holy graditude

 a few weeks ago the sermon was on gratitude and the importance of the practice of gratitude. how it's life changing, the choosing to be grateful. the psalms are full of gratitude. they are often a call to remember who God is, what God did in the past, and to the promises that can be trusted. often the psalms of praise and thanks, follow a psalm of lament.

Jesus talked a lot about love. and peace and caring for each other and forgiveness and generosity, but he didn't talk a lot about gratitude.  maybe he cared more about sitting with us in our lament. there is something about being seen that is necessary for feeling loved, and sometimes gratitude can interfere in this. Jesus never told the bride and groom they should be grateful because at least they only ran out of wine at their wedding and not food- no instead, he made more wine, his first miracle. he didn't say to the bleeding woman, ' you should be grateful, it could be worse, at least you can walk." Jesus saw people in their suffering and let them be who they were, where they were and sat with them, ate with them and sometimes healed them with out judging them or  telling them to just be grateful.

when people placate us with gratitude it can feel like neglect. it can undermine our experience or trauma. 

i remember after i had zoe and was desperately trying and failing to get pregnant again for 4 and a half years, people would say, "well at least you already have a baby, it could be worse." leaving me feeling guilty for my sorrow, unworthy of my grief and very alone. or when i was upset about zoe's disabilities people would try to help me 'feel better' with statements like, "it could be worse, at least she is verbal." people who are suffering don't want to be shamed by hearing how much worse it could be. no one needs to be silenced and told that they should really choose gratitude. Jesus got it. Jesus allows the full on ugly crying of all of us over whatever it is, puts out his arms and says, "i know". it's allowed.

and.

so is gratitude. 

i used to think that it wasn't a 'both, and' thing. i used to think that it was 'either or'. either you were in a season of gratitude or a season of lament. kind of like the psalms. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

yesterday i was on a walk. it was cool but not cold and cloudy but not raining and the bald trees were scraping at the winter sky the way they do in the wind. it was beautiful and i was filled with a holy gratitude. it felt sacred because for many years i couldn't see this scene as beautiful and i wouldn't have been filled with gratitude. i saw it as ugly new england in the winter with no snow. i saw it as dull and brown and leafless and lifeless. but what i saw yesterday was the beauty in what is right now in new england on that december day. a necessary step in the process of life- the period of hibernation, the time of rest for the earth.

i reflected on gratitude and the practice of it. how i can chose to see beauty and be thankful for it while in seasons of grief. i can long for the green of uganda and appreciate the cloudy december sky with a few scattered still golden leafed tree tops meeting it. i can wrestle with zoe's disabilities and rejoice in the creative person that she is. the gratitude doesn't have to cancel the grief nor does the sorrow prevent the thanksgiving. 

that is holy gratitude.

holy wonder

 the other day i went out to the car, early morning, on the way to work. the light was beautiful - gold, lighting the tops of trees and edges of things, spilling itself on the new day. overhead, a "V" of 30 canadian geese flew honking above me, their underbellies gilded, lit by the rising sun. holy wonder.

i try to freeze these moments when i have them. when the colors and the light and the air holds joy. 

we are finding ourselves here, back where we found each other 33 years ago. in fields between towns, along stone walls and beside oceans. we have landed back where we began, before we grew all these limbs of children and barnacles and scars. holy wonder. 

now when we walk those fields and return to beaches, just the two of us, we are finding ourselves again- old and new- picking through our history and deciding what pieces to keep and what to toss to the ocean as we move forward together.

today i walked alone out for about a mile to a quiet spot, to a sandy rocky spot on the beach. as i walked i realized that i never do this. i never walk alone into wooded spaces, quiet uninhabited places where who knows what could be lurking who knows where. i felt uncomfortable when i left the roadside and disappeared into the fields and woods and it bothered me. but i walked on anyway- a muddy path though pampas grass, hopping on stones across a tidal pool to a green grass clearing. in my mind i walked back through many places much more green and lush and warm, i walked back to africa, to the rushing nile river, to all the opposites of here, the color and vibrancy, the largeness of it, sound and smell and perspective. soon the path ended, it was just me and the wind and 2 seagulls and the tide pulling away. i think it may have been the first time i have been alone and in silence and with the earth maybe ever or at least in many years. there was no one. it was just stillness, and my boots suctioning the sandy mud and the wind in the dry marsh grasses and the bit of drizzle on my face, like the end of the world. joy!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

there was something in that being alone in the cool early winter morning with the ocean nearby. i felt small and insignificant in the right way, and held and loved in the best way too. i was so happy to be in that quiet and to feel free.  to be okay to look back and look ahead. holy wonder.

holy waiting

 the first sunday of advent. my most favorite of seasons perhaps. an opportunity for choosing pause and wonder in long dark cold days. the winter stretches out it's arms in the north to show how much of the year it takes up with it's bare trees and brown grass. in uganda advent felt important in a different way, it was a chance to interrupt the sameness of the year, the constancy, to disrupt the natural equatorial rhythm and invite a new routine for the month. to light the candles, to read specific scriptures, sing carols and sit in the wonder- the entering of the divine. God drawing near.

each year as i get older it means more to me. God drawing near. both that God did and how God did. and then given that, that that was our example, the Divine, entering humanity through a pregnant young single mother who birthed him in a barn with out support of a midwife in a night with some shepherds around- likely undesirables - and given who Jesus chose to spend his life hanging around with- that given all that, we the church, have so often gotten it wrong! we have made it about power and money and wearing your best and not letting people see our ugly bits and judging those who aren't doing it 'right'. when we just go back to the beginning, when we remember how God came, Jesus's birth, the humility, the simplicity, that example- i want that to be my starting place. 

because for me the contrast is startling. the emphasis in america on consumption especially during advent, is impressive. but here is this example, this entering of Love into our world, to show a new way for peace and joy, and it has nothing to do with money and buying things. Love enters the world into dirt, to grubby hands, with no running water, to poor people, but is sought after by the wealthy and wise. 

advent calls us to stillness this month because the world is so full of noise. advent calls us to wonder, what child is this ? advent calls us to a holy pause, a holy waiting to see what may unfold as humanity encounters divine.

oh come oh come Immanuel

 

goodbye

i have watched myself slowly leave this space. it's been an interesting process. as the years have gone on, i've written less and less and wondered is it that i have less to say or less time to say it? or is it that my kids who were so small when i began here are now fully their own people and somehow writing about them is a breach into sacred space- they own their stories now. 

for months and even years i have wrestled and judged myself for not being more disciplined to sit and write, to make time to show up here. then i would occasionally find a word about seasons of silence or dormancy being of great value and importance and i would cling to that, rest in it, trust it. 

and when i did rest in that silence, what i came to see is that this season, here, is over. this blog that began 12 years ago when zoe was 11 and had eaten 3 large earthworms on a february afternoon, has served its purpose. i needed to write. i was about to explode. i was alone and i needed to share my days without needing to see the faces of the people who were hearing about it- i didn't want pity or that awkward look from a parent of a neurotypical kid who looks guilty for their  'normal' life. and i wanted anyone who was going through the same thing to not feel alone. and i wanted to remember. i wanted a record. our histories are important. perhaps most of all, writing my days was transformative for me- i started in one space and at the end of it, i had arrived at another, a better place. i would bring myself further along - it was my work.

now, zoe doesn't live at home.  i have 3 teenagers who do, 2 high schoolers and 1 in middle school. my internal work has shifted as we try to love each other well in a complicated world. 

i read this mary oliver poem today that seems so fitting- it's called:

WE SHOULD BE WELL PREPARED

The way the plovers cry goodbye.

The way the dead fox keeps on looking down the hill with open eye.

The way the leaves fall, and then there's the long wait.

The way someone says; we must never meet again.

The way mold spots the cake, the way the sourness overtakes the cream.

The way the river water rushes by, never to return.

The way the days go by, never to return.

The way somebody comes back, but only in a dream.  

this day will never return like all those years when my kids were littles. we must live into our days as fully as we can and love each other well. i have loved this space so much- it was a place of birth for me- it was life giving and i hesitate to say goodbye. living overseas 'goodbye' became such a part of life that in order to survive you had to become 'friends' with goodbye. goodbyes are complicated because they are hard, and sad and no one likes them but they are so important and they are such an opportunity for connection and goodness, that is too often missed because of the fear of discomfort. goodbye's bring closure so we can begin again.

i'm beginning to get ready to begin again. to start something new. whatever that looks like- it may be here with a different focus, a different name, or not. i will wait ad see. and so it's time to say goodbye to this space as it has been. thank you all for listening!

 

 

the light that is you

it's hard to not want to stay and be the light that is me, here. 

it's hard to imagine leaving again in 2 days. 

i'm in uganda. the part of the broken world that has become to feel more like home than any other part actually (strangely) ever did.  i don't expect anyone to get it, or even believe it, but i'm also not going to apologize for it. it is what it is.

yesterday, i interviewed potential medical students for the incoming class at UCU school of medicine. i listened to stories of war-torn somalian childhoods, executed fathers, of brothers with rheumatic heart disease, siblings who died of preventable diarrheal infections, illiterate mothers trained as village health workers who inspired their daughters to pursue this- this dream of doctoring. Midwives returning to study ob/gyn because they need to know more, to be able to do more, to help their fellow ugandans. Twenty year old kids who knew first hand what malnutrition looks like, death during childbirth and not being able to access care in time because there is no hospital, or no doctor at the hospital, or no medicine at the clinic. 

after they would explain their reasons for why they wanted to study medicine, they would explain how they planned on paying their tuition. 'my brother is going to pay my way'. 'i have been saving for 2 years'.  'my village ngo is going to sponsor me so that we will now have a doctor when i finish.'  there are no loans, there were  a few kids whose parents could pay the tuition  which is about $5000 per year. 

there is no need to be comparative about suffering and i believe that there is a deep power in the shared experience of collective trauma that allows a certain level of resilience. but, it was all so humbling. the clear need. their passionate awareness of it.  their desire to help. their willingness to assume the cost. i couldn't help but compare it to the usa. to how quickly we spend $5000, how much we complain about, how little we have seen.

i left the day teary eyed and hopeful. encouraged by the quality of the candidates and knowing that we will continue raising up the quality of ugandan health care and increasing the number of doctors committed to serving their communities. 

there was so much in those tears. for the brokenness of here. and the brokenness of where i am returning. for the years i got to spend here and that they shaped my kids and opened their eyes. for how hard it is for them now that their eyes are opened. for how hard it is to leave. for my deep longing to be back. for the great tension of a heart torn between two homes. for the gratitude of that tension as hard as it is. for the Grace that mends me enough to try to love intentionally and extravagantly and be the light wherever i may be.

why i love wordle

 

in world of excess, there is wordle. 

just one puzzle to solve.

no more.

even if you want another one, you have to wait until tomorrow. 

there is no temptation to sit for an hour on your phone endlessly striving to get to the next level, to open some wrapped package with coins, no real points tallied. you don't find yourself landing there when bored. no. wordle is different.

wordle has reminded me that i'm still in control of my choices. it's reminded me that i don't need to be a victim of the mindsuck of even "good" games that claim to ward off dementia. wordle has gifted me with restraint. with patience. with old school waiting. 

i'm finding that i'm reading more. i'm routining more. this might sound extreme, but i'm slightly happier. 

i keep waiting for it to be capitalized on- some massive wordled algorithm with levels and larger words and presents to be opened with coins. with adds and sounds and graphics and endless opportunities to solve it faster, immediately and to stay and play for hours. while i know my brain would love that dopaminergic feast, i hope it doesn't happen. i want to stick with the simple 5 squares, and three color, green,yellow, and gray. no images, no bells and whistles.

there are so few simple things left.  let us have this one.

acceptance and surrender

it's miserable outside, slushy and drizzly and cold as the sun sets at just after 5pm, but the house is warm and its quiet. 

i forget how much i crave this. need this. enjoy this. the quiet moments.

2021 ended hard, in some ways, as it had started. it ended with mike and me having covid. zoe having a seizure, rose being in a hard place on top of 2 new jobs, 4 teens in a new school situation, buying a house, moving across the world, leaving a community we loved and work we felt called into, to return to part of the country i never wanted to live in again after i left at 22. 

last night it rained a hard but gentle rain - steady and consistent. i awoke in the night and felt the lulled feeling i had in uganda when through the screen i would hear that familiar soothing downpour. maybe because the sun rises and sets at the same time year round, it is the rains that helped signal where or when  we were in the year- a connection to the earth- to the bigger world around us. i listened with remembrance and longing, there was some longing.

because it has been hard. 

trying to find our feet here is dizzying. america is busy. the pace is faster and convenience costs not just money but time. i miss daily walks on dusty roads with potholes filled with tile chips and letting the sun tell me what time it is and all the birds songs (yes even the ibis) and the heat of the day and the sounds of the night and that rain that was gifted to me in sound last night.

i listened to a podcast with Martha Beck about happiness and listening to ourselves and not the consensus of the voices of the world, about moving toward the Warmth, the Knowing. the Light. letting that be our guide. there have been times when i have done this and times when i have not and times when the other people in my life who i am responsible for needed warmth and light and the Knowing lead me there, but it overshadowed what felt warmest to me had i been alone.

zoe just left after being with us for 5 days. i picked her up on wednesday, she had 2 appointments and we had family time and now mike is driving her back to her program. it's hard to put into words the feeling around both her being here and her leaving. it's familiar and strange, it's bittersweet, it's heartwarming and heartbreaking. i feel strong and weak, like i'm doing the right thing and the wrong thing, that i have come to know what is probably best and that i know nothing. that i will really never know. that this will always be our life- a question. a wondering. a bittersweet tension of opposites and the challenge of holding that tension while also keeping our hands open to what comes- to letting go. 

 i used to describe life with zoe as groundhog day- that movie when everyday they wake up and it's the same as the day before- life on repeat. you can predict what is going to happen in a given situation. i know her triggers, i know what makes her laugh, her expressions, her refusals, what will be a fight. now that the other kids are older, and they begin their last chapters at home as children - i am reminded of how zoe's life doesn't change that much. she is like a ugandan day- 7am, 7pm constantly - consistently -predictably. or the year- rainy season, dry season, but the leaves don't turn color, whither and fall, nothing freezes, goes dormant and blooms again. 

when we first got to uganda i had a hard time with the lack of seasons and the constant 7pm sunset. i was used to rhythms that spoke of time and movement. it was easy to lose oneself in the abyss of that sameness. 'african time' made more sense, days weren't gaining or losing minutes year round, a day was just a day 12 hours same as the one before. 

after a while, maybe a year, i grew to love it. i learned to tell time by that reliable sun in the sky- new patterns. the seasons weren't as extreme as summer to winter in new england, but we welcomed the rain after months of hot dust. 

in that podcast Martha Beck also talked about healing and to start from a place of taking a deep breath in and saying to yourself that you can allow everything in the universe to be the way it is right now in this moment, in your world, my world all the good and the bad of it, the truth of it, allow it to be. then breath out and drop your resistance to reality being as it is right now. a cycle of  breath, of allowing and surrendering, allowing and surrendering, to the moment and the moment becomes okay. 

accepting and surrendering to my life as it is right now. as 2022 begins, as we still transition to living in the USA. as we still long for the warmth and rains of africa, as we find our place in new jobs and new schools and sometimes fear and wonder about a future with a special young adult who won't leave us to go off on her own, i am called back to this moment- to accept it, drop my resistance to it- breath and it becomes okay.