in the midst of ashes, hope

Broken Bits and Pieces

I am so bloody tired of this feeling of being trapped and held by the past, unable to live the abundant life that was promised to each of us.

And I am frightened. Scared to death of the endless looking back to see and remember. When will I find in the midst of the ashes, hope. And where is it?

All the broken bits of me are scattered and the wind gusting into my life today threatens to blow me away.

I don’t know what to do with the bits and pieces of memory – those things that hurt. They cause me to doubt myself. They are vicious. They are hurtful and dangerous, drumming. They are clamoring. They are ringing in my head louder than my small wavering voice (only just) learning to speak. Are they a lie from the pit or truth? When I get like this, when my wounds are oozing as they do today, I cannot distinguish lies from truth. It is what it is. I am nobody. Just another nobody with a story. Who cares? I cannot believe that this story would help anyone. One word put on the page after another – risky only in its admission. Here, now, this, these words, they are nothing.

I am so tired of this place. My family and its circling pain, all shattered fragments, falling apart more every day. Who will hold the generations together? They are slowly slipping away and soon they will be bits and pieces of nothing.

More importantly how do I learn? When will I be transformed?

Trust Him

The disciples appear to be sitting around, unsure of what to do, until Peter decides to go fishing (John 21) and the others go along. Was it aimless activity. They needed to eat. Not necessarily completely aimless but doing the thing in front of them. The disciples do not know what to do, so they do the necessary. And the story suggests that they have put themselves in a place where Christ meets them.

“Here is the simple truth, attested to by the saints, that when we are uncertain what to do we should simply do our duty and God will guide.”

But that night they caught nothing doing what they perceived as the right thing. It is suggested that they are being prepared to learn one of the central lessons of discipleship–apart from Jesus they can do nothing (15:5).

Jesus has taught this lesson before, for “never in the Gospels do the disciples catch a fish without Jesus’ help.”

I feel like those fishermen who struggled to believe—they were fishing in order to pass the time and in order to eat. It has been a long, long time that I have sat with my story, lived it, tried to find something redeeming there in my story. And my life.

I fear, like the disciples with their nets in the water, that

I. just. don’t. believe.

Yes, I am having trouble believing that you can catch fish here. With my life. With this story. It’s been “a long night of fishing and I have caught nothing.”

I need to hear His voice, and I don’t even know for sure that I know what it looks or sounds like any more. Is it even him they wondered when he showed up? When He said, “Throw your net on the right side of the boat”….

What are his promises for a moment like this?

Lay It Down

So I have to set down my anger and disappointment at myself for quitting my job so that now, in the middle of a recession, I have no possibilities. I have to put my desire to work or “to do something” to support my family down. I have to let go of my ego and pride and the very real delusion that a job will make me more esteemed person to others or bring me respect. Lay it down.

I must believe that all of this, my story, is part of a purpose bigger than I am able to imagine or see. Jesus is teaching me that apart from him I can do nothing.

Even I don’t see it. It is almost easier to look backwards because that is so much clearer, ah beautiful hindsight.

No the future is confusing. I think I want to go back to school then I am I’m totally frozen by insecurity, self-doubt, and fear — perhaps I’m not smart enough, diligent enough and more importantly have nothing original to say? It has all been said, thought, written, done. Lay it down.

I thought I was going to write my story, but there isn’t even a story. It is just a story about an average nobody middle child who had a raging rather, became a workaholic while having three kids and a step daughter, who quit her paying job, got depressed, became an alcoholic, and now does what? Lay it down.

Tom says it is a spiritual attack when I start to feel like I have nothing to offer to the world, to my children, to my friends (what friends?), to him. Lay it down.

Don’t tell me I’m a good mom, because I don’t care right now. I don’t even know why I am here.

The future is blank. It requires faith. Big faith? A small quavering timid faith is all I seem to have today, a brokenhearted faith. Whatever it is, it’s immeasurable.

It simply is. I have to lay it all down and believe what he promises, when he said …

“Blessed is she who has believed that the Lord would fulfill his promises to her!” – Luke 1:45

Lord I believe. Help my unbelief.

On (Not) Writing

I’ve slipped back over here to my blog because I’m having trouble writing. You could say I’m s t u c k — mired in self-doubt.

Gluey, icky burdensome thoughts are inside my head as I go through my days — has it been a whole week — of NOT WRITING.

How can this be, after all this time? I’m heavy with disappointment in myself.

I even have the excuse of carpel tunnel (I had to look that up to spell it.) My right hand isn’t working correctly, aches all the way up my arm, goes numb, even typing out each l e t t e r hurts just a little. Sometimes a lot.

I have read, reread, rewritten my poems. Because nothing new is coming.

In that valley is where Mary Magdalene comes looking for them, at a milepost way deep in the shadows. Their journey back toward apostleship, toward being the church, begins in grief. It was Mary Magdalene, striding into the valley of the shadow of death to knock, once more, on a door and proclaim the good news: “I have seen the Lord” — the Lord who will not let the grave claim you who are trembling inside the prison of grief or depression. Grief is one more place on the journey from baptism to the new Jerusalem. Let the one who poured the waters of promise on your head so long ago — let that one sanctify your grief and turn it into ministry. He has been doing that since the days of Abraham and Sarah. Since the days of Peter, who denied he had ever known Jesus of Nazareth. That is the good news of the gospel. Thanks be to God. Amen. —Edgar Moore

There is something in these words that is for me. That winding path I traveled over the last ten years holds grief and glory. That is where the story will begin, if I can find it.

Melody

Close the door. Write with no one looking over your shoulder. Don’t try to figure out what other people want to hear from you; figure out what you have to say. It’s the one and only thing you have to offer – Barbara Kingsolver

Help me to Be

“Do I contradict myself? Very well, then, I contradict myself; I am large — I contain multitudes.” ― Walt Whitman

Today I slipped into the imponderable place. I am disappointed with myself that this is happening, which only makes it more resistant to my human efforts to change.

What happened? I have some slight success and the furies inside challenge. Their presence in my psyche is a relentless stream, even as I pretend otherwise.

I fear the furies and yet by doing so, I give them sway.

This is new, naming the furies, which have been with me all my life. They are a melancholy; the chaotic anxious thoughts, the doubt and self-recrimination, the clamoring perfectionism and uncertainty and let’s call it what it is, the monster itself – fear. There is also the need for validation and the craving for significance. It is ugly, mortifying, and difficult to decipher. I could add to this list all day long I think.

It’s fitting that I have read for two weeks on Humility in my Prayer Book. In it I read this:

Teach me, O Lord, thy holy way,
And give me an obedient mind,
That in thy service I may find
My soul’s delight from day to day.

Help me, O Savior, here to trace
The sacred footsteps though hast trod;
And, meekly walking with my God,
To grow in goodness, truth and grace.

– A hymn by William Matson

For many years my faith languished and deteriorated – I could not “see” God, feel him nor know his love. I did not believe. And as I stumbled, broken by depression and then addiction, I was chastened. Every pretense I might have conjured up was stripped from me.

“The Lord is near the broken-hearted; he is the Saviour of those whose spirits are crushed down.” Psalm 34:18

I then I understood Grace.

And from that time I have wanted nothing but this Savior, what he wants. That is not to say that I do not struggle as he challenged me to give things up – there were, are, many idols in my heart. I quit smoking because I heard God say I want you to want me, need me, more than you need Nicotine. And I wanted to want him that much too. Smoking became a metaphor for the sacrifice of praise that he sometimes asks for. He asked of me. I still stumble. I lean into him.

And yet when the furies swirl, I fear I have become disconnected from the Holy Spirit, allowing a deterioration of intimacy with Jesus. Sometimes the furies create such chaos, like tiny tornadoes of anxiety. I want to cut myself open and imagine them flying crazily away from me! Then I can be free, rid of the things that weigh heavily and make me unwise and thoughtless, quick to think or say things that don’t show God’s love. I want to lean into the Holy Spirit and allow the fresh winds of his spirit to fill me.

I want a deep, deep faith.

One that isn’t hasty or trite. No snatches of scripture, I want to be wading deeply into chapters and books. I want my spiritual roots to go deep into the ground, so that when challenges come I don’t stagger or fall as I have in the past.

Helmut Thielicke said “To work without praying and without listening means only to grow and spread oneself upward, without striking roots and without an equivalent in the earth.”
I want to penetrate life deeply.

These are the things I have been pondering today. I’ll leave you with one of my favorite writers, Christian or otherwise, Evelyn Underhill, from The Spiritual Life.

“Any spiritual view which focuses attention on ourselves, and puts the human creature with its small ideas and adventures in the centre foreground, is dangerous till we recognize its absurdity … We mostly spend those lives conjugating three verbs: to Want, to Have, to Do. Craving, clutching, and fussing, on the material, political, social, emotional, intellectual—even on the religious—plane, we are kept in perpetual unrest: forgetting that none of these verbs have any ultimate significance, except so far as they are transcended by and included in, the fundamental verb, to Be: and that Being, not wanting, having and doing, is the essence of a spiritual life.”

Humility and penetrating life deeply. That is definitely not craving, clutching and needing the attention for myself.

Lord, help me to Be.

What are the 7 Deadly Sins and Why Should we care? (logicandimagination.wordpress.com)

Simplify Stupid. If only it were that Simple.

I’ve done a lot of writing of late and that has led to a lot of chores piling up. When chores collect one begins to notice how much stuff we have around the edges of life. Why is that? A few things occur to me:

I look around my home and of course I have miles and miles of books — if they were stacked end to end. There are more books that I will ever read, but they are on issues that I care about. I have several books ideas of my own in the works and many of those books relate to research topics. Still, why do I need to own so many?
Looking in my closet this weekend, my son asked me “Mom, does the Goodwill pay you to take their clothes?” Ha ha, very funny. Though I don’t think he was trying to be funny. It was ironic and too close to home. His point was that I own a lot of clothes! You can read about my year of no new clothes here and here. I do have an issue with buying tons of clothing.
We have some friends who are downsizing from a house to an Airstream with two kids in tow and it sounds like a dream project. I haven’t had a chance to hear their story in person but I am fascinated by the idea.

Christmas is coming. How do we face the challenge of consumerism vs. living out our giving with integrity? And why do we collect so much stuff when in total honesty much of it remains untouched? Is this a matter of simply needing to be clearing out more often to reappropriate things to the next family that could use them whether it is toys, clothing, gaming systems, movies or books? Or should this be a conversation about buying less. And about the value of simplicity?

A singer and artist I appreciate for the poetry of her words, Carrie Newcomer, said this on Facebook today:

I have a sense that simplifying is not about denial and lack, but rather about getting rid of what does not ultimately give life and deeper meaning to our lives. If we got rid of what clutters and fills our lives to the very edges – what would happen in those open spaces? What do you think?

How do you teach yourself the discipline of reappropriating things? Why is this important? What do you do to simplify, remove clutter and create space in your life? What would you do differently if you had the mental and physical space? What resources have you found that help you?

The Female Voice

Feminism to me is the crazy belief that women and men are both created in God’s image and that each of us deserves a life of freedom and opportunity inside or outside the Church.

I have thought a lot about the lack of presence and example of women in the Church. One Sunday at my church in particular, women were simply spectators, the audience, the bystanders, the recipients and beneficiaries … Read more at Provoketive.

Other things I have written on Women in the Church are here:

Or just use the search function.

Gender is Everything (logicandimagination.wordpress.com)
Walk On by U2: A Christian Feminist Cry? (logicandimagination.wordpress.com)

Thankful.

Thanksgiving is not my favorite holiday, because of times in the past that were hard, but perhaps this year it can be redeemed. Since no one is making me perhaps I will talk about gratitude.

“The continuum of words related to gratitude go from greed and jealousy; through taking things for granted and feeling entitled; to appreciation, acceptance, and satisfaction. The practice of gratitude would be an appropriate prescription whichever one of the above describes your attitudes. The rules of the grammar of gratitude are not as simple as they seem at first glance, however. For example, often instead of rejoicing in what we have, we greedily want something more, better, or different. We can’t be grateful because we are making comparisons and coveting other possibilities. When this happens on a personal level, when it’s our ego that is dissatisfied, then we are ungrateful. But when we want something more, better, or different for the glory of God or for the benefit of the community, this greed may be a manifestation of our devotion, our love, or our yearning for justice. And then we are grateful for these commitments.” — Spirituality & Practice.

I read this yesterday:

If God hasn’t changed your circumstances then perhaps he wants to change you.

This has been a long time coming for me. I have asked God to change my circumstances for years. And seemingly he is either silent or I am not listening well.

I thought I wanted a job that pays money. I still do want that and a job where I am making a difference in the world, a contribution to my community or to helping others through exposing the injustice with pictures and words. If I am honest, I also still want position and power for my glory and ego, so perhaps this is why God doesn’t give me back those opportunities just yet.

Instead I am learning to lean in to being a mother, for it is an honorable, risky and challenging job (though the pay is low and the retirement plan stinks!) In all seriousness, God has given me the four children I have for a reason, they are an extravagant gift. And you never know whose mother you are, who your children will become.

I am learning that I am valuable even though I don’t make money. And learning that my contribution to world just may be through something else — through insight, or creativity, or dare I say a prophetic word (small p definitely) from time to time? Okay perhaps not. I don’t know much, but I am learning. There is so much that I don’t know. I too quickly go from insecure to proud and satisfied; from cock sure to fearful and hesitant; from mute to long-winded and rambling; from loving my own thoughts to wondering at my idiocy. But I am learning to be comfortable with my voice and in my skin.

And I am unlearning many things. Sorting and sifting through what has been taught to me. I am encountering and learning from beautiful people along the way.

Though my house collects dust bunnies — even as my house collects them — I see

all that is growing

in and around me.

The dust bunnies can wait.

I am being transformed and I am grateful.

October 26th, 2011

Consider your own call, brothers and sisters: not many of you were wise by human standards, not many were powerful, not many were of noble birth. But God chose what is foolish in the world to shame the wise; God chose what is weak in the world to shame the strong; God chose what is low and despised in the world, things that are not, to reduce to nothing things that are, so that no one might boast in the presence of God. He is the source of your life in Christ Jesus, who became for us wisdom from God, and righteousness and sanctification and redemption, in order that, as it is written, ‘Let the one who boasts, boast in the Lord.’ 1 Corinthians 1:26-31 NRSV

Can I Prove God Exists? Yes I Can.

I am starting to write for Provoketive, an online magazine, and this article will be published there tomorrow. I’m really not supposed to post the same thing here therefore, I’ll leave an excerpt but direct you there…for your commenting pleasure. I’ve never really felt a need to prove that God exists. Before today that is, when my tawny-headed, freckle-faced son looked up at me with his enormous blue eyes and cried If God is real, Mom, why doesn’t he stop all the bad stuff? Why Mom, why?

Feeling like I’d been slapped hard across my face by the earnestness and veracity of his question, I realized I don’t want to even touch that question.

Honestly I try not to dwell on that now as I sit here with all my advantages – I enjoy my life, drinking my expensive coffee, in my warm house, sitting in my comfortable chair, at my computer that is connected 24/7 to the world. I try not to think about my fortunate life or those that have so much less.

No I don’t want to touch those questions. But sometimes that awareness aches inside me and makes my comfortable life not — so – comfortable. I cannot escape the world when I turn on the radio or television or get online. It is there that I find out about people being beheaded. Women who had acid poured on their face. That going for firewood in some places in the world will get you raped or assaulted. Or that being born a girl is still something unwanted in many places in the world. much less and more importantly why God put me here. Why I am so seemingly blessed? And others appear less so?

To read the entire post, …

Thoughts on the Impotence of Parenting

I’m sitting in the lobby at surgery having an internal hissy fit because I cannot get my wireless to work. Ironically I don’t even need to get online. I have come prepared with two bags filled with at least four books, a journal and my camera – the bags are heavy with options! My thoughts alone could keep me busy or at least entertained for hours but instead I’m angry that I cannot get online. A sad commentary of the state of my mental life.

Note to self: never wait in a healthcare office without headphones. I forgot how badly this bothered me when my dad was ill and we had endless waits in the hospital as he was treated for his brain cancer.

Hell, I hate the clatter associated with the comings and goings in a doctor’s office. A moment of total honesty — Humanity’s cacophony gets under my skin. With the nurse’s numerous interruptions as they are fetching folks in and out, the cable television blaring unceasingly, the elevator’s chimes, and boring conversations on cells phones as people make arrangements for their day. No, I don’t want to talk to the elderly woman with a novel protruding from her red pleather bag. So she chats with the stay-at-home mom who has already introduced herself and has already mentioned her four sons and that she is waiting for Kevin, her husband. I am also annoyed by the two loud women, (it is much too early for loud or conversation) obviously friends, whose smoker’s voices are husky and grating, their tracksuits and year-round tans are simply strange and irritate me. I have no patience. Stale coffee smells. Everyone is nervous, chatting with the companion who drove them. Their voices annoy me, made even more so because I cannot resist listening to them and that pisses me off. The only one that sounds halfway interesting is the gentleman on the phone speaking in Spanish who cannot reach whomever he needs. He shakes his head in frustration.

This place is depressing.

And all the while my baby girl is in there, knocked out cold, having an invasive procedure on her face. Sinus and Adenoid surgery and I am thinking about the fact that I never made that call to my friend Mark about natural remedies. Perhaps if we had done that, changed the phlegm level in her head, she wouldn’t be here today. I suppose one can always second guess. I know I will.

It is likely that I am so irritated because I am scared.

This day has been three years coming and here I sit at “the Holy Grail” because we are hoping against all hope that this resolves the consistent sinus infections that have plagued our thirteen year old daughter for years. I cannot imagine what it is like to live in constant pain. It makes me work extra hard to be patient with her, to understand that her frequent moods may not simply adolescence.

And I wonder, what is it that makes me withdraw into myself here in the waiting room pissed off that I cannot connect to the internet?

Perhaps I am simply too introspective.

I think — I amagine — that I am in control of my children’s worlds. And this week I have one under the “needle” and the youngest has traveled to Florida for a trip to Disney with Grandparents. The truth is I have no control over these circumstances.

Finding a small consolation in the knowledge of my impotence, I begin to read an essay in Not Alone by a young (I’m assuming) woman named Laura Droege.

It is a distressing story and once again I feel anger that a person can suffer for so many years and the very people who should have helped – parents, teachers, doctors, pastors, therapists and friends – all left her alone in her mental illness. Why? What is the meaning of this and how is it that we are so unable to understand when someone struggles with an illness such as this. Something needs to be done to educate the public, I am especially interested in Christ-followers knowing how to help those they love when they come up against someone with the troubles that Laura faced. Something must be done for people who live for decades with suicidal thoughts, obsessive behaviors, wish for self-harm, depression, and the never-ending feeling that God has abandoned you.

Something must be done.

I wrote my story to help others, but as I was doing that I realized that I could barely say anything in 2000 words.

The challenge to the Church is clear, it is there in the stories of the forty people in Not Alone who shared their experience with depression in that small tomb. The question is how will the church respond?

Fly Boy (a poem about letting our children grow and go)

My baby flew away today with hardly a look back at me.

Motionless, I whispered “I love you.”

He waved and then abruptly he was gone.

I’m not ready! My heart heavy. I am not able

to see him there,

high

there

in the clouds

he is spinning golden dreams,

twirling with anticipation and joy,

a steady song on his lips.

And my boy flew straight up and away.

Gone.

Truly Depressed People Scare Me

My neighbor, who is eighty-four, won’t answer me directly when I ask how she’s doing. “Tomorrow will be better” is her reply. It always amazes me that she never complains. Not even when asked! And in my estimation she’s got some things she could. She had surgery on her back last year for pain. It didn’t work. Now she’s home bound (not allowed to drive any more) and a few days ago, when we talked on the sidewalk, she told me she is suffering from “what you had Melody.”

Depression. It is huge that she would admit it to me. At least for me, the telling to others was so difficult! The feelings of shame and failure and personal weakness are overwhelming.

For two days since that conversation, that knowledge has ridden on my back everywhere with me. It is heavy on my mind and heart when picking up my kids, shopping at the Goodwill for Halloween, chauffeuring children to church and back, walking the dog past her house morning and night, washing the dinner dishes at breakfast. I can’t stop thinking of it. Jeanne told me she’s depressed and I should know what to do. But I don’t.

Should I bring her flowers? She loves plants. A happy pumpkin. A copy of Not Alone and tell her about my essay in there? What should I do? Experience does not bring knowledge of what to do. Everyone is different. And I’m so upset by the realization that truly depressed people are scary.

That shouldn’t be — not for me. I know what she’s feeling (as much as one can.) I can picture her over there, in her darkened living room, sitting alone, unable to stand at the kitchen sink any longer because of back pain, or cook, or do any chores. “The only thing that doesn’t hurt is sitting.” she told me last summer when I asked.

I know I need do something. Give her a call. And I am afraid.

I think sometimes when we know someone is depressed we get overwhelmed by how to respond. And so we don’t do anything.

I am here to tell you anything is better than nothing. All a person really needs is contact with another human being. How easy it is to forget how very alone one feels.

I will search for my lost ones who strayed away and I will bring them safely home again. I will bandage the injured and strengthen the weak…” (Ezekiel 34.16 NLT)

I am thoroughly glad to not have had a depressive episode for months and months. So I can freely say that I am in a good place and I feel so grateful! I recently had an essay published about my experience with depression called Hope Heals. It’s published in the book Note Alone: Stories of Living with Depression.

Whatever the outcome I will give her a call. I don’t have to fix the situation in fact, of course, I can’t. I just need to show her that she is not alone. That someone cares.

All’s Well That Ends Well.

As much as I would like to take it back, I wrote what I did the other day about my family of origin because it was true. That won’t make it less real. But, that said, my father is dead and gone and he left us to sort out our lives without him. That is what I am attempting to do, sort out my life, but I realize that I cannot keep talking about it. I have to do something to move on.

I love my sisters and Mother dearly. Whatever happens, I simply want them to know that. And like my dear sister said to me today she is not my father. I must do something to move on.

It isn’t that easy to move on. First we must heal. Then we must figure out how to live! We must face the fact that we are creating our own legacy.

These conversations about family legacy force this question: What do I want to leave my precious children with when I am gone?

Here are a few things I thought of today in no particular order:

I want my kids to feel like home is a safe place. This means I will be there when they cry, listen when they talk to me, offer advice or just an ear when they have a problem they don’t understand. I want to be available for them day-to-day.
I want my kids to know that they can change anything about their life and they have personal power. That they are in control of their bodies and can eat healthily, exercise and keep in control of their weight. I must teach this by my example. (Sigh.)
I want my kids to know they have the intelligence to accomplish anything they set their mind to if they are willing to work hard.
I want my kids to feel that our home was a welcoming place for others — their friends, our friends, even strangers. If so then our home should be a place where anyone is welcome, anytime. My kids need so see me listening attentively to my elderly neighbor with love and respect, bringing a meal to a sick friend or neighbor, opening my heart and our home and welcoming others in. That means keeping the house tidy and if it isn’t “clean enough” then lighten-up. Relationships are more important.
I want to pass on our love for music, literature and the arts, so I need to think about creating spaces in our life that cultivates this. This means setting aside time intentionally for bedtime reading (before they or I are falling into bed dead tired). This will mean buying tickets to the symphony and visiting more museums and shows. Showing them this great love that we have.
I want to pass on my passion for social, racial and gender justice and live my life in such a way they understand how important it is. I want it to be as natural and right to them as breathing.
We want to live our lives so that our children know how important it is to treat every person with dignity, kindness and respect.
I want to regularly and passionately affirm the good in my children — not superficial qualities but those things that are a part of your core person.
We want our children to have empathetic hearts so that they see other’s needs and willingly, lovingly meet them.
I want our children to know that being a follower of Jesus was the central motivation for my life and that knowing and loving Yahweh changed me. It transformed me and made me the person that I am and it set my life’s priorities.

Whether we set aside time to consider it and be intentional, or not, we are building a legacy for our children every day in how we treat one another and prioritize our time and money. Even so we have no control over what our children remember about us. My father would certainly be heartbroken to know what I recall most about him — the yelling more than the hugs, the disappointment I thought he expressed to me over the affirmations that also came.

What will we be remembered for and what will we leave behind? I only have a few more years with my children under my roof. I want to keep thinking about this. When my children are remembering Tom and me, what will their most powerful memories be? What about you? How do you hope your children, family and community will remember you?