Rhythms of Grace

My friend has a daughter who has pet turtles.  They are really cute.  They have cute little eyes and noses and toes.  They are somewhat smart and have definite preferences when it comes to their caretakers.  They aren’t very cuddly though, what with the shells and all.

Over the years, I have developed my own shell.  Life has a way of doing that.

My third grade “friends” decide they can only play with me for 2 out of 3 recesses.  shell.

My fifth grade teacher tells me I talk too much.  shell.

I lose my first pet.  I lose my mom.  I lose two babies.  more shell.

Because shells protect us.  We can hide in them.  They allow us to take a blow – to get walked on, without hurting quite so much.

My son is learning this art.  He’s developing quite a shell of his own.  Likely a result of overhearing his name being dragged through the mud by adults he once respected.  Of a mom who sometimes cares more about a clean house than listening to his stories.  Of junior high drama.  Of uncertainty of his future.

It’s hard to hug someone with a shell.  It’s hard to get close to them at all.  They still look ok.  And they function well enough.  But their blood begins to turn a little cooler as the warmth of human contact is restricted by the shell.

God was really smart when he gave turtles a shell.  He must have anticipated the automobile when he did that, because without those shells, there would be a lot more smashed turtles on the road.  But instead, there are 100 year old turtles – living long, cold, lonely lives inside their safe little mobile homes.

There is a reason God didn’t give us shells.  We are not meant to go through life in hiding, without the warmth and support of human contact.  We are meant to feel every bump in the road.  To bear the pain and rise above it.  To recognize our need for others, and mostly for Him.  If we were to build a shell, we might convince ourselves we could make it on our own.  But we would be wrong.

And yet we still build them.

I remember what it felt like when I had a Savior instead of a shell.  I did once.  I saw things differently without the weight of my own protection.  I saw goodness before bad.  Light before dark.  I expected the best and when it didn’t happen, I made the most of what was.  I felt things more deeply.  I saw things more clearly.  It was a much better life.  But somewhere along the way, a shell began to sound easier, and I fell for that lie.

I don’t want to be burdened by it anymore.  I want to be free to experience life completely.  Bumps and all.

God does not stay silent.  But I’m not always a good listener.

For months I did not listen.  I could not hear.  I didn’t want to.  I wanted to be mad and proud and bitter and right.

And then it didn’t work anymore.  Things began to happen that I couldn’t control.  A storm.  Another storm.   A son that turned into a teenager.  A church that imploded.  And I couldn’t fix any of it or prevent it or even have a say in the outcome.

That’s when it hit me.  I have reached the end of myself.  A cliché I never really understood now repeats itself in my head – over and over and over.  And I realize that at the end of myself there is not nothingness.  There is God.

So I begin to listen.  I ask Him to speak.  I read and I pray and I turn to music.  And I can hear.

He says:

“The cross was enough.”

“Evil is just an absence of Me.”

“I don’t cause bad things to happen – I turn them into good.”

“I am the treasure that you cannot afford.  Stop trying to earn Me.”

“Be still and know that I am God.”

“You don’t have to work for what I’ve already given you.”

“Everything you have is a gift from me.  It is not yours.  It is Mine.  You are Mine.  Hold to your gifts loosely.  Hold on to Me with all of your might.”

And with that, I feel myself – even just the tiniest bit – start to come back to life again.  A flicker of light is breaking through the cloud that has hung over me for the longest time.  I long for that cloud to break open.  For Light to pour through and surround me until I am overtaken, swallowed up in warmth and goodness.  For my will to be broken and His will to be mine.  For grace to be more than a word.  For my life to be a natural reflection of the Light – not a contrived and exhausting attempt to BE the light.

Keep speaking, Lord Jesus.  I will keep listening.

I have a confession.

I may have once or twice in my lifetime uttered the words, “I’ll be so glad when Christmas is over.”  I’ve also found myself mentally nodding in silent agreement when I hear people say, “I hate Christmas.”

This year I have decided that it isn’t Christmas I dislike at all.  It’s what Christmas has become – or rather, what we’ve made it.

I do not like the frenzy.

I do not like feelings of obligation.

I do not like the competition.

I do not like the greed.

This year I made a conscious decision to avoid all of the above.

In the past few days, there has been so much sadness in the local news alone – not to mention world-wide.  There have been tragic accidents and catastrophes. People have died much too soon.  Relationships have been strained.  Dreams shattered.  I have watched as people I love have grieved over the loss of ones they love and all of it has hurt my heart.

But I have also watched people reach out and help the hurting.  I’ve witnessed sacrifice and kindness and love.

The sadness has made way for hope.  The darkness has made way for light.

And it occurs to me that this is the story of Christmas.

It is the entrance of Light into a dark and scary world.

It is the gift of Hope to the hopeless.

Joy in the midst of sadness.

Love in the purest form.

This year, I’m not ready for Christmas to end.  I’m embracing the beauty of it.

The lights.

My friends.

My family.

And our Savior.

Shame on me for waiting until December to do that.

May this Christmas be a vivid reminder for all of us – that we are not alone in this big, bad world.  We are loved beyond comprehension and we have hope for a better future.  The trials of our lives are lessons and moments and blinks of an eye.  They are tiny little pieces of a much bigger picture.  They make us realize our need – our vulnerability.  And the victories are moments to celebrate and breathe in.  And all of them are gifts and opportunities to give back.

May this Christmas be the one that makes us different.

“A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices.  For yonder breaks, a new and glorious dawn.”

This photo was actually taken a couple of years ago, but they’ve been in the same spot several times in the past few weeks.  This year I’ve been very struck by the contrast between the person of Jesus and what Christmas has become.   So I love this shot and the moments when I get to see it live and in person.  It’s my one little corner of Peace on Earth.

A couple of weeks ago, I made possibly the most brilliant decision I’ve made in the past nineteen years.  I moved my ironing board to my bedroom closet.

When we first moved into our house, it was ABOUT 800 square feet.  There was no laundry room and the only place really large enough to accommodate my ironing board was my bedroom closet.  The bedroom was on the first floor of the house – the only floor finished at that point.  After we remodeled seven years ago, that bedroom became a spare room/office.  The closet became storage for John’s hunting gear, but the ironing board remained there.  Our bedroom moved upstairs to the second floor, complete with a walk in closet.

So for seven years – SEVEN YEARS – I have walked upstairs each night to choose my clothes, only to bring them back down to the first floor for ironing.  The little hunting gear closet has become really over-crowded.  The ironing board barely fit.  I had to fight with camo every time I put it away, plus there was almost no room left for the iron itself.  A few nights ago, as I was wrestling the board back into the closet, it finally occurred to me how completely ridiculous this little set up was.  I picked up the board in one hand, the iron in the other and marched upstairs to my closet – you know, the one WHERE I KEEP MY CLOTHES – and felt like a flipping genius.

It occurs to me that this is how I’ve lived my life, pretty much all of my life.  I’ve landed on a routine, settled into it, and then stuck to it no matter what.  I have become the person who does things simply because that’s the way they’ve always been done, completely forgetting why they were done that way in the first place – oblivious to the fact that they simply don’t make good sense anymore.

I used to hate change.  I mean really, really hate – resist – avoid at all costs – stick my tongue out and spit on – change.  But lately – I’ve been craving it.  Maybe it’s because I’m realizing that at 41 years old, change is inevitable.  Things don’t work as well as they used to.  I tire easily.  I get bored easily.  And there is way more that I want to fit into my remaining years, more that can’t happen unless I initiate some changes.  It’s becoming a rush, really.  It’s exciting and full of possibility.  Maybe it’s because I’ve realized that I can’t avoid it, so I’m choosing to beat it to the punch instead – my passive, aggressive way of remaining in control.

Whatever the reason, I can’t even believe how convenient it is to take my clothes and my ironing board out of the same closet.  On the same floor.  I believe I’m finally ready to admit, that change is good.

I believe we all have defining moments in our lives – moments that leave their mark on us somehow – moments that change us.  I’ve had plenty in my life, each one marking me in its own unique way.

This past weekend was one I had looked forward to for months.  Two of my closest friends and I traveled two hours north to Indianapolis for a girls’ weekend.  We ate great food and saw a great movie based on a book we all had read, and on Saturday night we headed to the State Fair to see Sugarland in concert.  It was a gorgeous, sunny evening.  We climbed the stairs to our seats in the grandstand and enjoyed the opening act.  Of course what followed only minutes later has been documented in news reports and youTube videos a thousand times by now.   The gust came.  The stage fell.  The screams rang out.  The dust flew through the air.  And we were all changed.

I didn’t know any of the people who died, or were injured.  Although the wind terrified me, the stage didn’t hit me.  I walked away unscathed.  In the moments just after the fall, we found ourselves in a horse barn with thousands of other people who all had the same dazed look on their faces as we did.  Complete strangers, suddenly connected.  We watched it all:  the waves of dust, the swaying trusses, the fall.  We heard the crash, the screams and the sounds of people scrambling to escape from what they had just seen.  Yet, it was more than an hour later before it occurred to me that we probably witnessed death.

I am trying to process my emotions.  I am trying to be logical and thankful.  I am trying to go on with life as usual.  But I can’t shake the underlying sadness.  I can’t forget what I saw.  I can’t forget how terrified I was for my own life, and how angry that makes me.  I am angry at myself for being scared – when I know there is something better on the other side.  I’m angry that I have become so desensitized to tragedy that when it happened just yards in front of my own eyes, I couldn’t comprehend it.  I’m angry at the apathy of people who weren’t there – who can’t understand.  But I know that if I hadn’t been there, it would be just another sad headline to me too.  I am heartbroken for the people – just like me – who went to that concert expecting a night of entertainment, but left in an ambulance instead.  And I’m heartbroken for their families and their friends who are no doubt struggling to make sense of it all.  I feel for the artists who had just left or were about to take the very stage that collapsed.  I’m disgusted at the news media who immediately tried to place blame, even though their facts were so disturbingly wrong.  I’m humbled by the hundreds of arms that pushed on the broken trusses that night – many to free others they had been sharing an evening with just seconds before.  My faith in the human race was strengthened that night, as people remained calm and courteous and caring.

This experience has changed me in ways I haven’t yet defined.  I hope it has made me a little more human again, so the next time I read a headline or see a news clip, I’ll remember that there are real people involved – not just two-dimensional figures moving across my screen.  I hope I will appreciate each second I draw breath a little more too.  I hope I will be as quick to help strangers as they were to help each other that night.  I hope I will be better.

But for now, I remain sad – in my own state of grieving, I think,  for the lives lost, and the sense of security that was lost too.  Jennifer Nettles posted a statement Sunday night that said  “…we left a piece of our hearts in that Grandstand.”  So did I.

I realized something about myself today.  I could never be a politician.  Shocking – I know.  Last night I was scrolling through facebook (which I do WAAAAAY too often and must stop soon) and saw a status from an old far away friend concerning the stupid debt ceiling debacle.  I never, I mean really almost not ever, comment on things like that, but I did – mostly in response to someone else who seemed to disagree with her post.  And it turned into a debate.  Now, mind you, I think I can hold my own in a debate.  But when it comes to politics, I’m not so smart.  I have my opinions like every other proud American, but I knew I was on shaky ground.  It turned into a conversation about government and the Church and how the two roles have collided, etc…  Thank goodness, someone smarter and much more well written than myself chimed in and the guy turned on her instead for a while.  This morning I checked the thread again.  My friend had responded with a great, balanced, loving view – which I wholeheartedly agreed with.  So I chimed in one last time, hoping to wrap things up and make it clear I wasn’t a hater.  When I logged on a few hours later, she had removed the entire thread.  Hmmm…

As I took a walk just now, I found myself feeling that old familiar feeling of “I’ve upset someone.  Someone doesn’t like me as much now.  Someone has lost respect for me.  When will I learn to keep my mouth shut.”  That feeling and me, we’re pretty tight.  We’ve spent a lot of time together over the years.  And that’s when it hit me:  I should probably avoid politics.

Something else hit me:  I need to stop talking so much and start doing more, and keep my mouth shut about that too.  I was reminded just this week how much I’m annoyed by people who make a point of telling everyone how much they know.  You know, people like me.

In other news (because it’s been all summer since I’ve blogged and all of a sudden a zillion posts are popping in my head so I’m combining them into one and I have NO idea what I’m going to call it):

It’s been a long, hot summer.  I’ve been tired a lot and grumpy a lot and I’ve had a lot on my mind.  I haven’t had anything of substance to share and I’ve been irritated at myself for that.   I’ve read a lot of fiction and facebook.  I’ve pretty much given up on TV.   I read a post by Donald Miller that was awesome, all about creating art based solely on what it will do for others and not what it will do for yourself.  That was convicting, and also kept me from posting – because seriously, I’ve had nothing to offer.

I’m approaching another birthday, and I dislike them more and more every year.  My body keeps telling me it’s older, by aching and cracking and getting thicker in the middle.  I want to be positive and say that “with age comes wisdom” and “it’s better than the alternative” and all those other happy things we’re supposed to say, but that’s not how I’m feeling at the moment, so I’m not going to pretend.

I’ve spent some great times with friends and family this summer.  There was the week at the beach with dear friends.  There was Memorial Day and the 4th of July on the lake with other great friends.  There have been birthdays and engagements and lots of happy things.  I’m grateful for every last one of them.

Ethan turned 14.  He’s every single bit a teenager now.  Officially.  God love him.

I have done a pretty good job of paying attention to the little things.  I’m being a lot more intentional about that.  I hug my kid more.  And my husband.  And I kiss my dogs on their noses every chance I get.  I’ve created little spaces around my home that make me happy, and I take time to enjoy them.  And just today, I chose to go shopping instead of cleaning my house.  Now that’s progress.

When I was little, my mom used to make a casserole full of macaroni, hamburger, tomatoes and cheese and some other stuff too I think.  It didn’t really have a name.  It was just a bunch of stuff thrown together.  My dad called it Slumgully.

So there ya go.

It’s Memorial Day weekend.  After possibly the most depressing Spring weather in the history of this area, it is sunny and warm and beautiful.  Yesterday morning I decided to sit on my deck.  Since the storm went through, it’s only shaded in the mornings and I wanted to take advantage of the cool breeze.  Within seconds of sitting down, my thoughts became this:  “Wow.  There really is a lot of dead in that tree.  I wonder how much longer we’re going to have its shade.  Man, Kate is getting old.  I wonder how many more summers she’ll be laying at my feet.  Holy cow, this deck needs to be stained.  I wonder how much longer it’s going to last.”  And on & on… I quickly became very annoyed with myself.  I was wasting the first peaceful moment of summer by worrying.

Then, as it often does, my mind wandered back to my mom.  I thought about the lazy Sunday afternoons of my childhood, when my mom and dad would sleep in lawn chairs under a shade tree in our yard.  My mom, who worked her tail off all week long, would look so peaceful and content.  I loved those afternoons.  Yesterday I began to wonder if she ever had thoughts like mine.  Did she ever even imagine that she only had a few more years on this earth?  That things would change so drastically in our safe little world?  I don’t think she did.

Of course, losing my mom so young made a profound impact on me.  I think one of the biggest obstacles I face now is that of striking the delicate balance of holding on loosely.  I’m really pretty terrible at it.  I either choose not to care at all, or I care too much and set myself up for heartache.  I want to be able to live in the moment – to drink in every good thing as it happens, with the gift of knowing that it’s only temporary.  But instead, I often jump ahead to the what if’s and miss the good thing moments.

This morning I tried again.  I took my coffee to the deck.  The highway was quiet on this holiday morning.  There was a gentle breeze.  My dogs were sitting at my feet.  My flowers are blooming, the grass is green.  We’re planning to spend the day playing with great friends.  It is a perfect day.  I hugged my doggies’ necks, I smelled a flower and I thanked God for THIS moment.  It is all that is guaranteed.

I’ve been in a paranoid state lately.  Comments by family, friends, total strangers and even children have caused me to question myself.  Am I totally annoying?  Because I annoy myself sometimes.  Am I arrogant?  Because sometimes when I review my actions I’m afraid I’ve come off that way.   Are people talking about me behind my back?  Because when I come into a room it gets really quiet.  (not a good sign…)  Is my house clean enough?  Do I have bad breath?  Am I THAT person – the one that drives me crazy?

Tonight I’ve been sitting here thinking about God.  I’ve been thinking about how big He is and how He loves me even when I’m annoying.  I’ve been thinking about the way He gives us a new day every morning.  I’ve been drinking in a dose of P E R S P E C T I V E.  That perspective makes it painfully clear that I’m far more concerned with myself than other people are.  I wonder if paranoia might be a direct by-product of self-absorption.

Tomorrow I’ll try to focus a little more on loving others and a little less on whether or not others are loving me.  Because I am already loved by the only One who matters.

“Finish each day and be done with it.  You have done what you could.  Some blunders and absurdities have crept in;  forget them as soon as you can.  Tomorrow is a new day;  you shall begin it serenely and with too high a spirit to be encumbered with your old nonsense.”  – Ralph Waldo Emerson

I’ve been on a Ralph Waldo Emerson kick lately.  What an amazing writer.  Some of the best quotes I’ve ever read were first written by him.  I’ve noticed this week that no matter what mood I’m in or what the circumstances of my day may be, I can find a quote that sums it up.  I was thinking about this last night and wondered if Scripture isn’t the same way.  No matter the mood or the circumstance – there’s a scripture for that.  Sadly, I’ve also noticed that sometimes we find scriptures that justify our mood or circumstance, and I’m not sure that’s what God intended when He painstakingly wrote them.

I remember watching an Oprah show years ago about intuition.  The show explored how we ignore it too often and then look back to realize that had we trusted it, things would have turned out better.  That struck a chord with me, because I’ve found it to be true in my own life more often than I’d like.  As I’ve grown older, I’ve decided that what Oprah called intuition, God calls the Holy Spirit.

How many times do we – do I – ignore the Holy Spirit, do my own thing, and then justify it by finding scriptures to back up my actions?  How many times do I decide that a scripture means what I WANT it to mean, rather than what the Spirit is telling me it means?  The scary part about words, is that most of their meaning is left to the interpreter.  That’s probably fine when the words were written by Emerson, but when they were ordained by God, we should probably let the Spirit define them for us.

Lately I’ve been hearing words differently than people around me.  It’s very tempting for me to join the majority and accept what people seem to think the words are saying.  But the Spirit inside of me is real, and I’m choosing to run with His definitions instead.  There is comfort in blending in with the crowd, but there is FREEDOM in listening to my heart.