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.

  

The Journey

Walking through the mountain forest, weary and with night falling quickly she wanted to find a place to rest.  Ahead she noticed a hedge of wild roses, beyond which were no trees.  She pulled her small sword out of the sheath on her back.  She cut through the thickness of the roses and pushed her way through.  Scratching herself on the thorns she broke into a small clearing.  This looked like a good place to stay the night.  Soft grass everywhere she found an ideal spot to sleep close to a large boulder.  She removed her satchel and sword and placed them beside her.  She took a final drink from her water pouch and made a pillow out of her outer garment.  She fell asleep exhausted, oblivious to the fragrance of roses that filled the night air.  The moonless sky provided twinkles of starlight-angels to watch over her while she slept.

She awoke with the sun already high in the sky.  Leaving her fatigue in the imprint in the grass she arose to examine her surroundings.  Hearing the lapping of water nearby she went to investigate.  She discovered a pool of water.  The sun-sparkling diamonds on the water invited her to join them.  Pulling her inner tunic up over her head and leaving it on the shore she gingerly walked into the pool.  Pleasantly surprised by the temperature she allowed the water to wash away the dirt from her skin and refresh the ache in her muscles.  She swam, exploring.  Startled frogs quickly leaping out of her way made her silently chuckle.  She found where a mountain stream emptied itself into the pool, and made note so she could later fill her water pouch.

Feeling revived she returned to the grassy shore.  She put her tunic back on and sat letting the warm sun dry her off as she combed her fingers through her hair.  Taking a deep breath, she rested.

Hunger crept into the peacefulness.  She got up and went searching for berries.  Not too far at the edge of the meadow she found bushes full of ripe sweet berries.  Making a bowl out of her tunic she gathered enough to eat and some to dry to take with her when she continued her journey.  Returning to the large boulder she carefully sat down.  She grabbed her satchel and added nuts and flat bread to her meal.  

After eating, she delighted herself in all that the clearing offered her.  The sun's gentle warmth gave her comfort.  The soft breeze kept her cool.  She walked over to the rose bushes, picked a rose, removed the thorns and tucked it behind her left ear.   Discovering daisies, she gave a little squeal.  She watched blue birds dart about searching for a lunch of small bugs.  She listened to chickadees chirp at her in the distance.  

She sat by the daisies and made herself and daisy-chain necklace.  Butterflies flew like delicate fairies from flower to flower.  She got up, putting the necklace around her neck.  She twirled and danced with the bees and butterflies, swayed with the grasses and waltzed to the music in her heart. 

The sun began setting.  She returned to her sleeping spot.  Taking some more bread and nuts, she grabbed a handful of berries.  She walked back to the pool, found a log to sit on and ate a fulling supper while she soaked her feet.  After eating she walked over to where the stream entered and drank deeply from the mountain water.  

The day over, she once again fell asleep in the soft grass by the boulder.  This time her sleep was not one of exhaustion, but one from the peacefulness of a day; refreshed and rejuvenated.  The crickets and frogs sang a lullaby to the gentle melody of the distant water lapping against the shore.  A sliver moon joined the angel-stars to watch over her.

She awoke to the far-off screech of a hawk.  It was early, the sun barely seen in the horizon.  Rested and ready, she knew she needed to continue the journey.  Gathering her things she put on her outer garment, placed the sheathed sword on her back and put her satchel over her shoulder crossing to where it rested on the opposite hip.  Her picked up her water pouch and held it in her hand.  

She walked over to the edge of the pool, put the water pouch down and splashed water on her face.  Getting up she reached into her satchel for a handful of nuts and berries.  She followed the pool to the steam and filled her water pouch.  

Entering the forest on the far side of the clearing she continued.  The sun rose and shone through the tress illuminating her path.  A little way into the forest she discovered a small patch of bluebells.  She smiled, they nodded in greeting as she passed by.   

She small shiver traveled through her.  She looked down and noticed a fog slowly reaching around her ankles.  She kept walking.  It wasn't long before the fog crept up to her knees and soon totally engulfed her.  The sun totally obscured from her sight, she kept on walking.  For she knew that this too was part of the journey.....

In the Arms of Jesus

The silence whispers comfort.  The cloud-like atmosphere surrounds me in warmth.  The distant sun lends it glow.  

The air is still and quiet.  It's freshness fills; each breath brings deeper rest.  

His arms envelope me, the sleeves of His garment cover me.  All is white. 

I feel His cheek on the top of my head, a gentle kiss on my forehead.  He holds me.  

My head rests on His chest.  The steady strength of His heartbeat is the only sound I hear.  

Here is peace

Here is rest

Here is freedom and release

In the arms of Jesus........ 

I Can't Help it!

Standing in the shower the other day, I was thinking.  (Not that unusual, I think way too much).  Anyway, I was thinking about my kids, and love, and how much I love them . . . so much that sometimes I think my heart will burst for it.  Love so strong, and hard and fierce it hurts, literally hurts my heart.  That, however, is not the point.  The point is when I'd express to them how much I love them, or how fabulous they are, my kids used to tell me (and they probably feel the same way now), "you're supposed to feel that way, you're my Mom."  Or worse yet, "that doesn't mean anything, you're my Mom."

To be fair I have to say I understand where they were coming from.  They wanted acceptance and love from friends.... but here's the deal.  I don't love them because I'm supposed to.  I love them because, Holy Cow! I can't help it.  There is no choice involved here.  It's in the very marrow of my bones.  My body aches and my heart pours out.  There is nothing, absolutely nothing I can do to stop it, or change it or anything.  It simply IS.

About a month ago my husband was preaching a sermon and He was talking about God's love.  God's love for us.  Basically saying the same thing.  God's love is not a choice, God's love is WHO He is.  There was no decision, "Well, these humans are going to screw up, I guess we better figure out how We can save them."  No, not at all.  God HAD to save us.  Why?  Because there IS NO choice. . . . it must be done.  Not because Love "demands" it.  But because that Love can't NOT.  That's what that love does. . . .that love pours itself out.  that Love bleeds. . . it cannot be stopped. . . it cannot decide not to love.

So, does that Love mean any less when it cannot help but love?  When there is no choice; do we discard it as "meaningless"?

There are some people in my life that I choose to love.  It is a willful act, a conscious decision.  And then there is the love for my husband. . . .  different because it started outside of me. . . . choice is involved somehow, but not totally.  It's more like a beautiful dance, like the colours of the sunset, like sun-diamonds sparkling on the snow.

But the love for my children, well that is direct, more like a blazing bolt of fire that cannot be quenched.  It has a power all its own, a life beyond me.  Which one means more?  The choice?  The dance?  The power?

I don't know the answer to that question.  But I do know which one is strongest in me . . . because that love, well, I can't help it.

Liar!

It's a lie.  A big, fat, "liar, liar pants on firer" BOLDFACED lie.  Pop psychology, modern spirituality and even traditional Christianity perpetuate it, but it's still a lie.
The lie?   That you (or anyone) will have life figured out and you can "have it all together".  It's NOT TRUE!  You can meditate and deep breathe all day long, you can "have the power of positive thinking" or follow all the "rules" and it won't make a difference.  Why?  Because life is hard!  Period.  Life is hard and we get bumped and bruised and sometimes scratched and stabbed and left bleeding.  And techniques, tools and coping skills are not going to get you to a place where you"ll have it all figured out.  And I'm mad, really mad at the lie, because it leaves people, you and me, thinking we are supposed to figure it out and have it together, and when we don't we either give up trying or pretend we have it figured out.  Doing either of those, we end up hurting, bumping and bruising others more than we could otherwise avoid.

So what's the point?  The point is not to "figure it out"  the point is to live, to live full and free.  Life is a menagerie of vicious and victorious, chaotic and contended, destructive and delightful.  We cannot stop the onslaught.  What we can to do is lean into it, all of it.  Lean in to the beauty and the pain.  "But pain hurts" you say.  Yes it does.  But it hurts more when you deny it, or brace yourself against it, or fight it off like it can go away.  And it hurts more when you numb it - numb it with activity, or religion, or alcohol or people or whatever.  But you can't just lie down and take it either.  We are not to be victims of our pain, but survivors, over-comers, thrivers.

So how do we lean in.  We face it, converse with it, sometimes wrestle a little.  If it lies to you, tell it the truth.  If it tells you the truth, accept it.  Let the suffering you embrace be the fertile place for compassion to grow, for kindness to flourish, for mercy to reign.

The journey of life takes us up a mountain, but its not a straight trail up.  The trail winds its way around.  Around and around we travel, a little higher and a little higher.  We often find ourselves in a similar spot, dealing with the insecurity, or fear, or discouragement or anger or hurt that we thought we had already dealt with, shaming ourselves thinking "I dealt with this already.  I should have this taken care of by now."  But that's not how it works.  We are at a similar spot because the journey is never over, there is always a deeper healing, a greater growth.  What we have to do when we find ourselves in a similar spot is to look around and notice that we are a little higher up than we were last time and take comfort in that.   Then let the deeper healing come and grow a little more.  Then keep walking and say, "see you next time around."

Home

Upstate New York ,

nothing really spectacular up there, just trees and roads and rocks.  Something happened to me as we got into upstate New York, an internal change.  A settling of sorts.  I felt a growing comfort.  I realized that I had entered my world of "familiar".

Now, upstate New York is not home for me.  But, it looks like my home, and feels like my home and I was approaching home.  My Canada, my history, my heritage.  It may seem all patriotic and such, but the feeling is not a puffing out of the chest, raise the flag and honour Queen (or Prime Minister) and country.  No, not even close.  It's more like a warm cup of tea, curled up on the couch in front of a fire kind of feeling.  It's . . . there's really no other word . . . comforting.

It happens to me every time I go back to Canada.  And it doesn't matter where I am, Ontario, Alberta, New Brunswick, although in the past, before I moved to the US, it only happened in Ontario.  The closer and closer I get to home the anticipation and excitement builds.  Joy bubbles from my heart and spills onto my face.  Every mile will soon  be a kilometer.  The grass will be soft.  The air will be cooler.  I'll drive on roads cut through granite rock.  Maple trees, birch trees (I forgot all about birch trees till I saw one - o my), poplars and weeping willows fill the landscape in abundance.  Marshlands with still, pond-like waters, lily pads and cattails waiting to be explored by canoe.  People's gardens. . . o the lushness of their gardens.  Yards decorated with black-eyed Susans, phlox, marigolds - yes I know they have those in a lot of places but up there they are plentiful, rich  - not scorched and begging for cool air.  Even the apples are different. . . MacIntosh, Cortlands, Empires. . . those are the commons apples, not Gala, Pink Lady, and Fuji.  Everything is familiar - and all is well with the world.

Then, when my feet cross over to my homeland. . . my heart finds its rest.  I can breathe a sigh of relief and let everything go.  I'm home.  I belong here.

Lent to me for a little while...

There's my precious baby boy,  born 17 years ago.  I remember an older woman telling me during my pregnancy that every woman needed a son.  I didn't believe her at the time.  I believe her now.

I don't know what it is about a son.  (It's certainly NOT that I don't cherish and adore my daughter - just thinking about her brings tears to my eyes cuz I love her till my heart bursts.)

Cameo said once that Jared brought laughter into our home.  She's so right.  From the very beginning Jared has had the best sense of humour.  And he loves to share it. 

Mostly though, I think I would describe Jared as a warrior-poet.  He is that unusual blend of fierceness and tenderness.  He lives to an internal code of honour.  He's honest, loyal.  He believes in justice and accountability.  He will call out inconsistency and demand fairness.

and yet he is tender. . . . and protective. . . as a little boy in elementary school he would come home and tell me about how he walked and encouraged one friend or another.  How he was sad that his friends had difficult lives. . . 

He is gentle with his tender-hearted mother and forgiving . . . 

it's really the pictures that tell the story. . . so much better than my words,

O and he's so creative. . . 

and brilliant. . .

              and poetic . . . 

                         and deep . . . 

He has a depth of insight. . . and can see into your soul. . .   His heart was born "old".  And he really wasn't made for this world.  But this world needs him.  Needs his compassion, needs his fierceness, needs his words, needs his poetry, needs his story. . . 

God, in His mercy has given me this "old man" in a boy's body. . . to love and nurture . . . 

. . . and then to let go. 

No greater gift have I been given than to be the mother of my children.

Happy Birthday Son!  You are my heart's treasure.