we are beloved

the other day i saw a snippet of what is wrong with the world.  driving down a street i drive down everyday, a street full of people and dirt and ramshackle and broken down trucks and no trees or space to breath, i saw a grungy wild dog going to the bathroom beside the road, wearing that mildly embarrassed, ashamed face that dogs wear when they sit in that known position relieving themselves with no cover.  she was there- exposed and vulnerable in her place in life- always fending for herself - eating from trash piles- finding shelter and bathrooms where she can.  no sooner had she squatted than a male equally mangy dog mounted her.  she let out a moan of fatigue and frustration and deflated anger and deep longing for something other than this life of hers.  a groan of sad desperation- of helplessness- of sorrow.  her bark cry of 'where is the peace?', of 'get off', of 'no more', of 'can i just do what nature calls me to do without you having to do what your natures tells you to do to me?'  it worked and he retreated, ran off over the railroad tracks and she finished her business in exposed peace. there was something in that sound she made- that ache- that disturbed me- that spoke to me of humanity- of the conflict- the disconnect- the dissatisfaction that sits in our days.  all this in a flash as i drove by.

yesterday was fathers day- a day when i think of my beautiful dad and my beautiful husband and how they love their kids and how they point up- how they center their lives on the One who is love- how they point to the Father- who calls us all His beloved.

Abba, who wants us to walk with him.  he tries to make it simple and easy, but we spend our lives making it complex and rule-y.  we like to boil it down, to hold the truths of the universe- but in tying down the infinite we lose the intricacy, and the mystery.  we lose the process, we miss the growth of the days- the hours-we miss the search and the seeking.  our sticky little hands trying to understand, push the One who is Love and can not be contained- into spaces that we think make sense- at least to most of us- but He can not be made small.  it doesn't work- He doesn't fit.

can today i let go? can today i let Him be big and glorious and uncontained?   can i stand in awe and feel both my smallness and my grandeur (because this father seeks to know me)?  can i live in days that are bigger than i imagine? into places that are unknown but full of mystery and promise?

the Goodness waits for us when we embrace the openness- when we allow ourselves to sit with uncertainty- to be still and only sometimes know one thing- "that I am God" that I AM is enough.  that those words hold in themselves the nature- the massive and mysterious nature of our creator.

love the Lord your God with ALL your mind, All your soul, All your strength.  Love your neighbor.  whoever they are- whatever they look like- whatever they do- or don't do.  Love your self. even on the days when you fail- when you can't even try.  because you are loved, and so is your neighbor.

where is the containment in that? that is huge and encompassing and total and constant.
ALL. not part.
ALLways- not sometimes.

And the greatest of these is LOVE.

we spend our seventy years trying to make sense of this- to find love- to be loved- to be loving. to love what we do- who we are- who we live with- and birth- and share life with.  like zoe we don't want 'help', we want control.  we don't like our need, we like success.  we don't want to seek, we only want to find.

my first boyfriend was a recovering alcoholic.  i had a huge amount of respect for his humility and awareness of our limitations- and our brokenness. i went to meetings with him- i met rooms full of people who had been down so low-who had known that desperation - that depravity- like that dog on the street- so well that they had no choice but to utter the serenity prayer when they open their eyes each morning- and many times in the day- and with others who've been on that same road- and at night when they shut their eyes again. 

'Lord grant me the serenity to accept the things i cannot change, the courage to change the things i can, and the wisdom to know the difference.'

because there are things we cannot change (but we try so endlessly to change them).
there are things we can (but don't, or won't).
can we ask the One who knows- to bestow that to us?  to admit our powerlessness? our struggle? our need?

i sit with these things.  i ask myself, can i accept that i am His beloved? can i be still with the mystery? can i let it remain as big as it is and not shove it into small places?  can i be okay with my limits? my need? my inability and dependence?  can i love out of that love?  that massive, permanent, encompassing love that answers the moan and the cry.  can i ask for serenity, and courage and wisdom? can i call Him father?

remembering

trust. and faith. trust follows- or is it first?

i've been thinking about the importance of rituals and disciplines and holidays.  how they are more than patterns. more than frames to hang our days on- they are triggers to stop.  they are flags to remember.   they are pause- if we allow them to be.  they are opportunities to not forget things that we do forget. the things that often matter the most- but get stuck on the back burner of life.  so we need to dust them off- the important things.

holidays and traditions are also important sociologically- they are a group experience- they are collective memory- they are ways of teaching the next generation what was learned - passing on the story- histories of lessons- uniting us- calling us back to our people before- when the same dna was there and the same blood types and the same need for love and the same feeling of pain and the same desire to be known and valued.  they teach us where we came from- where we've been and might not want to go back to- they remind us that there is nothing new under the sun, or the moon- that we're not alone.

martin luther king jr day.  veterans day.  tomorrow is presidents day.  and there are religious holidays- all religions have them and we are told to keep them.  i'm most familiar with the christian and jewish holidays.  i love the purity of the jewish holidays.  they haven't been squashed by reindeers and easter bunnies.   i've been fortunate to celebrate passover many times with my jewish friends.  i love the many parts and symbols- that each have a lesson and a memory. and that it's about remembering God and his protection and provision- that they were not a forgotten people- that the celebration is to be a reminder that they still aren't forgotten.

Passover took on new meaning to me when i was in the eighth grade and my best friend, the one i'd celebrated passover with, became sick unto death.  and it was the week of passover.    i remember the D.C. hotel room - where i was sitting- overhearing my father on the phone getting the news that my friend was perhaps dying in the ICU. we were driving back to boston from our family vacation visiting grandparents in north carolina. it was the worst thing that had ever happened to me.  i remember looking out the window for the next 8 hours in the car- but all i saw was the rain- the drops on my window- how they start at the top and then fall -making a track that joins other drops- sliding together until they land at the bottom of the window and become part of the river leading  back to the air again. that was it- the blurry countryside and the crystal clear rain and my tears and my prayers. i would send one on each rain drop that i watched fall, and i begged.  i begged God to please allow death to pass over her.   i had faith that He could- but i wasn't sure that He would- because even at 13 i knew that bad things are allowed to happen- that we don't always understand it- that we are small- that life is fragile- that things aren't fair- but it didn't make me question God's existence.  so i cried and i begged and i hoped and i believed and i waited and i cried some more.

by the end of the week- we knew she was going to live.  she'd had her own passover.  we all had.  but we still didn't know what survival would look like.  would there be brain damage- would she talk and walk?  so i cried and begged and hoped and prayed some more.  it took a long time for her to come back to us as we knew her- as we now know her- but she did.  she walks and talks and spends her days helping other people as their doctor and their mother and their wife and their friend.  as my friend.

so passover is a really important season to remember.  it's a 'double'.  it's religious and personal.  we all have our own practices, or our own dates of remembrance.  i'm thinking back to the times that i forget.  those of deep wonder- of crying out and being answered. of when the answer wasn't always what i wanted - but even still, i wasn't abandoned. judes birthday is in a few weeks (see post 'happy birthday jude' for details).  how quickly i forget those months when we wondered if he'd walk and talk- when we lived in a season of waiting and hoping- when we lived with a daily sense of our fragility- and yet the gift it gave us of perspective and the importance of real things- family, friendship, faith and smiling.  i live with jude- i see him all the time- but i still forget.  bryn was born with a hole in his lung that kept him in the ICU for a week- i cried and begged and prayed- and thank God, he's fine, but i still forget.  i see zoe all day and see how far she's come- and again- i forget.

maybe i need to turn remembering into a practice. a daily ritual. 5 minutes to reflect on where i've been- to be thankful and not be stuck in the minor details.  uncover the important parts and live in them. because i am small and life is fragile- but God is not.

labyrinth

today is a day of blessing.

i couldn't sleep last night. bryn woke up at 1am with growing pains and that was it- i basically tossed and turned the night away with various strange dream segments based on half realities. i worried and then prayed and then fell back to sleep on and on.
i have this problem sometimes. the- 2am everything in the world is horrible and stressful problem- so if i happen to be awakened anytime near 2am, i'm pretty much doomed. last night the flavor of stress was zoe going to visit her old school today. so the middle of the night the "what if's" started. what if she is totally overwhelmed? what if she freaks out? what if she says totally inappropriate things? what if either she's miserable or they're miserable and they decide they never want her to come back? what if i'm homeschooling her for the rest of my life? what if she loves it and wants to go back and i'm not ready for her to go back? and then i remembered: Come and i will give you rest.

i went on a womens retreat last summer. it was at Serenbe. beautiful, quiet, peaceful, farm-to-table dinning, saltwater swimming pool, down-comforters on the beds. there was a lot of time to just be, and hang out with other women. but i was in a really bad place. things with zoe were at there worst. she was struggling almost every minute to keep herself from falling apart, and pretty much, so was i. one morning with the steam rising over the fields we went out to do the labyrinth walk. i remember feeling very empty and needy. i remember feeling afraid to walk quietly for 30 minutes with myself- because my head felt so full and heavy. heavy emptiness is a bad feeling. when it was my turn to enter the labyrinth, i hesitated and wanted to leap over the little stones and run off into the woods. i didn't want to walk the path, i didn't feel still and reflective, i felt antsy and afraid. but like so many times in life - you just have to put one foot in front of the other and start- and so i did. for the first quarter it was just quieting- which was actually good. then it came to me- like the ancient truths of this ancient practice were speaking through this path. "come to me, you who are weary and i will give you rest." i'd heard this so many times before. but this time i heard it differently. this time i heard an invitation. Come. this time, i was really weary. this time i heard, i will give you rest, this time, i heard a promise. and like a mantra, the rest of my walk as i wove in and out toward and away from the center- the spot where we find God- i heard this over and over. come to me, you who are weary and i will give you rest. i wasn't alone. i wasn't afraid. the stillness was good. there was a promise. there was hope. and i wasn't quite so empty.

the labyrinth is so much like life- we have our moments, our epiphanies when we are at peace, when we are close to the heart of God, when we are connected with others- toward the center. and then we have our moments on the edge- far away-forgetting there is a peace- and most of the time we're out there or somewhere in the middle. but we're still on the path. we're still moving. and the path always brings us closer to the center.