Prayer & Action

Lots and lots of hard things have been happening.  I think I lamented about it in a recent post.  As humans, we all have different ways of managing hard things.  Husband is a pastor with a strong social justice orientation.  When hard things happen, people look to Husband's response.

Sometimes, Husband shares something along the lines (my paraphrase here) of "We can't just send thoughts and prayers because we are called to DO things.  Calling your Congressman, volunteering in your child's school, testifying at Legislature are important."  Husband gets backlash for this type of comment.  Responses like (not a paraphrase): "How do you call yourself a religious leader, a man of God?  We are called to repent and pray.  What you're preaching is wrong and a disservice to your congregation.  I'm praying for you and your misled people."  

Sometimes, Husband shares something along the lines (my paraphrase here) of "I am praying and learning."  Husband gets backlash for this type of comment.  Responses like (not a paraphrase):  "Prayer is not enough.  We are in this situation because people are too busy praying and thinking.  Please consider taking some action in your local community."

The guy can't win. I wish these people would understand what the poor man is up against.  The guy has loved me through 10+ years of mornings before 9a.  To see if he was really legit, I threw in a couple pint-sized protestors who commonly take on issues like pants and protein.  And still, he shows up.  He shows up with compassion and courage.  He shows up by playing Polly Pockets and nerf guns.  And as I watch him, I've come to realize that prayer and action aren't mutually exclusive.  I think they could maybe be considered like my co-parenting relationship.  Let's say I'm action & Husband is prayer.  Just hypothetically, of course.  

  

Action:  

When I'm left to my own devices to parent, it gets done.  But it gets done in a impatient, outcome-focused way.  See: morning routine.  I'm not sure WHY or HOW it could take 25 minutes to put on socks.  All I really care about is the tardy bell.  So, I take action now and assess collateral damage later.    

Prayer:

When Husband is left to his own devices to parent, he is present.  He focuses on what's important (swimming, snuggling, time together) & sometimes makes individual sacrifices to make it happen.  See: fun-filled Saturday.  Also see: empty fridge and over looked library books. 

Action AND Prayer:

It all (mostly) gets gone.  AND it gets done in a way that honors our priorities while checking things off the list.  Prayer allows me to connect with a perspective other than mine and settle into truths that transcend momentary stressors.  Action allows me to move closer towards that "thy kingdom come" principle.  When I watch horrific news coverage, I pause to look for God (prayer).  I pause to consider what scripture may say (prayer).  I pause to honor my big feelings about it all (prayer).  Then, I make a phone call to my congressperson (action).  I show up to the community meeting (action).  I arrange a wine and girlfriends night (action? prayer? not sure.  but important, regardless).  

Fairies and Fencing

A few things have happened since my last post, all contributing reasons to why it's been awhile.

1.  Kiddo 2.0 & Husband joined us in New Town.  Turns out, living as a family in a New Town requires as much patience and courage and compassion as living solo in New Town.  Despite the laundry and groceries and logistics, the blessings of being back together are huge.

2.  I had a "laproscopic cholecystectomy" done last week.  In case you haven't hear the term "laproscopic cholecystectomy," let me orient you.  It does NOT mean "magical new age medical procedure that consists of a few incisions smaller than paper cuts (I actually-for-real read that) that allows your gall bladder to be painlessly removed from your body by gentle, tiny fairies (I didn't-actually-for-real read that).  It DOES mean "an medical procedure that leaves you waking up in your bed, wondering if you were on the losing end of one of these fancy fencing matches:
It's my understanding that the procedure has evolved significantly and the recovery time has decreased dramatically.  And I'm grateful.  For health insurance and pain meds and attentive partners.  But mostly I'm just grumpy and impatient and tired and wondering about the logistics of waistbands and bra straps.

3.  Which is silly.  Turns out, in the 4 days I was dead to the world, things more awful than waistbands and bra straps have been happening.
Globally- Hurricanes.  Multiple hurricanes that rip off roofs and flood cities, leaving devastation for the next hurricane to pick up and whirl around.
Nationally- DACA.  I'm not in a mental state to get into much of a discourse here.  But here's what I will say.  I recently finished the book All the Light We Cannot See.  It is 531 pages and the first 500 are a devastating, raw portrayal of life leading up to the Holocaust.  A time in history when 1 person convinced lots of people there was a master race & all others should be systematically annihilated.  The fictional story took place over 80 years ago, but it felt so familiar that I had to stop several times. Somehow, I made it to the last 31 pages when things looked up enough to remind me that humans do ok by each other sometimes.
Locally- Turns our, our state is facing a significant financial crisis that's looking particularly abysmal for some of our most vulnerable populations.  I've encountered people and agencies on the front lines of education, mental health, and corrections that are simply at a loss of how we are going to keep babies, students, communities, and elders safe.

I kept putting off writing because I feel crabby and the world feels scary.  But, only writing about happy safe things doesn't feel particularly, ahem, authentic.  So.  Here we are.  I'm going to resist the urge to add a little sugar coat in the form of optimism or sarcasm or sweet story.  Here's what I am going to do.  I'm going to sign off and spend a few minutes creating (shhh....working on a knitting gift).  I don't know what after that.  What baby steps do you take towards hope?

Dresser Disaster

Back in February, before Move To New Town was public knowledge, I started this blog post:

"First the pain, then the rising." Rising?! It feels like all I'm qualified to do right now is go to bed. For a long time. I'm in a lot of pain. I'm sad. I'm confused. I'm scared. I'm angry. I cry for all the reasons. I forget where I'm going. But instead of being excused from adulting, I'm being thrust into it.

Close your business.

Buy a home.

Move your family.

So &$%! hard. Like, I'm not sure how I'm supposed to do this. Previous versions of me wanted to do it well. Now I just want to survive. There will be collateral damage. But my new expectation is "nothing I can't fix later." Instead of no mistakes, I'm shooting for repairable mistakes. So, basically, keep breathing. Keep the children breathing.


Here in August, I'm struck by the irony of my words.  A slice of Thursday mornings have turned into (for now) trees, coffee, and writing.   I sit, stare, and try to notice all the different trees.  Notice if the wind is blowing.  Notice if things are growing or dying.  I don't spend too long in that space before I know the metaphor isn't lost on my life right now.  So I write.  I had planned on writing about this phenomenon:



And, after finding my February post, it feels even more important to write about that pieces-on-the-floor bit.

Before February, it felt like I had this lovely dresser that held all sorts of important things to me.  And then someone CAME INTO MY HOUSE WITHOUT ASKING AND TORE APART THE DRESSER.  In this case, someone was a committee that made decisions about husband's job.  But I've been watching, friends.  And sometimes someone is a committee.  But sometimes it's cancer.  Sometimes it's divorce.  Sometimes it's depression or anxiety or ___________ .  And EVERY time it's an overwhelming force that doesn't ask permission, but takes names.  And we're left helpless, on the sidelines watching the carnage.

Glennon (I just use her first name as if we are besties) was the one that said "first the pain, then the rising."  She also believes that PAIN is life's greatest TEACHER.  Gah.  I don't even know why we're besties.  But after 6 months, I'm less sad and angry about the dresser pieces.  Since school has started, I've spent a lot of time on the floor (literally and figuratively) with the pieces, feeling curious.  Feeling pretty sure it's not a dresser anymore.  But recognizing some of the pieces.  The scripture on my heart this week has been Jeremiah 29:11.  For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.  Well, that's good, Lord.  Sounds like you know what this mess of particleboard and laminate is supposed to turn into? Lovely.  But, why should I trust you?  Because, in case you didn't realize, GOD, this dresser was really, really important to me.  And it is BROKEN.  And that doesn't feel very HOPEFUL or FUTURE-Y.

Then my bestie Glennon stops by with this nugget: Heartbreak is not a mistake. It’s not a problem. Heartbreak is a holy gift — an invitation from God. Heartache is a signal to you that you’ve stumbled upon something worthy of your life. Do not run, do not turn away: follow your heartbreak. The broken road is the road less traveled. Take it, walk it, it will make all the difference. Everything beautiful starts with a broken heart.

Then I found the February post where I wrote But my new expectation is "nothing I can't fix later."  Instead of no mistakes, I'm shooting for repairable mistakes. 

Sigh.  I have no problem arguing with God.  Or my besties.  But when previous versions of me say the same things as God and Besties, I start to surrender to this idea that the pieces really could become something.

So this week, I've been digging out the dress pants, putting on heels, and going to meetings.  In these meetings, I'm listening. Then I come home and putter with my furniture pieces.  I'm still not sure where the pieces fit.  But I do trust that I was built for a time such as this and somehow God will transform these pieces into prosperity and hope.

If you're in a season of dresser carnage, or holding pieces, or piecing together, please know that you are loved.  YOU are not the dresser.  YOU are a sacred energy.  

First Day of School

It's the first day of school here today.  It's a big first day, first day in New Town. Kiddo 1.0 LOVES school, so while she says she nervous, she's mostly excited for a couple of reasons:
(1) She is 98.9% extrovert and moving has significantly impacted her social life.
(2) She gets her own desk. Second grade is the real deal.
(3) She thrives on routine.  Things that fit in notebooks and equations that balance are so.her.jam.

This list is starting to sound very familiar.  We ARE talking about her, not me.   Well.  Maybe both.  Here's where we do differ.

On the first day, she is excited, eager to line up, waiting for the next thing.  It seems this would be a typical response for me too.  If we've spent any time together, you know there's aspects of parenting that I find really tedious.  Some that top the list:

Preparing food THREE TIMES A DAY.  Note, I said "food."  Martha Stewart would not constitute some of this summer's offerings as a "meal."

Arguing about the THICKNESS OF SOCKS.  Apparently, the acceptable parameters change from week to week.

Negotiating the merits of PERSONAL HYGIENE.  It's no problem to spend lots and lots of money on a particular shirt so we feel cool, but smelling bad isn't a deal breaker.

But I'm not relieved or excited.  Every single first day, I experience this huge wave of emotion.  The wear-my-sunglasses-so-I-can-covertly-cry emotion.  I used to think it was "sad" because our culture says "if it's a difficult feeling, it's probably sad.  No need to investigate further, go ahead and have a latte and check your Facebook."  But I'm getting more tuned in, and as that wave hit, I took a deep breath and noticed.

It was "vulnerable."

I feel vulnerable when I think of the servant leadership of the teachers and paras.
I feel vulnerable when I think about the overwhelming blessing of dropping my child off at a basically-free, safe-enough, equal-opportunity school.
I feel vulnerable when I think about the diverse stories each of these children carry in their backpacks, alongside notebooks and pencil boxes.

I'm going to honor that vulnerability today by making some tea & looking out my tree window while I pray for teachers and paras.
I'm going to honor that vulnerability today by getting the housework done before Kiddo 1.0 gets home so I can be present in a patient way to things like sandwiches, socks, and showers.
I'm going to honor that vulnerability today by getting therapy work done so that Kiddo 1.0 and her classmates can grow up in a culture equipped to support big feelings and healthy coping skills.

Big love, community.  I honor and appreciate the vulnerability in you!

Grief, then Gratitude

Almost exactly 2 years ago, I wrote these words in blog post:
Grief doesn't have to make sense. But everyone and every loss deserves a safe space. And our culture does a lot of running from, covering up, and simply ignoring grief. But the longer I spend noticing grief in myself and others, the more I am convinced that making space for grief is one of the bravest, kindest things we can do for one another.
I've done a lot of things since my last blog post.  Probably the biggest, though, is moving.  Back in February, we learned Partner's ministry was going to have to move to New Town.  The process in our marriage, family, and community from then until now has been brutiful (brutal + beautiful).  For today, I'm reflecting on the Good-Bye portion of the journey.

The journey is vast, here's a quick summary:

Personal belongings.  Since June, we've sold/purged 25%, toted 10% along with us, and moved the remaining 65% out of our home, into storage, and finally into our new home in New Town.  During that time, we were exposed to head lice, bed bugs, and an earthquake.  

Office.  I've started the complicated process of shutting down a small business that's in the business of relationships.  HIPPA created some expensive, tedious obstacles that resulted in me purchasing my first flip phone since 2007.  The power of relationship created sacred, devastating, and beautiful moments that resulted in me wondering if I could continue this work while simultaneously wondering how I could continue any other way.  

Relationships.  My family has lived in Current Town for the past 6 years.  Prior to that, Partner and I have spent a combined 29 years here.  It is, for now, our community. And in 13 days, I will move to New Town and start the process of creating community.  I've been thrust into a grief process for my connection to this community.  At some point, I stumbled across the post I quoted above.  And I've realized a thing about Big Grief is there's no running from it.  I'm constantly reminded of it.  People around me are reminded of it.  And I've never been so devastated, raw, and lost.  Or confused about how to handle it.  Here's the best example I can conjure: 

Let's say Kiddo 1.0 is running as fast as she can so she can tattle on Sister first.  Hypothetically. 

And Kiddo 1.0 trips in the enormous flip-flops she insists on wearing and completely face plants into the asphalt. 
Hypothetically. 

So I scoop her up, assess the damage, and convince her the gaping wound on her knee and forehead is of more immediate concern than whatever human rights violation Sister committed.   

Level 1 Grief:  Decide the pain of washing it out and bandaging it is too hard.  Stop the bleeding, give the kid a sucker, and pretend things like flesh-eating bacteria are make believe. 

Level 2 Grief: Decide the short term pain is the "healthy" option.  Hold child down while she screams, clean out the wound, apply medicine, and pray you at least have band-aids with cartoon characters on them.  Don't forget the sucker.  

Level 3 Grief: Decide the wound is outta your league.  Take child to the professionals.  Hold child down while THEY do the cleaning, mending.  Be with child through the healing.  After it's all done, child has a scar.  

At I've worked this Level 3 Grief (professionals and all), I've realized that "closure" isn't what I hoped it would be.  I thought it was the sucker, easing the pain of grief.  But there's no way to do a GOODBYE that actually makes it much better.  Much like the scar that's left behind, the relationships I'm being asked to leave have become a part of me.  I can't say goodbye to them.  I can't leave them on the alter of my church when I have my last communion.  Or in the booth of my coffeeshop when we have our "final latte." 

If you've made it this far into this very long post, here's what I need you to know:  I'm taking you with me.  I am a more humble, patient, compassionate, and brave human because of each of you.  You have literally knitted together the version of me that will take communion at New Church.  That will drink lattes at New Coffeeshop.  I would not have made it through this season without you, and will only make it through the next season because of you.  In countless moments of courage & kindness, you've made room for my grief. 

The anger, betrayal, sadness, and confusion of my grief is still there.  But, for now, they've been quieted by gratitude.  

Thank you.