hard dark places

the sun is out. it's hot and beautiful. i'm again on the porch- this time only with rosie and i made a discovery that may change things.....earphones.  i can be here- outside with the kids- and the lion king playing through the open window behind me and the dog even barking- and i can feel mildly undisturbed and i can think.  it's fantastic- who ever invented these things was brilliant. 

it's the little things- it has always been the little things.  a cup of coffee.  new lip balm.  a song.  green apple soap. one flower picked for you by little hands.  a shell.  a smile.

here comes my husband- walking up the path from work.  that man i've loved for 25 years.  his hair is now white and silver, his skin is tan and tastes like salt. we become our surroundings- time and place change us.  we don't know anything different than the movings- than the process- than change.

i'm reading a book called learning to walk in the dark it's about the importance of and the value of allowing ourselves to be in the dark- physically and spiritually and emotionally.  to not run from the things we fear, to not avoid the uncomfortable, to not hurry to always turn on the lights-whatever they are for us- but to begin to understand what we can learn in those places- from those seasons. 

one of my most vivid experiences of darkness was about 4 years ago, in lalibela ethiopia where the churches are dug down into the earth- carved out of the rock- instead of built above the ground.  they are connected with paths and tunnels.  the tunnel connecting the last two churches was very long and completely without light.  the guide spoke of this as a metaphor - walk this path in total darkness and then emerge on the other side into the light- like coming to know God.  i so wanted to do it- but after about 10 steps in, when i could no longer see any light at all, when i could only feel the darkness touching me, when i had no sense of where i was or was going or could escape- i became terrified and i backed right out to the light. 

i couldn't walk in the darkness. i couldn't even be in that kind of darkness- not then.  it was a hard time- a hard season- when i felt swallowed by the darkness of having a child with special needs.  i was trying to home school her- i was trying to understand her totally differently wired brain- i was trying to make it okay- i was trying to turn on whatever lights i could find- i was terrified of the darkness.  it was all encompassing.  it was 24 hours a day.

ironically being in lalibela, being in ethiopia- with my dear friend and not with my challenged child, helped me begin to breathe and to acknowledge the darkness i felt. and when i began to feel it instead of just running away from it, i began to see the truth in this: "that it is sometimes hard to tell whether you are being killed or saved by the hands that turn your life upside down." (barbara brown taylor)  at that time, it just felt like i was being killed by zoe who'd turned my life upside down- but there was saving in it too. they can go together- the swallowing and the saving- losing somethings and finding other things.  the hard dark places teach us what only they can- lessons that light can't teach.  hard dark places grow us, and change us just like time and the sun. there is transformation- (followed often for me by stagnation and regression- but still....)

there are things that i love about the old testament (like God choosing to use total screw-ups to lead his people- like them continuing to screw-up even when they can actually talk to God- and Him still loving them). and there are things i hate about the old testament (like the long lists of peoples names and tribes that i can't pronounce or remember, like the long lists of rules that can seem like way too much attention to detail- and the battles- the killing- the wars- and that God seemed okay with this even thought He made it pretty clear that we're not supposed to kill).  but there is one battle story that i do love. it's the one against the amalakites where God tells moses that as long as he holds up his hand, the israelites will win, but if he drops it, they will lose.  it sounds like a pretty good deal, but battles can go on for days.  how long can you hold your hand up? it may have felt like a lot of darkness, a lot of responsibility, a lot more than just obedience. but guess what? God was fine with moses getting help.  God didn't make him walk in that darkness alone.  his two friends stood on either side of him and held up his hand. 

and that may be the key. togetherness.  support.  gathering around. holding a hand. hearing a word.  giving a word.  because standing beside in the darkness means more than turning on the light.  joining in the place of fear- entering the unknown- being in the uncomfortable places with each other- that is love- that is friendship- that brave and courageous and life giving. that is part of how we are saved by the events that turn our life upside-down.

someday i want to go back to lalibela and i want to walk that dark tunnel- i want to be okay feeling it- one foot in front of the other- until i reach the other side.  maybe if i'm walking behind that guy i've followed for 25 years- maybe if i hold his hand......

broken halleluiah

i'm outside on the porch. i haven't written in a month-i'm using mikes computer because mine has basically failed to find the internet- three of my four children have followed me out here- dinner needs to be made- people keep calling for things- my neighbor just left after 10 years living under the most beautiful tree in the world up the hill from me- brandi carlise is singing her version of broken halleluiah. maybe this- all this- the leaving, the noisy kids, the constant interruptions- my non-working computer- the unmade dinner-maybe this is my broken halleluiah.

i'll be honest- their little voices right now, are driving me nuts, and i'm so tired that i don't even want to eat dinner, let alone make it - and this non-mac system is not familiar to me, and really i am very small and can't fix anything.  i don't mean mechanical things- although i can't fix those either- i mean people and their problems, and systems, and histories, and myself.  i can't.

i can sit with it- with people or problems and histories and i can try to sit with myself.  i can try to be in it- in the leaving- and the broken- and the noise of my life and i can try to embrace it- all of it- even the seasons that are really dark- and i can even try to look at the stars and the moon instead of running to turn on the lights- because the dark is just as important as the light.

a few sundays ago, i was at a women's fellowship- the one where we have been talking about the names of God- and we were talking about Jehovah Shalom- God of peace. and that shalom holds a fullness that goes even beyond what we might think of as peace.  it's like God of all goodness- peace, satisfaction, joy, lack of strife and stress and conflict- it's an all encompassing peace. it's more than enough- it's everything we want.  then we were talking about how if this is true- why did the Israelites walk away from it all the time? and why do we?

why do we so easily forget the joy- that deep kind- that kind of pure satisfaction- that we find when we hold on to the everlasting arms? why do we let go of them, and run away and try to find our own solutions, our own answers, our own idea of deep and real satisfaction - that usually amounts to something possibly amazing but short-lived and followed by some sort of darkness- in the form of regret or loneliness or the need for more or bigger or better ways to find that thing we are looking for.

these days when i'm feeling the heaviness of things and my own longings- if i can escape i drive for about 10 minutes out of town and there i can see tea fields.  and in the green and the hills and the paths woven between the tea bushes i remember what i, and maybe you, and almost always the people in the old testament keep forgetting- Jehovah Shalom.  that all-encompassing peace is promised and given.  i remember it in the tea fields because that is where i first remember feeling it so intensely and for no real reason.

i mean i wasn't asking for it.  i wasn't in a crisis and in particular need of grace and peace- but i felt an incredible exuberance as i walked through those tea fields in kenya- because i was walking closely those days with God.  i was listening- i was hearing the still small voice and i was obeying it- even if it seemed small or the request insignificant- i did it. send that person an email and tell them what a good job they did.  or don't send that person that message- wait.  i wasn't steering the ship of my life- i was following instructions- in very small ways and that is, i'm realizing, perhaps what matters most.

because not doing this- is way too easy. which means that doing it- is actually hard. because i don't want to sit down and write that email. because i do want to send that person a message. because i'm annoyed- or i'm angry- or i'm lazy or i'm lonely- and i'm pretty sure that i can fix the feeling if i steer the ship. and there it goes. i let go- slowly by slowly - i release the everlasting arms- and with them- my shalom.

it's very easy for me to justify the not listening- because of all the noise and stuff - because of my broken halleluiah.  my life- my kids- the mess of things here-the loss- the constant interruptions- the non-working everything- come on! let me just do what i need to do to get by here! and God in Her infinite wisdom and patience and love says-  go for it- and good luck with that.  i'll just be here... waiting.... and (way) underneath (where you can't see them for now)...are the everlasting arms.

that is how it happens- for me anyway.  and then of course i wonder why i'm so out of sorts- why i'm so exhausted and ready to ring everyone's necks.  because it doesn't go as planned- and i end up not just with out Shalom- but empty. empty and wondering.

thank God for those arms.  thank God for the freedom to return to listening- (which usually starts with learning to hear the stillness again- and slowly by slowly - responding).  and all of this we bring.  all of this is our broken halleluiah's.  in pieces and parts- we can lift up our little small shaky hands and say praise God because of the returning and the waiting and the reconciliation and the redemption. 

and in that broken halleluiah of our lives and our days- we begin again, to find, Jehovah Shalom.