. The adjustment from needy to needed daughter has been slow. My mother is martyr supreme…maybe to a fault but she handles her business. She lives her life, her way, on her terms. I’ve come to rely on that.
I got the message at 72nd street and had to ride until 110th. Two stops on the uptown express. Five minutes, tops. Five minutes to explore every possible twist in the why of this confusing stream. And my mind, of course, sets a bulls-eye for the “what if” of her passing.
At 96th Street I was still there. Still processing. The train jolted suddenly and brought me out of it for a moment…just long enough to notice the pungent sticky smell of sweat trapped in an unvented car, the passenger behind me zoning out in a lip sync fury, fire orange “Dre Beats” head phones on blast. The mama of littles navigating nap time truths with her daughter. “Try not to sleep honey. I can’t carry you” she said to her preschool daughter. This is the mess of the noon day rush. And there I was… overdressed in the center of the car. Clutching a germ laden pole and wondering how I’d tell my son, who was planning to meet me at the station, his grand mother died.
We pulled into the station at 110th Street, train cars creaking and groaning the misery of a hundred year old system. I waddled off under the weight of 3 heavily packed Trader Joes paper bags. My balancing act wasn’t working though. I’d been thrown off kilter – in the middle of the unexpected. I needed help but was afraid to ask for it. The possibility of keeling over from unbalanced shopping bags is real and a perfect metaphor for the mess of figuring out dementia and aging parents and change and ….life. This is the mess of life.
And as suddenly as they appeared, the feelings of worry left. Because my mother knows the Lord. She’s already sealed her hearts home and looks forward to the glory of heaven. In the mess of this life….she’s already said yes.
I managed to make it up the stairs and packages in tact, scanned the park side of the street for my teen boy/man. He was far enough away for me to make the call.
A check in with my youngest brother revealed the why of the messages. All good news. My mothers first grandchild is graduating from Rutgers University this spring. Plans are under way for a huge celebration. The original message tagged each family member, assuring for all, an intimate knowledge of every party planning detail. Sigh. Technology.
My mother is well and I, well I’m growing and changing. Becoming the daughter she needs today. Praise God.
I’m trembling
Walking in the hushed holy….of a blessed unrest
Kingdom coming. Kingdom come.
I’m not satisfied in the middle.
It’s a good tension that keeps my bible cracked
Hope hungry
In relentless pursuit…
Eternity found…glory bound
Only transformation will satisfy
I said, only transformation will satisfy
I dive into the radical chaos of His word.
It’s violent and turbulent and I want in on the glory of this rush
He’s mixing things up
His love leaves me no choice
Let me sing, lift my voice
After the storm there is peace
And a crest I can’t reach….
I live in the holy of a blessed unrest
What is this holy unrest? This space of sitting in silence …in the gospel of a perfect storm.
I sink into the cushions of a love worn couch. Something presses into the small of my back and I reach behind to free a doll from under my pile of pillows. Freeing her undressed form relieves my inner princess. She was my pea. I felt her. I feel everything tonight.
I sink a little further and press my feet into the ease of a futon we should have said goodbye to long ago. And lean my head against a wall that gently supports the weight of my world. If you look closely you can see I’ve done this before…a subtle stain from my afro halo, an “x” marking my spot. Eyes closed, I send a mental note to my shoulders. “At ease young warrior, at ease.”
But there is no rest. Tonight I won’t find it in this chair, this room. Leftover toys from a mama hard day strewn around like so many thoughts. The perpetual putting away of things…things I find scattered again, aptly describes the frustration of this game of spiritual hide and seek. The up and down of my teeter tottered soul. The hard-fought mental white space on the playground of my mind is always littered with toys.
So I sit with it because this dis ease is a holy infection, His love injection. It’ll keep me up late…walking the halls of my apartment like my grandmother used to do…like the prayer warriors still do…on the front lines in a fight for freedom.
Tonight I’ll be the old school midnight prayer service…all by myself. Tonight I’ll put on the gloves and pin my veil. I’ll wave a cardboard fan and scream to heaven on my knees. And when it gets real good I’ll take off my shoes and dance.
I’ll fall into the hallelujah of His grace…Tonight I won’t fight the beauty of unrest.
And there’s a God that walks over the earth
He’s searching for a heart that is desperate
Longing for a child that will give Him their all
Give it all, He wants it all – Forever Jones
Praise you Lord for this sweet holy unrest.
You are a Christian only so long as you look forward to a new world, so long as you constantly pose critical questions to the society you live in, so long as you emphasize the need of conversion both for yourself and for the world…so long as you stay unsatisfied with the status quo and keep saying that a new world is yet to come. You are a Christian when you believe that you have a role to play in the realization of this new kingdom, and when you urge everyone you meet with a holy unrest to make haste so that the promise might be fulfilled. So long as you live as a Christian you keep looking for a new order, a new structure, a new life.- Henri Nouwen
A moment before hitting publish on a recent post and just before doing a run through in hopes of passing seo inspection with Yoast, I wondered, “Do I have enough blog buttons?”
I’ve noticed a trend lately…to link with multiple blogs in a single post. In an effort to share the love or, more likely, create opportunities for more views and comments, we’re displaying rows of blog buttons. Is this the new blog bling?
In my head, it goes something like this…
Am I linking up enough? One or two connections doesn’t seem to cut it. Where’s my blog button bling?
Pressing save I promptly closed out my post in search of linkups. Surely I’m not too late to benefit from this shift in platform development.
First stop, blogs I love. I want to see how they do it. How can I do this promotion thing and maintain a sliver of integrity? Because with each additional button linked to my post, I felt the value of my words lessen. Maybe, somewhere along the way we’re mixing it up… connecting buttons with medals…stamps of approval?
Could I be pimping my posts? I wondered.
I get it. I get the premise…the social media prompt to “be everywhere”, really I do. But when I noticed my list of paramours growing in a way that made me feel uncomfortable – I had to step back. I was giving away too much of my self..for the sake of promotion. For the sake of numbers. It felt dirty.
I love the idea of link ups. As a new blogger I got to know many of my friends by joining in on the fun and connecting with like-minded people over a similar theme. I still enjoy Five Minute Friday and the sweet simplicity of The Sunday Community. On Wednesdays I feel called to #TellHisStory with Jennifer and you’ll often find me at The Weekend Brew. But every post seems to be connected with multiple link ups. Each blog button a notch in the belt that says…I’ve been with you, and you and you.
flickr cc – penreyes
Back in the day it was a discredit to a woman’s character to be called common. It meant she’d been around the block a few too many times. Too many holes punched on a dance card, for me is not a good thing.
I understand the tendency to treat our platforms like popularity contests. After all, the biggest platform gets the prize. The book deal. The contract, the sponsors. I know. Everyone wants to be that singular sensation so we gather in chorus line fashion hoping to be picked.
But I hear God saying no.
God differentiates between holy and common. We should carefully seek communities for our words. Be intentional about finding homes for these heart to pen poured ministries. Pray about any relationships we hope to form. Give ear to directions based on the communities He leads us to. Steward the gift.
Believe we are chosen and choose wisely.
What do you think? On a single post, how many link-ups, is too many? Do you feel compelled to join more link-ups? Have you ever linked even though your post really had no connection to the prompt or theme? Do you pray about the communities you connect with…before you start the connection?
Exodus 19:6you will be for me a kingdom of priests and a holy nation.’ These are the words you are to speak to the Israelites.”
Deuteronomy 7:6For you are a people holy to the LORD your God. The LORD your God has chosen you out of all the peoples on the face of the earth to be his people, his treasured possession.
