The Flower of Forgiveness

He was outside as he often is on warm sunny days, digging, planting jasmine for me.  I came out to be with him for a bit.  Grabbing an empty five-gallon bucket I flipped it over and sat.  He enjoys when I come out to say “hello” and we fell into the ease of being together.  I sat and watched him, the sun warm and comforting over my left shoulder.   Dots of conversation budded amidst the sound of the shovel carving out the home for the jasmine.

I do not remember what we talked about or how it happened but longing awakened in me.  A deep and gentle ache for amends and repair.  I planted grace in that hole left by the wound so long ago.  Grace was easy because I know his heart.  His heart is good.  But today, and maybe for many days, that plant called grace was thirsty for the water of “I’m sorry.”  With the courage of vulnerability I took him to the garden of my heart and showed him the tender plant.

He put his shovel down, came to me, and knelt on one knee.  He took my soft hand, his calloused fingers intertwined with mine.  His sorrowful gaze held my tear-filled eyes; He saw that fragile plant, fighting for life in the parched earth it grew in.

His words, filled with remorse, drop by drop fell over me like gentle rain.  He confessed his own brokenness and lamented for the wound he caused.  The dry, cracked earth around the tiny plant called grace soften with each word, soon it was saturated no longer dry and cracked.  The plant called grace drank deeply and was satisfied.  Nourished with the water of repentance it bloomed.  The flower of forgiveness burst open, as if it’s beauty had been eagerly awaiting to reveal itself.  It’s fragrance surrounded us with sweetness.  We breathed  deeply of its perfume while our gaze held for an eternal moment.  Letting go of my hand he reached up and with his thumb gently brushed away the tear that lay motionless on my cheek.  I smiled at him, leaning my face into the curve of his hand and whispered, “thank you.”  Bending forward he planted a tender kiss on my forehead.

He stood and took my hand again helping me up.  We kissed.  As I walked back to the house I could hear the sounds of him lifting the jasmine and placing it in the home he had made for it.  And then the squeak, squeak, squeak of him turning on the hose.

ORDINARY

 Ordinary--today I don't like it. It feels mundane, boring. Ordinary is overlooked.
So let's look at it. What is ordinary?

     This morning, it's waking up. The day is still black, the house is cold, and I can't find my slippers. While the coffee brews I head to the bathroom. It's quiet except for the fans whirling, a small sound from each bedroom. A few dark minutes pass. I walk back to the kitchen. Opening the cupboard I glance across the shelves and find my cup. Pour my coffee. Add my Creamer.
Ordinary. I do this every day.
     Sitting on the floor in my closet, coffee cup resting at my lips, I ponder the word "ordinary." And I notice. I notice that my lips fit comfortably just under the slight curve at the top of my cup. I notice the cold, smooth surface contrasted with the warmth in my hands.
I hear the fan in my bedroom. It's soothing, that sound. Constant. Steady. A bird begins to chirp outside. As I listen I wonder if it's asking," Are you up yet? Can you get up now? I'm awake." Like when my children were young and ready to take on the day.
     What else do I hear? The occassional car passing by. People, neighbours, heading to work I imagine. It's early, poor souls.
     Outside my window the dark indigo sky begins to lighten. Ever so slowly. The hue changes to a deep violet and now a periwinkle. The trees are not shadow-shapes anymore. The tall one across the street even has a slight red tint at the end of each branch. It's strong trunk, gray-brown. The white shutters on the neighbour's windows show off a coral tint. The sun is rising, the sky is bluer now.
More birds are singing, insisting it's time to get up. A robin is hopping on the green of my lawn. Her rusty, red breast bobbing up and down as she bloop, bloop, bloops across. Another robin joins her. They rise together, twirl in the air, land, and hop their separate ways.

And so my ordinary day begins.
Perhaps it's not so ordinary after all.





Post script: After completing this I walked back to my kitchen. The air was filled with the scent of fresh baked bread. I took a moment to soak it in. And smiled.

So Much More

      I'd been wanting it. Desperate for it. To touch Jesus, to feel Him, know Him. If only to brush the edge of His garment with the tip of my fingers. I haven't found it anywhere. I tried, boy did I try. Craning my neck, reaching, stretching, looking for the moment I make contact with the Holy of Holies. I got close at times. At the Jordan, in Magdala, He was there just a step beyond my reach. I'd take the step and He'd have vanished. So what was I to do. I tucked my longing into my back pocket and decided to take in the "wow" of the moment.. I was in Israel, staying in the old walled city of Jerusalem. How cool was that?
      He, however, had something else in mind. He came to me, in late afternoon, in a little shop at the corner of a square. Instead of me stretching through a crowd barely brushing the hem of this garment He walked up to me, cupped my face in His hands, lifted my eyes to His and said, "Eshet Chayil."
      She became my nemesis15 years ago, this perfect woman, Eshet Chayil. Before then Proverbs 31 was my ideal. I wanted to be worth more than rubies, desperately wanted it.  So I strived and tried, and failed every time. My worth, nothing more than gravel on the side of the road. So I finally gave it up, gave her up.  . . .   This woman of valour, this perfect woman became my enemy.
     And then in this little shop, as the shadows descended and the breeze turned cold, I met a Jewish man, a teacher. He told me I got it all wrong. (I don't like to be wrong) My western mind, the way I think, distorted my understanding. It distorted the story. It started with the translators. Because it's not about rubies, it's about pearls. A noble woman, a woman of valour, Eshet Chayil-- her worth, her value is far above pearls. And that makes all the difference.
     The value of a Pearl is much less about the finished product and all about the process of becoming one. A Pearl starts as a small piece of gravel and through the process of irritation slowly, oh so slowly, is transformed into a pearl. This tiny speck of dust metamorphs into a most precious gem. Beautiful, irredecent, white, pure. NOTHING becomes SOMETHING. ASHES become BEAUTY. GRAVEL becomes PEARL.
    And as if that wasn't enough. This Jewish man, this teacher told me that Ruth, my precious Ruth, whom I've loved since I can remember, she is the only woman is scripture who is called Eshet Chayil. This Moabitess, the product of deception, manipulation, and incest, is a woman of valour, This NOTHING, this SHAME, living in the midst of irritation became a SOMETHING, her shame removed she becomes the mother of a king. A PEARL.
     So my nemesis, my enemy, has come full circle. No longer the "perfect" woman, this woman of valour is a woman who is becoming. A woman transforming, being made complete. . . whole.
Gravel, a Pearl, a Daughter of the King.
     I looked for Him. Searched for Him. He was nowhere. He came to me. Touched me. My face in His hands, my eyes looking in His. He spoke my name, "Eshet Chayil".

Gift from a Healed Heart

She sat across and to the right of him; this man who had hurt her so long ago.  They were in a quaint café for breakfast and he was sharing a tainted memory.  The sounds all around her became dull, all she could hear was his voice, his words, his story.  The tears created a pool in her eyes and when the weight of them was too much to bear they slid down her cheeks and over the cliff of her chin.  He spoke, not as one in pain, but of his pain, pulling back the curtain of secrecy and shame.  Her mind’s eye unfolded the scenes before her.  She felt it too, the pain, it cracked her heart.  She longed to rescue the little boy he spoke of, wanted to gather him into her arms and cuddle him in a rocking chair shooing away the lies he had just heard, soothing the pain.

His story over, he looked up at her and witnessed the stream of tears on her cheeks.  Tenderly, as though speaking to a small child, he said, “Oh baby, I didn’t mean to make you cry.”  The gentle words brought fresh tears.

No, dear man, you did not mean to make me cry, not then and not now.  What Satan meant for evil, God has turned to good.  Today’s tears are tears encased in joy.  Freedom infuses each drop.  To weep for the one who hurt me speaks of a healed heart.  The wound of long ago was washed with repentance and bandaged with forgiveness.   The path to healing was walked.  Today what is left is a scar.  A scar of love and compassion.  Empathy for you, dear man.  My tears are a gift, a gift from my healed heart. 

Tears

"Who decided that expressing emotion is weakness."  Amelia Shepard, Grey's Anatomy

     She couldn't have been much more than four years old.   Her damp, honey-coloured hair freshly brushed, she smelled of soap and baby powder.  Dressed in Cinderella pajamas and fuzzy slippers she was excited.  It was Christmas time and tonight was special.  She sat on the green-flowered couch, her feet barely hanging over the edge, and watched.  The story played on the television in front of her.  The little boy, his companions a camel, donkey, and lamb, and his drum.  She absorbed everything she saw, the bad men who took advantage, the angry boy who lashed out in his loss, the joy at friends reunited.  The final scene unfolded, the lamb injured, the boy distraught asking for a miracle.  The baby Jesus looks at the lamb.  The lamb is raised to life.  The boy plays his drum.  The background music, "I am a poor boy too, pa rum pa pum pum, I have no gift to bring, pa rum pa pum pum."  Something happened in her heart at that moment, it swelled, filled her chest and reached up into her throat.  Her heart spilled out of her eyes in tiny drops of tears.  They fell slowly down her cheeks.  Her mother, who did not understand, gently scolded her for crying over a T.V. show.  It was in that moment that she learned.  She learned that her heart was flawed.  Something was wrong with her and she didn't know how to fix it.  

Truth be told I never did learn how to fix it.  Fix it being to stop the tears.  That is something I've never been able to do.  I've tried and it's just not possible.  The inability to do so has left me feeling weak and pathetic.  There is no strength in this woman. 

Recently I was told, "your tears get in the way."  They get in the way of the song I'm trying to sing, the message I'm trying to give.  What you don't understand, person who is trying to help, is that I can't stop them.

I don't know how many times I've gotten the message that emotion equals weakness.  Not feeling, now that is strength.  "A brave face" and "courage" denote this image of facing whatever life throws at you without feeling anything.  And if you do feel anything, God forbid, you better not show it.  "you've got to be strong.  Don't let yourself fall apart."   It's everywhere, movies, books, television, this notion that feeling something is weakness.  We are told to bottle up every expression of emotion and cap it so it doesn't leak out.  Doing so means "I'm strong."

A woman battling deadly cancer.  "Look how strong she is.  She never complains and is always smiling."  Another walking through a long drawn out and very ugly separation.  "She the strongest person I know.  She holds everything together."  And yet another woman whose beloved father dies and she never sheds a tear.  "I couldn't cry, I had to be strong for everybody."

So there it is, the proof that I'm not strong.  I'm weak and pathetic.  I'm a loser, sub-par, not good enough.  Why?  Because I simply cannot, absolutely CANNOT stop them.  The tears will flow.  They are a part of who I am.  If tears mean weakness, and tears are a part of me, then I am weakness.

Glennon Doyle writes, "I am a deeply sensitive person, living in a messy world."  I've altered that.  "I am a deeply sensitive person living in a broken world.  And I am moved."  My heart cracks and leaks when I see hurt and pain.  Strife and anger, hatred and down-right meanness are like knife wounds ripping the flesh of my heart.  Loneliness and broken relationships weigh heavily, like lead pressing and pushing.  Injustice, Biblical injustice, the kind where the poor are oppressed, the children go hungry, and the old and sick are left to fend for themselves, that injustice burns my heart into a raging flame.  The brokenness is everywhere, and I am witness.

And in all this mess, among all the glass shards of pain there is still kindness, and goodness, and love.  Perhaps that affects my heart even more than all the pain, and because of all the pain. My heart swells and bursts at acts of kindness and stories of triumph.  When the homeless are not only served a sandwich and a coke but their feet are washed by hands of love.  When a runner stops to lift one who has fallen and they make it to the finish line, together.  When a couple, married forever, walk wrinkled, arthritic hand in wrinkled, arthritic hand.  When a child hands his mother a dandelion. When a stranger holds open a door for me.

I feel every wound of brokenness and every drop of love.  I am unable to close my heart to it and the tears WILL fall.  If I try to close my heart..... well..... I will die.

That little girl, who is almost 50 now, still cries when she watches The Little Drummer Boy, her heart still breaks when she hears the story of Terry Fox, and cancer, and running across Canada, and death. And when she sings and pictures in her mind the never-ending love of God  the tears take over .... and sing for her.

So it seems I'll never be strong.   Instead I'll be ALIVE.

I'm Sorry

I owe her an apology.  She's been so good to me.  Under my leadership she has worked hard, and she hasn't complained.  She's willingly done what I've asked of her.  And I've pushed her.  I continue to ask more and more.  Every year I add one more thing.  And the amazing thing is that she is up to the challenge.  She rises higher and higher achieving each thing I ask her to do.  And what she gives me in return is immeasurable.  Because of her I'm solid, really solid.  I'm stronger.  I walk taller.  I'm more confident.  I feel sexy and beautiful.

You would think the least I could do for her would be to listen, to give back something, to give her something she needs.  She's asked, but not demanded.  She's not like that, she doesn't demand.

I went to a therapeutic yoga class on Wednesday.  The lights were low, the room was warm.  In the background Enya sang "sail away, sail away, sail away."  Peaceful, that's what it was, peaceful.  I was instructed to sit comfortably, close my eyes, and breath.  And I did.  I allowed myself to sink in to that peaceful moment and breath.  And it is there that my heart connected to my body.  The tears gently slid down my cheeks.  "This is what I've been needing," she said.

And so today I say "I'm sorry.  I'm sorry for not listening and giving you what you need.  And from now on it will be different."

What's great is that she doesn't want me to stop all the other things I'm doing, she's just asking for a little peace in the midst of it all.

And so my body, my sister... to you I vow to give peace.

My Story, My Voice

Sabbath morning.  I lay in bed wanting more sleep as it eludes me.  I'm in "a place".  That is the best description I can give it.  "A place" is where I am contemplative, emotional, and in a struggle.  I am not afraid in this "place", I've been here before.

My phone pipity-pops a text message.  Reluctantly I pick it up.  The black words written on the gray bubble say something like, "it's too much, she's writing my story."  Reading a memoir the person on the other end of the text is overwhelmed with validation as each paragraph unfolds.  A sense of peace and connection, a knowing that "I am not alone".  These two share the bond of common experience, even though they do not know each other personally, have never spoken face to face.  They know each other's bruised and broken heart.

My memory takes me back 30 years, it's Christmas Eve.  We have three little girls in the house this year.  Elizabeth, my sister, and Melissa who are both 5 or 6, and Kira, my neice, who is about 2 or 3.  Melissa is my neice's sister.  No blood relation to us, except through Kira and she and Elizabeth, being the same age, are good friends.
It's dark outside and all the girls are bathed and clean, wrapped in their warm pajamas.  The tree is all twinkly with presents bursting out underneath.  The gifts get passed out.  Elizabeth and Kira get a gift, as does Melissa.  More gifts are passed and received.  Melissa gets one maybe two more, but Elizabeth and Kira get more and more and more.  As this happens Melissa in her sweet childlike tone says, "what about me?"  She repeats it over and over, "what about me", "what about me".  It's not a harsh, foot-stomping demand.  Her voice is quiet and sadness punctuates each word.  "Do you not see me?"  "Am I not important?" "Don't I matter too?"

Those words echo in the darkness of my "place".  While I'm grateful my friend finds validation and connection in the story being told.  I lay on my stomach in my bed with my head buried under my pillow saying, "but what about me?"

I feel so alone right now.  And in that aloneness I've been hiding.  Actually, I have been hiding for a long time, so long I can't remember when I started.  Maybe, just maybe if I heard or read my story in someone else I'd be less scared to come out of hiding.  It reminds me of the old 70s song, "strumming my face with his fingers, singing my life with his words.  Killing me softly with his song, killing me softly, with his words, telling my whole life with his song, killing me softly...with his song.
If someone, out there, was singing my song, my story...I could come out from whatever it is I'm hiding behind because I know I would not be alone.  Someone else would know and feel it too, and understand.  The song is not of a slow death, it is a releasing the chains of isolation and hiding.

The thought occurs to me, why does someone else have to be the author writing a story I can relate to?  Writing for me so I can come out of hiding because I can identify with their experience and emotions.  What if I, yes me, what if I came out from behind the curtain, stepped toward the desk, grabbed the paper and pen and wrote my own story..  My story in My voice.

Glennon Doyle Melton calls us Truth Tellers.  I am going to tell my truth, in my story, using my voice.  I'm hoping that in the telling I will empower myself to quit hiding and to come out in the light and be seen as I am.  And while i'm telling my story for me, because I need to, perhaps as a bonus someone out there can find solace and comfort in my words and not feel so alone.