Category: Poems {Going Quietly Sane}

Choose joy. Do you really think so?

Henry Nouwen said:

Joy is what makes life worth living, but for many joy seems hard to find.

They complain that their lives are sorrowful and depressing. What then brings the joy we so much desire? Are some people just lucky, while others have run out of luck?

Strange as it may sound, we can choose joy. Two people can be part of the same event, but one may choose to live it quite differently than the other. One may choose to trust that what happened, painful as it may be, holds a promise. The other may choose despair and be destroyed by it.

What makes us human is precisely this freedom of choice.

I DISAGREE. I COULD NOT DISAGREE MORE. How dare he? I did not choose to have major depression, it seems to have chosen me. But I know I have to choose to fight it like it is an enemy that wants me dead. Yes, I have something inside me that surfaces from time to time. I feel powerless against it but I have learned that I am not without choices.

I did not choose to be an addict – though in recovery – I have to accept the fact that I can’t drink. Not ever again. The very fact that it still bothers me and I feel sad about the loss, well that reminds me that I’m an addict if I had any doubt. There was a time when I thought I couldn’t live without alcohol. Now I know that I can. I choose to be a recovering alcoholic.

But I have not found joy. I am not choosing joy. I am choosing life. I am happy. I feel a certain level of contentment. But I am restless. I do not feel joy. At least not yet. Perhaps I am failing to CHOOSE IT.

Choose joy – okay – I suppose on a certain level I have to agree just like … I choose LIFE. I choose not to smoke which is slow suicide. I choose not to drink which was a death sentence. I choose to get up, even when I want to sleep forever. I still have those mornings. And I choose to create, and love and … I choose to think that what I do matters even when the ‘voices in my head’ tell me it is all worthless. And it wouldn’t matter if I stopped. Stopped thinking. Stopped writing. Stopped shooting. Stopped.

Some days it is still just choosing to breathe.

That little girl above – a chubby toddler gazing out of that airplane door — innocent, curious, tentative, that’s me too. She had no idea how hard it would be to choose.

Some other things I have written on the topics above.
Eulogy to Life,
Winter Comes,
Splintered Truth,
This Epic Grief,
No Dignity,
I Need a Filling,
Addict.

My Mother


My Mother

Originally uploaded by M e l o d y

This is actually my mom the weekend of my dad’s funeral. She looks nice. Slightly at peace.

He died on a Sunday and we had the service the next weekend because she was unavailable during the week. (That’s her story.)

There were all sorts of people at my house coming and going.  At this moment a bunch of us were sitting  in the sun, out front of my house, chatting.  It is a good memory – those moments with close friends and family – together.

Today she said to me:

“I’m 72 years old and for the first time in my life I spoke out loud the words — that my father and my husband had abusive anger.  That I was afraid.”

A miracle.

I told her it gets easier.   Once you say it out loud.

And reminded her of my poem about secrets.

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A Sacred Contract [a poem]

Tonya (8), Melody (10), Holly (3) and Paula (12) with Dan Harrison in southern California, 1976.

SISTERS: A Sacred Contract

A sacred contract between sisters;
My secrets are yours,
yours are mine,
And theirs

are ours together.

Four sisters.
Bound to one another
by secrets.
‘You don’t owe each other,’
my husband said.

Oh, but we do.
For we are survivors of secrets,
together.

by Melody Harrison Hanson, 2005

I’ll never forget how terrified I was when I wrote this.  When I sent it on to my sisters to read I feared their rejection because you see we never talked about dad much, not negatively.  Not until he died because  of his anger.  It just wasn’t worth it.

[Now some of you who knew the gentle, charming character of Dan Harrison will be rising your eyebrows and questioning me now.  Some day, perhaps I will have the energy to remember and write what our childhood was like.  Because we remained until the day he died strangled by his anger.]

You see, when you experience psychological trickery and  mental torment or suffering it creates a level of fear that is insurmountable.  We all suffered physically from this over the years.  I had stomach aches, Holly and my mom had headaches, the others in their own way.  The worry, the knowledge that at any time he might lash into a rage, get stirred up over the smallest thing, I never understood his trigger.  It caused us mental and emotional anguish.  But the very hardest for me was the secret of it.

That’s where this poem comes from.

Questions, cause I’ve been thinking

I have a lot of questions right now because I’ve been  thinking.  And when I start thinking I find I end up with more questions.

diversity @ church.

One of my favorite writers, Philip Yancey, recently scoured his hometown churches to see what he might find.   His comment about diversity in a church stood out to me.

As I read accounts of the New Testament church, no characteristic stands out more sharply than this one. Beginning with Pentecost, the Christian church dismantled the barriers of gender, race, and social class that had marked Jewish congregations. Paul, who as a rabbi had given thanks daily that he was not born a woman, slave, or Gentile, marveled over the radical change: “There is neither Jew nor Greek, slave nor free, male nor female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus.”

Huh, diversity is Biblical.  ‘Nuf said.

MLK day was it ignored or forgotten? does it matter which.

Can I just say I love my church.  I have never grown in my spiritual life the way I have at this church.  It is amazing.

That said, yesterday I realized a stunning thing.   I attend one of those “mainly white mega-churches that don’t mention commemorating Martin Luther King Day.”   That made me sad.  They likely bumped it because of praying for Haiti and there are many challenges managing program time.  Still, I think it is important for a church to communicate from the platform that remembering and celebrating with our friends of color is significant to us all and valuable.   It’s a national holiday?  How are people going to spend it? Just made me wonder.

I’ve been writing on multi-ethnicity.

A friend asked me to reflect on Ecclesiastes 4:1-3, after reading these thoughts I wrote about my experience of going to a white church and my question of whether I should consider attending a multi-ethnic or even Black church.

Again, I observed all the oppression that takes place under the sun. I saw the tears of the oppressed, with no one to comfort them. ‘The oppressors have great power, and their victims are helpless.  So I concluded that the dead are better off than the living.  But most fortunate of all are those who are not yet born. For they have not seen all the evil that is done under the sun.  (New Living Translation)

From my post:

To live our lives based on that simple truth means our lives are built on self-sacrifice.  Every time we respond in love to someone else, we are laying down our lives for them.  “This is my commandment,that we should believe in the name of his Son Jesus Christ and love one another.” Strange how Jesus did not say to us, “these are my commandments.”  He said is as if it were one commandment.

To believe and love is one idea.

Believing in Christ means that we love one another.  Looking at it that way, there is a lot that I can do as a person with my affluence & power &  a voice for the cause of reconciliation in my city.  Things that have nothing to do with where I worship on Sunday.

What my friend Jimmy was gently saying (I think) is that people are living with oppression in our nation my city, in my kid’s schools.  And no one white people don’t seem to genuinely offer care and comfort.

I will do further study on the word: COMFORT.  And that will sooth my intellect.  But can I DO something.  What can I do?

That takes me back to my Advent Lament and prayer. Oh God, Tell me what you want me to do.

And from someone I am coming to read often, a cautionary quote to white people.

I can only speak anecdotally on this, but there seems to be a growing movement of white people—including Christians—who feel so victimized by political correctness (and how it’s robbing them of their rights) that they’ve hardened their hearts to any suggestion that racial injustice is a factor in our society today. And they’ve become cold to how their privileged words and actions might affect others. That defensive mindset and callousness could be the biggest obstacles to true reconciliation in our churches and nation. Ed Gilbreath, emphasis mine.

I believe God speaks and it is not random.

I believe that God challenges and moves people from within by breaking our hearts over injustice around us.  He is not random about this.  He leads us toward things.  And away from things.  Problematically I have been told  and I can affirm that I have the gift of mercy.   I pop open my laptop and the needs and issues all over the world, and in my community, flood toward me and it all hurts.   If I open myself up to it it’s crushing.  It makes me sad, and mad, and sometimes depressed.  Hopeless and sometimes despondent.  And I slam my laptop shut, but that’s just an excuse for doing nothing.

I challenge  myself to pray every day asking God to tell me how to respond to the OPPRESSED in my life and community.  Who are they?  How can I comfort?  Help me to know what it means to comfort the oppressed?

This means that I cannot be free until all men are free. And if in some distant future I am no longer oppressed because of blackness, then I must take upon myself whatever form of human oppression exists in the society, affirming my identity with the victims. The identity must be made with the victims not because of sympathy, but because my own humanity is involved in my brother’s degradation.  The Christian Century (15 September 1971)

what should I do with myself?

I continue to pray that I would know what God wants me to do with my time, work, contribution, opinions (*smirk*), and talents.

I’m still mulling on a conversation I had with one of my girlfriends (Someone I would trust with my life.)  We discussed what I am doing now.  I found myself saying this,

“I need a job.  I’m feeling like a kept woman.”

Why she asked? Laughing at me, if can you believe it.

“I need to make a contribution. I feel guilty that I don’t have a ‘job.’ The feminist in me is screaming that I should be carrying my weight… I was never going to be a stay-at-home mom..  And look at me, my kids are in elementary school.”

After leaving full-time work in 2001, I had no idea as it was happening that was beginning a long journey of “recovery” from being totally addicted to work — the rush, the sense of purpose, the affirmation (Oh, how I miss the affirmation!)  I came out of that detox a better person.  A stronger person.  Much better understanding that I am not what I do.  And I’m glad (mostly) that I have been able to be at home with my children for the last eight or is it nine years.  I feel okay about it, some days even good.  I can see every day why I am home when it comes to my kids.  Jacob’s need for an advocate for his learning disabilities is just one example.  On one level, I think I started Imagine Photography to dispel that feeling of being ‘a kept woman.’  Bring in a little income myself, but still have the at-home life.  But I haven’t taken off with that even though with my marketing background I know how to promote myself.  Something has held me back.

But I digress.

What Carol did was confront those ideas head on (yes, the voices in my head) that say I should be ‘making money.’  It freed me to consider any job or volunteer situation because  I was thinking about it only in terms of money not in terms of values and interests and calling and heart’s desires.

I just feel freed.  It was inconceivable to me at first that someone who manages to work and be a mom (my friend who I really respect and need) would not look down on me for not working.  She actually said, you do work.  Every day.  Well, we don’t need to have a debate about what I do all day and whether it’s work.  Her blessing (not that she represents all women) and her opinion is one of the more important to me.

But now,  I can pray and wait.  Listen.  Try things.  Explore.  I can give of myself without thinking about “earnings.”

Haiti

When it comes to Haiti I have more questions than answers.  This poem is a part of that conundrum.  Also, a post.

This week’s message @ church

I wanted to respond to the message this Sunday at my church.  But I don’t have the time or energy today.  But something new I am going to add to this blog, is a personal reflection on the talk.  I think it will force me to take it to the next level of integration into my life.

Be well.

my God is not random (a poem)

My God is not random.  He loves me.  He loves you.

He created Adam and Eve.

He put them in a perfect place.  He had

communion with them. He gave them

e v e r y t h i n g.

My God is not random. He longs for that with you and me.

I am Eve, you are Adam but we live in a broken place.

We are wreckage.  We are turmoil and pain.

But he never stops loving us red, yellow, black and white.  All named Precious!  Precious brown and beige and ivory.  Precious bronze, chestnut and chocolate. Precious cinnamon and cocoa, ecru and ginger.  Tan and tawny.  Even terra-cotta.  Precious chestnut, alabaster, and milky white. Precious ebony and obsidian. Precious slate.  Cream and sand. He made us and calls each one Precious.

My God is not random.  My God loves all.

Big & tall.  Short and fat.  Skinny or petite.  Hideous.  Beautiful.  Proud.  Angry.   Perfectionists and slackers.  Healers.  Takers.  Know-it-alls and those that don’t.  Intellectuals.  Mystics.  Liberals.  Moderates. Conservatives.  indifferent. All. Those that clean and serve.  Those that won’t.  Prosperous or poor.  Passionate or indifferent. Foolish or wise.  Filthy or Clean.  Hungry or full.  Broken and hurting.  Devastated and afraid. Crushed.  Alone. Dieing.  Texting ten and those that don’t.  Those that go and those that stay.  Loved and precious.  ALL.

I am Adam.  You are Eve.

Don’t ya get it? Don’t you see?

We messed up this place.

Think you’re important?  He seriously does not care, unless you choose to help.

It is no matter to him who you are or what you have done .  That you have Hated.  Ignored.  Hurt.  Judged.

He loves you, Me, Adam, Eve.

All of us, He loves and calls us precious.

Then he let us choose.

We walked away. We ignored.

My God isn’t random. He says:

Come Eve.  Come Adam.  Come into the garden.  Dwell.  Be with me.

See the world  Do something. Feel the pain of others and respond.

I am the world.  I am hungry.  I am thirsty.  Feed me.  I am a stranger.  Invite me to your meals. I am cold and in need of clothes.  Cover me. I am sick, imprisoned won’t you look after me?

I gave you everything. What will you choose?

If you say “That can not be you Lord!  When are you ever hungry or thirsty or a stranger or naked or sick or in prison?”

Look! If we turn toward him, he will

break our heart. He will give us

Eyes. Ears. Hands. Feet.

He is not random. He let’s us choose.

He loves the hungry.  He loves the thirsty.  He loves the naked, the sick, the incarcerated.   He loves me and you.  No mater what we do.  No matter what we’ve done.

He wants your tomorrows.  He wants communion with you.  He named you Precious.

Won’t you listen, come.

Written in response to the crisis in Haiti.  To those who cry out in a moment like this and say “if there is a god he is terrible.  How could he?”  In my perhaps inelegant way I am trying to say he loves each of us and if we were to respond to him the world would be such a better place.  The poverty and tragedy in Haiti has been there for hundreds of years.  The world ignored, but for a few.  And still, he loves.

this poem is far from done.   a torrent of thoughts.  still unruly and a mess.

What Can’t our Daughters Do?

I’m re-posting something I wrote a year ago.  It was my most popular article ever written with more than a thousand viewers.  So I thought it was worth posting again.  

———————–

Quickly — I want to thank all my visitors from the homepage of wordpress.com. Welcome!  Wow!  A lotta love happens when you get featured on the homepage.  Until yesterday, this was a little ol’ blog visited by some of my friends and a few Facebook contacts. I was essentially writing to myself and my lurkers (I do have quite a few of those.)

It would kill me to have you think I’m some ranting feminist and that’s what this blog is about.  Because that is not true, about the blog, I mean. I am a feminist.  And I can rant (at times.)  Okay quite often.  But I rant — ahem write about many topics.  I post my poetry, and talk about all sorts of things from politics, faith & (dis)belief, family & parenting, depression & mental health.  It’s varied.

I’m a Haus Frau, free-lance photographer and generally vexed person who writes.  If it were not for my faith I’d be mean and ugly things would come out of my mouth.  But if you find anything golden here it is because of grace of God in my life.   Melody

I started writing these thoughts about two months ago.  But Nicholas Kristof’s article in today’s NY Times entitled, Religion and Women, got me thinking, again.   I am a regular reader of his Op-Eds.

Do you believe this little girl does has the right to the same opportunities as these boys?  (Even if she felt called to be a Pastor?)

Kristof mentions Jimmy Carter’s speech to the Parliament of the World’s Religions in Australia, which I read when it was first posted online.

(I think I’m “in love” with Jimmy Carter because he lives his life with principles.  And standing up for women is sexy!  But that’s irrelevant here.)  I don’t have complete or even very coherent thoughts on the topic yet, I just want to ask some questions:

  • Is feminism as simple as giving women equality in work, home, church life?
  • Do women deserve access to anything that men have access to?  Why do some men have such a problem with this?
  • Do you believe your daughter has a right to every opportunity that your son has?  Why would a loving God say she doesn’t?  What can’t our daughters do?

Personally, I think oppressing  a woman, from war lords raping women in the Congo, to Afghani men who throw acid on girls faces, to men who psychologically abuse women, or the British woman who was arrested for being raped in Dubai, all of this should make us sick to our stomachs and even more culturally accepted things like putting women down, objectifying women.  And yes even keeping them from leadership opportunities they are obviously qualified, all of these things give men the chance to believe that women are inferior human beings.  And when you do that, bad things happen in our homes, institutions and relationships.

Sexism is any mistreatment of women, ranging from violence against women, to treating women as inferior, to objectifying a women. Any time women are treated in any way other than a respected human being with every opportunity in the world!

“Women are prevented from playing a full and equal role in many faiths, creating an environment in which violations against women are justified,” former President Jimmy Carter noted.  “The belief that women are inferior human beings in the eyes of God gives excuses to the brutal husband who beats his wife, the soldier who rapes a woman, the employer who has a lower pay scale for women employees, or parents who decide to abort a female embryo.”

Jimmy Carter sees religion as one of the basic “causes of the violation of women’s rights.”

As a member of The Elders, a small council of retired leaders brought together by Nelson Mandela, he is speaking out.  The Elders are focusing on the role of religion in oppressing women, and they have issued a joint statement calling on religious leaders to “change all discriminatory practices within their own religions and traditions.”

Why do I have a problem with women not being elders at my church? Because in its simplest form it is saying:

  • That women are not trusted by God with the complete story, or
  • that women somehow don’t have what it takes to lead the church, or
  • that women don’t have full access to God, or
  • that women  don’t have the wisdom and life experience,
  • We do not have whatever it takes.

Oh, believe you me I know (some) churches will allow you to do anything else! Serve, give, teach, be missionaries.  Just not be the spiritual guide.  It just doesn’t feel right.  In my gut.

Eugene Cho, is a pastor and leader and all around amazing, wise and prophetic person who has written and thought about this subject saying:

“Shouldn’t we work together to build a culture (even amongst our own churches) of respect and dignity? How do we do that beyond the debates of the ordination of women?  How do we do that in our lives, families and churches (or must it be connected to the issue of ordination?)  What’s clear to me is that it’s really difficult to pursue these things when we don’t hear directly from women. Or allow ourselves to listen to women… aka – that we take a posture of humility and submit, believing that God can actually speak through women as well. Why?”

I’ll tell you why.  Because they do not fundamentally believe they should be listening to women.  You can’t convince me otherwise.

Surprisingly, in a progressive place like Madison we settle for less on this subject.  It is rare in Madison that are women subjected to overt forms of sexism.  Most of the men I know are loving and open-hearted.  And so, in the church especially, women let a lot go.  We ignore the whole Elder and women being ordained issue, just glad we’re all getting along.  And in fact my church is ahead of many other Evangelical churches in the area.

What I don’t like is that we aren’t willing to talk about these things.  We need to talk about these things.  The fact that we don’t talk about it is painful to me. I believe if we want grow, to heal, and to have everyone truly empowered and working out of their gifts and abilities, it is crucial that we be willing to talk.

It takes an immense amount of energy to challenge someone on their sexism. It is much easier to sit here and write about it.  Even a situation that is simple and straightforward, which I wrote about a few weeks ago, sent me into a tailspin for about 12 hours.  I knew it was sexist.  I couldn’t believe how bad I felt and wondered how my sister, an ordained minister in her own church felt being spoken to in such a demeaning manner.  I suppose in some ways I forgot, being out of the workplace and not heavily involved at church, that this is still common, and widespread.

It would seem that sexism would be easy to recognize.  As with any type of discrimination, sexism can be both personal and institutional, obvious and much more subtle.  Do you think you could spot sexism when it occurs?  These are all in the category.

  • Definitely commenting on a woman’s looks when you should or could be talking ideas with her can be a form of sexism.
  • The use of pejorative names like ” ‘girls’ at the home office” and other patronizing terms can be a form of sexism.
  • A teacher or pastor or youth worker offering more attention to one gender can be a form of sexism.
  • Only hiring people of a certain gender for a specific type of job can be a form of sexism.  (Every support role in a church or ministry being filled by one gender, female.)
  • Expecting only people of a certain sex/gender to be interested in specific activities can be a form of sexism.
  • Identifying activities, roles and chores as male or female can be a form of sexism.
  • Steering students towards specific subjects based on their gender can be a form of sexism.

Mutual respect, openness and conversation are what we need.

I have rung the bell too many times within my church on the role of women. I try to be respectful and teachable. But I am tired of being told “Talk to so and so, who is a woman who leads…” so that she can tell me why she’s accepted the fact and is okay that she will never be an elder in the church.  Pass.

I’ve decided it’s the denomination that speaks.  Women are not pastors or ordained in our denomination.  I cannot change the Evangelical Free Church of America denomination (Or can I? my son would say.  But I know I cannot.) so I have to decide if I can live with it.

And it comes down to whether I can counteract the message, subtle as it is from the platform, that says to my 12-year-old daughter sitting in the pew — you will never do that job.  You will never be a pastor.  You don’t need to study scripture as seriously as the boys, because you aren’t accepted at their seminary.  Women do not preach.  You will not see women preach in our church.

I just think that’s sad.  It makes me very sad.

Prayer: Would that I were more faithful

Would that I were faithful in prayer

in so many things.

That I would have the maturity to turn off the noise

and seek what faithfulness requires.

Solitude first,

Prayer compels, then demands an acquiescence of the will.

It asks for a level of trust and ascent,

surrender and humility.

Things I do not have, but as I sit and listen,

I am able to ask

for less of me that I might be, faithful.

a crooked road to home (a poem)

a crooked road

by Melody Harrison Hanson
December 31, 2009

Mama, I never thought being an adult child would be so hard.

being an adult child, of an adult who – is – a – child.

Reader. If you’re confused,
welcome.  It is a crooked road, full of twists I cannot define.  I cannot see to the other side.
I cannot look back, because I would slip on the path of unshed tears.

Mama, I get nothing from you.  Nothing for weeks. Before that, nothing

for as long as I can remember.

And I’m trying to figure out what’s going on. I’m trying to figure out what you want?  Do you want anything

[ from me?]

You never reach out.  You never check in.

Should I just assume you’re fine. You don’t want or need anything from me?

Reader. If you’re confused,
welcome.  It is a crooked road, full of twists I cannot define.  I cannot see to the other side.
I cannot look back, because I would slip on the path of unshed tears.

Mama, you can act like I’m not here.

Invisible.

Someone else’s child.

And [I think] I could live with that

if you didn’t act like you DON’T act

like that.  If you didn’t pretend

you are you.

If you didn’t pretent

You are the Mother.

Reader. If you’re confused,
welcome.  It is a crooked road, full of twists I cannot define.  I cannot see to the other side.
I cannot look back, because I would slip on the path of unshed tears.

And why, I think ,can I not be the adult?

Why can’t I make the calls, do the diligent thing? Why,

because I am somehow a little girl

waiting and hoping, for mama to Come Home.

I have a lot of poems about my feelings about parents… You can read them by going here:  https://logicandimagination.wordpress.com/tag/my-poetry/

Mel

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For Everything there is a Season

It is George Bernard Shaw that said what is the true joy in life,

“the being used for a purpose

recognized by yourself as a mighty one;

the being thoroughly worn out before you are thrown on the scrap heap;

the being a force of nature

instead of a feverish selfish little clod of ailments and grievances

complaining that the world will not devote itself to making you happy.”

I am starting to feel a such a sense of self-loathing because I need more to do with myself.   Do I have an utterly solipsistic life?  Not to be overly dramatic, but the care and well-being of my children is simply not enough.  I have wrestled with the demon and shame of that for nine years, since I quit working  at InterVarsity and began to take care of my kids full-time.  Even at the beginning, when I was trying to decide I never believed it would be enough for me.  And tho there have been wonderful moments, it has not been satisfying, not really.  How do you live with the knowledge that you should not have made the decision that you did?  I could hardly admit that after walking away from a really amazing job.  But my situation at work had grown intolerable and seemed impossible to fix.  So after nearly a year of soul-searching  — I quit .  I chose to become an at-home mom. Even while I was changing diapers and wiping noses, singing songs and cuddling, wiping away tears and reading stories — all thoroughly wonderful things, mind you — I struggled.  Though I know many, many women (and some men) do find it to be full of purpose, I was confused, very lonely, sad and missing my work.

Of course I questioned myself!  For all those years, thirteen at InterVarsity and nine years of being at home, I was searching internally for a sense of  my purpose.   At IV I was constantly pushing people and myself to try new things more out of a sense of my need for change and overworking as well.  I was frantic and dissatisfied most of the time.  So I don’t want to give the impression that WORK was a panacea or mecca.  I have searched for ultimate purpose my whole life and I still am looking.

On one level, have a father who was so dynamic and incredible made me expect more — of myself, of my work, of my life.

I think this blog was in part trying to sort that out.  Talk about things that are important to me.  Wrestle with ideas, doubt, passions and self-absorption, say something important or  at least interesting.  It was a venue for my poetry and a way to get feedback on it.

I once was a human dynamo, even while learning the hard way how to treat others with the dignity and with the care they deserved.  I had failures which I feel deep sorrow.  I could name the people whose lives I hurt as a leader or manager and I have such regret. But at the time I was so full of my accomplishments that it didn’t slow me down.  While I was making mistakes I was also accomplishing a lot (some of it good, a few things I consider great) and people were affirming and promoting me.  As I have mentioned at other times, I had altercations with another leader and that conflict became too much for me .  It wasn’t worth it after a while.  I had reached a place of resistance and no-where to go in the organization without running into this person.  I guess you could say they ‘won’ if it was a competition (which it felt like) and I lost by walking away.

When I left work to be at home  full-time, I was at first almost giddy with how simple it was.  Uncomplicated.  The sameness of the days was a relief after all that unpredictable infighting and conflict!  And then it wasn’t so great.  More like Ground Hod Day, if you have seen the movie.  The same day over and over, the alarm ringing and waking to realize it is THAT DAY again and again and again.

“Don’t waste life in doubts and fears; spend yourself on the work before you, well assured that the right performance of this hour’s duties will be the best preparation for the hours and ages that will follow it.”  — Ralph Waldo Emerson

What being at home did, with one day indistinguishable from the next, was to strip it all away — shattering the persona I had created and forcing me to look hard at my internal grid work.  I had to face and try to understand my family of origin.  While caring for my kids,  the successful person that I had been was unimportant, even irrelevant.  And I had no choice but to face myself — look in the mirror and frankly I wasn’t very happy with what I saw.

Through it, I was overcome by a deep, deep depression.  It hit most powerfully over two months and because I didn’t know what was happening to me I thought I was going mad.  Crazy.  Cuckoo.  Insane.  And I was utterly helpless to help myself.  I couldn’t make decisions.  I couldn’t sleep.  I couldn’t DO anything.  I had no energy, my mind was sludge, my heart felt like it might stop.

I remember talking to my dad on the phone, sitting on my backporch in the beautiful warn summer sunshine, saying “Dad, I just want to be happy.”  That was June.  He mailed me a plaque that said “You are the one Jesus loves” and  at the time my skin crawled at the thought!  I had absolutely lost any idea of God’s grace in my life or belief in His  individual love for me.  I was in the pit of despair and I did not believe it.  If I were the only one that existed, I would be loved by Jesus.   Little did I know this was to become a theme over the next years as I began to fight with God over his approval and affirmation.

In October my parents came to visit and I had manage to get myself functional.  My dad acted wierd and kind of mean, but he has always been slightly mean so I thought nothing of it.  Then in November he was diagnosed with brain tumors and we discovered his tumors had made him behave oddly for some time.

By May of the next year he was dead, but he was “gone” long before that.  After surgery, chemo and radiation he was gone.  He never said my name after his December surgery but he did call me Linda, once.  My mother went into treatment that April and was sober to see my dad die.  We’re all grateful for that.  Her alcoholism, his illness and death, my depression, my own alcoholism which I couldn’t accept, continuing to care for three young children…  You can imagine it was an ugly few years.  I am most grateful for Tom hanging in there with me and even more than just hanging, he helped fight for me and got me back into a place of genuine health.

Through those years, I struggled to do the hard work of therapy and if anyone has never done therapy you really have no idea how much work it is.  Weekly and sometimes twice a week at first, which turned into years of work.  I won’t go into all the detail here (too much was happening) but I have had episodes off and on with the depression for these many years.  With medication, several doctor’s care, a hospitalization after a suicide attempt, the care and long-suffering of Tom, much prayer and internal work which became eternal work,

I faced that I had become an alcoholic,

I faced that I needed to learn to love myself,

I faced that all of this around me (stuff & things) mattered not a whit,

I faced my loneliness,

I faced my insecurities developed from a lifetime of feeling my parents didn’t approve,

I faced a pathological need to be perfect,

I faced that I start and quit many things – I’m good at starting things and have more trouble with maintaining them;

I faced that I was tired of being at home, …

_______

Jeez, that makes me one crazy messed up woman that no-one will want to hire.  yes, that’s what the voices in my head began to say.

For everything there is a season,

And a time for every matter under heaven:

A time to be born, and a time to die;

A time to plant, and a time to pluck up what is planted;

A time to kill, and a time to heal;

A time to break down, and a time to build up;

A time to weep, and a time to laugh;

A time to mourn, and a time to dance;

A time to throw away stones, and a time to gather stones together;

A time to embrace, And a time to refrain from embracing;

A time to seek, and a time to lose;

A time to keep, and a time to throw away;

A time to tear, and a time to sew;

A time to keep silence, and a time to speak;

A time to love, and a time to hate,

A time for war, and a time for peace.

Ecclesiastes 3:1-8

I have carried many stones.  Lost so much.  Wept an ocean inside.  Seen death and mourning.

I am ready to dance, to seek and listen.  I am eager to know what it is that I am here to do.  My advent lament was to cry out for God to speak.

James Thurber said:

All men should strive to learn before they die, what they are running from, and to, and why.

Stay tuned as I learn to dance, seek and listen!

clever by emma

I know I’m a proud mama, but this poem is amazing.

clever

by emma, 12 years old

I am witty and clever.
I wonder why people fight.
I hear everything.
I see people.
I want fairness.
I am witty and clever.

I pretend I can fly.
I feel weightless.
I touch the cold metal.
I worry about change.
I cry like crazy.
I am witty and clever.

I understand pain.
I say ‘laughing is good.’
I dream about life.
I try so hard.
I am witty and clever.

get.me.off.this.ride

hey!  is anyone listening?  yeah you. God!

i.wanna. get. off. this. ride. you. got. me. on.

i am not the One you think I am.

i. am. not. good.

i. am. no. good.  i am no different from him.

oh i may not let the rage outside. but the stream of anger is W.A.I.L.I.N.G.

inside. polluting. my. mind. like. a. pinball. arcade. pow. pow. pa pow.

get. me. outta. here. i. say. get me away from your Children.

away from the hunger.fear.grief.self-hatred.shame.need.regret.poverty.addiction.cold.

your people are so c o l d.  cause old.man.winter’s blowin’ in.

give back, He whispers. you are forgiven.

the warm Breath of His Spirit Swirls Around.

Give back. You can.

And then I begin to hear it, the rhythm.  The pulse inside me and out. A quiet far away beat. Tu – tu – TU.  It’s repeated in my heart.  My stomach.  My soul.  My head.  It tickles my ear. It moves in my feet.   give.you.can.give.

Give. You. Can.  Cause you are forgiven.  I am hope.

I say Now that’s enough reason. Yeah, I hear you now, Tu – tu – TU whispered to me.  Yes, I am stepping back in.

They refused to obey. And they were not mindful of Your wonders that you did among them. But they hardened their necks, and in their rebellion they appointed a leader to return to their bondage.  But You are God, ready to pardon, gracious and merciful, slow to anger, abundant in kindness, and did not forsake them. 
[Neh. 9:17 (NKJV)]

Advent Lament: My Endless and Voluminous Need

Some have said Advent is an opportunity to walk into the dark night of the soul, as Nouwen called it. This works for me.  As I sat in church yesterday I felt unsettled and angry.  Stirred by the challenges of my life I felt a heightened awareness of my need — my endless and voluminous need.

For some weeks I have had a growing sense of discomfort.  This happens to me from time to time, though years can pass in between.  It is a strange unwelcome melancholy that affects me emotionally, spiritually, and physically.  In can bring a new level of understanding, a softening, an unfolding of my heart.

But in what I have come to know as predictable, my inner self resists.  I find myself becoming angry, distrusting, and irritated.  I do not know why I respond this way, only that it has come enough times in my life that I recognize it.  It may take me a while, days or weeks to finally see it for what it is, but then as I face it, the unsettling of my soul, I understand why nothing seems right, no one pleases me, and everything is causing a level of increasing frustration.

Especially expectations of Christmas, stated and unspoken.  I am overly aware of money or lack of it, kitsch or classy decorations, who is spending or not, and how special I can make things for my children and family.  This focus on material becomes enormous, crowding out what’s going on inside me.

My every sense is magnified. My heart tells me it is impossible to resolve all the conflict in my heart.

For the first time in a while I responded by writing a lament to God.  Restricted by the scenario at church of time and space, everyone jotting down on a small piece of paper their gratitude, praise or a lament, I resisted at first.  Then, I quickly wrote from my heart:

Tell me what you want me to do.  Speak.

Hearing God speak is one of my greatest places of doubt as a believer.  Oh, God does speak to me and when he does I am always totally blown away by its clarity.  But still I live mostly in the in between riddled with unfaithful doubt.

As a voracious reader, the world of blogging has opened up to me an instantaneous flood of information and I’ve gorged on it of late.  As is my nature, I tend to go to the extremes.  I have found hundreds of insightful people and blogs.  I wish I could read them all daily but my world around me would fall to pieces in disarray if I did.

Early this morning I read a summary of a presentation by the Rev. Dr. Christopher Beeley, professor at Yale Divinity School.  It put into words this cycling of despair, response, growth in a way I have not been able to understand or summarize myself. Don’t you love it when that happens?  Beeley presented:

“a three-step process of faith formation offered by John Newton and developed from a reflection of Newton’s on the parable of the sower. The first step is “Desire.” A person might feel “elation” and “joy” or “relief.” The sense of desire propels one into church with a sudden surge of awareness of God’s grace and love. This first phase is like the Hebrews freed from Egypt, it brings with it a sense of elation. While the sense of desire and God’s love persist they also change with time leading to the second phase.”

“The second phase is “Conflict.” This is the “dark night of the soul” phase where one wrestles with God, with faith,and often faces challenges that were not experienced in the first phase of Desire. If Desire is marked by elation like that of the Hebrew freed from slavery, this phase is marked by a sense of being lost, the Hebrews wandering in the desert for 40 years. This is a time of growing more dependent on God and deepening our trust as we travel through one challenge after another.”

“The second phase leads to the third phase. Newton is careful to spell out that one is not necessarily a better believer or person in one phase or the other, rather one’s sense of dependence on God increases through each phase. To me this phase sounds a bit like what the Buddhists call “Detachment.” This phase is marked by a shift in emotions where one becomes less emotionally engaged in the challenges and more able to view them with some distance, having put one’s trust in God.”

“…These phases, A, B, and C were not linear but perhaps a spiral that repeats over and over through life.” (emphasis mine).  Grace in the Blade by John Newton, three phases beginning on page 171.

As I sit fully within the Conflict stage, naming it helped me immensely.  I can say that my spiritual path has wound around and around in that spiral my entire life.  It wasn’t until I read these thoughts of Newton that I understood what was happening.

Much of my spiritual journey has involved doubt, restlessness and pain.  As I listen to those believer’s whose ‘faith’ seems to be pure saccharine goodness, I’ve felt constantly in revolt!  That has not been my experience!

My spiritual experiences have been marked by questions and confusion as I wrestle with the strange truth of this radical person Jesus and the rest of scripture and reconcile them with real life; Christians whose lives are tinged with hypocrisy, the weakness of my own dark heart, and a life riddled with iniquity.

As I learn to cry out as I did yesterday, I am certain that He will respond.  Advent for me will be a time of listening, and so I wait.  I wait for him to speak and tell me what to do.  I wait for Him to speak.