“We have this as a sure and steadfast anchor of the soul,
a hope that enters into the inner place behind the curtain…”
Hebrews 6:19
it was the depression talking whispering lies. my ears so full of its waxy, clingy dishonesties. I couldn’t hear Yahweh’s sweet voice. once I stumble into the fog, abruptly I lose what’s True; as so often happens when the depression starts talking.
sitting here, eating spicy valentine hearts, little messages of love I see it – so funny! He’s waiting, speaking love to me. I am so prone to wander, prone to falling down, again into my old pain, old lies, old old heavy grief. then I am grateful suddenly for the moment when I see. it was the depression talking to me.
The morning air is all awash with angels …– Richard Wilbur
You cannot unbreak a broken stick.
This morning, I awoke to a sense of life’s forfeiture. I am broken. I’ve lived half my life, if my mother is to be believed I’m only in my middle years, as if I am a broken stick; a lost cause [in my mind.] Separated from love, undeserving and Lost to hope, real joy and vigor.
Trudging along beside humanity Caught in my heartache. Living in the grays, all color is gone. Broken, bent, useless; a searing mark of shame,
Yes, our family is stuck, stuck broken open in pain, wrecked by sorrow and a narrative we’ve been unable to overcome. Addictions, the palliative that settles us for a moment; achievements, work, knowledge, studies, alcohol, even religion our swan song.
God is saying that I need to sort things out, that I am not A lost cause.
But many things have become an immense wall of fear and excuses. And if I say this out loud, it sounds like blame.
Brick by brick, I have built a wall like Fort Knox around my heart. A broken stick cannot be fixed, but a branch Still attached to the vine can be pruned.
Holding on to that image of hope which honors god’s love for us and his forgiveness of us and his promise to make all things NEW.
Fear is the thing that corrodes my spirit and damages everything good in me. It is not from God. God seems to be working on in me,
In my sleep, asking: Do I trust him enough to help us work toward reconciliation? Can I let go of the belief that our family was broken such a long time ago, so broken that it would never heal.
When everything hurts, when chaos has taken over and I cannot even imagine
Solutions, That is the key
Letting down, holding out.
When fear of outcomes prevails I asked God for help,
I ask. Ask again,
God help us, all.
The answer is in the act of asking.
Parents want, even expect beauty and joy. As time goes on life becomes Wrecked And you face over and over your lack. Life is sacred, all of it. The beauty and pain. The bitter and sweet. I envy those who don’t seem to suffer, who don’t know this sorrow and sting.
Then, I am drawn in
To Jesus Who came for Suffering.
Life is hard. Life is holy.
I ask God to help.
He is the answer.
Here I am, tethered to soil and grief. Longing for the eternal, knowing Holy living isn’t the absence of pain. It is acknowledging The pain
With eyes for the kingdom of God.
I asked God for help
For joy.
Here and now
Amongst the living.
This offering up of myself, This trusting with the hearts and minds and souls of my children, This becoming someone Good. This is the answer.
This dark, cold time of year makes me angry. I have the hardest time believing In spring. New life, Bulbs and buds
The Coming
The forward thrust, this is a Holy Hope.
I asked God for help
And he reminded me
Spring always comes.
I asked God for help
And he promised me this Ache Doesn’t equal doubt;
Wrestling with him in the darkness of depression Doesn’t equal sin.
Problems don’t equate punishment.
I asked God for help. I kept asking. I shouted, I screamed. I heralded God with curses, With my pain and he held me.
WINGS, did you know he has enormous feathered wings and they surrounded me, As they enfold They are mighty and comforting.
Instead I’ve placed phone calls to doctors, waited impatiently for return calls from nurses about supplements and medication’s interactions, and run twice to pharmacy and grocery store. And, on it goes. One child threw up this morning. Another is dealing with headaches of the magnitude that you or I would be in bed – a 9 on a scale of 1 -10. Children should not have to suffer so and as I deal with the litany of doctors, I am trying to be the advocate for the whole person who is my child. And be gracious.
I ate my third meal in as many days and just for a minute sipped ginger ale and will write this, Though I’m not technically sick (Moms don’t do that) I am unwell. The headaches and body aches with this particular virus are awful. Eating feels like an X sport.
I’ve been trying to read all day and life keeps getting in the way.
As the holidays come rushing, with the “extra” everything on the calendar, this small task will only become more difficult – there will be concerts, school projects, plays, shopping, and parties,there will be more of everything.
And I’ve tried to slow down and read because I know its important to make IT stop.
It’s essential, I think, to get up even earlier or stay up little later, just to BE.
We need it. To read that something, or to pray a little, or to write a poem or whatever we do “to stretch the canvas of our imagination”. We need to listen to meaningful music or place a phone call to an important friend or stop and say I love you. To write that letter of appreciation to someone that you perhaps wanted to do at Thanksgiving but didn’t get around to. It’s important to do those things in a whirlwind life full of obligations and duty, or service to others, or personal illness, or whatever our life entails.
It’s essential to make it all stop, especially during December to slow, and celebrate. Advent is about waiting – anticipating, leaning in, listening, and keening toward the Holy One. This takes intention.
All day, I’ve been trying to start a small little book by Enuma Okoro, Silence and Other Surprising Invitations of Advent. And finally, I have begun. In the introduction she reminds us what it means to cultivate patience. We walk along side Zechariah and Elizabeth and learn from them.
In Silence, she says: “The hard work of Advent reflection and waiting is mingled with the gift of time and space to dream new dreams, to bathe in pools of hope, and to stretch the canvas of our imagination wide enough for God to paint God’s own visions for our lives.”
What one thing are you trying to do this holiday season to slow yourself down, reflect and do the holy work of waiting? How will you wait?
Will you allow the Holy One to paint a new vision for your life?
Melody
Advert: To purchase this book in Kindle or print, go here.
The crawl of fear,
of losing, is close. It licks me,
as if I am a salty wound. Everyone dies.
Of course.
But lately, I am aware
of Life all around me
healthy or otherwise.
Tiny birds are singing a sonnet, high up in the tree.
Cancer cells are growing inside a dear old friend.
Dementia and life-stealing pain overtake a sweet elderly neighbor.
Depression and anxiety crush the once glowing spirit of my child
Meanwhile I cling
to sanity, to sobriety
and to Faith, there is Peace.
We are all dying,
and yet without the thought of imminent loss,
of the Ultimate loss, death
we haven’t appreciated our life as a gift.
Everyone dies.
Everyone lives.
Won’t you choose to live?
Choose joy in the midst of sorrow and grief?
Choose peace when hope seems dim?
Yes, fear circles around me like a flame, curling and
enveloping me in those early morning hours when
fear wakes me with a vice grip on my heart, blood pulsing.
Aware, that I am alive.
Everyone lives.
Everyone dies.
They are bitter, these days and nights. Acrid, this
awareness
to try
your hardest. Is it enough? There are no guarantees.
Friendships flounder, parents betray, marriages flop or fizzle, children
flail. life
hurts immeasurably
sometimes, is it enough
to try harder? To do your best, when your best
just doesn’t make it all — work — out?
God is faithful, always. is the promise but really, I want to say always?
Life hurts in my pores, each breath catches in my lungs.
How it possible — God is faithful.
So much sorrow, grief, loss.
So much pain, death, anguish.
How is it possible,
that God is faithful, a comfort;
is holding us tight, sheltering?
Is it okay, I don’t feel it?
Is it okay, I’m not certain?
Is it okay
that every pore hurts?
How it is possible,
God, how?
This is the week I learned that our children do not belong to us.
We are not gods, to create a small being in our image.
They come to us
needy and helpless, and we are
Caretakers. Lives, made up of
oxygen, carbon, hydrogen, nitrogen, calcium and phosphorus, even
heart, mind, and soul;
each are but dust returning to dust.
Arrogantly we live
day after day, with these small persons
believing that each meal, healthy or otherwise,
each book carefully chosen and lovingly read,
each activity selected so diligently,
each pastime and hobby, talent nurtured,
each word spoken into their small world
will stop them, and
start them,
make them
do; our Possession
to be molded, shaped, crafted
carefully controlling every encounter while they are young. As if it changes anything.
Eventually they will choose Life or Death.
Unthinking, we are judiciously creating a small being
In Our Image.
This is the week I lost.
I knew,
I gave,
I wept,
I died,
I let go.
This is the week everything changed forever;
Inside me something broke
open;
the illusion of control.
This is the week, I gave them back;
to be “mine” is to lose them forever.
Yes, this is the week I lost.
And yet, here they are. Still
living and breathing, asleep in their beds.
The crawl of fear,
Logic & Imagination 