I recently told someone that love and sex, let's face it, every aspect of every relationship, is susceptible to game playing. The planned out move or the cunning plan of attack can either be either good or bad. Often the tipping point is the selflessness and otherness ratio that is exhibited.
I like games when their is intrigue and fair play. I hate games equally when I play against someone who is out to win at all cost. Blood is the payment they require. I've been there and don't want to play games with those types of people any more than I have to.
The hard part about life and relationship is that there isn't a universal rule book. The rules change as quickly as thoughts and feelings change. One moment it's move ahead three spaces and the next moment you're in jail or you lose a turn. The lack of rules can also be the most fulfilling part of life. It's what shows us what we are made of. I'd rather be ruled by passion and desire than following any prescribed set of rules. It's what makes me feel alive. If any rule were to be followed it would have to be to love other as yourself and look for and desire good in others. Everyone wins.
Wednesday, June 30, 2004
Monday, June 28, 2004
The tree that listens...
There is a enormous waving maple tree in the side yard of the house that I grew up in. I can't ever remember it as a smaller tree or sapling. I only remember it as a tree that I could climb; a place where I learned to breathe and a space where it was safe to put a voice to honest thoughts.
I have never felt very close to my mother. I look at pictures in photo albums for clues. Here is what I have gathered so far: I have only found one or two pictures where my mother is actually holding me or touching me. Most photos are staged scenes, faux magazine photos of a wanna-be family. I have one specific picture where I am sitting on her lap. I look like I'm about nine months old. I'm dressed in a pretty frilly dress. My back is leaning against the front of her Sunday dress and her hands are oddly lying next to her on the chair. She isn't holding me. Who doesn't hold a baby?
I just don't remember much physical contact other than some back of the hand to the face or pinches or arm twists. I remember being around 11 or 12 and climbing up into my tree, sitting for hours sobbing and talking to myself, repeating over and over to myself, “why did you have me”. And now, I am one of the generation of intimacy challenged--the ones that have a hard time sorting out touch and love.
That maple tree became a keeper of secrets. God must have known that there would be a little girl in the mid-west that would need a safe place, so He grew the perfect tree with just the right place to stretch out and breathe.
I have never felt very close to my mother. I look at pictures in photo albums for clues. Here is what I have gathered so far: I have only found one or two pictures where my mother is actually holding me or touching me. Most photos are staged scenes, faux magazine photos of a wanna-be family. I have one specific picture where I am sitting on her lap. I look like I'm about nine months old. I'm dressed in a pretty frilly dress. My back is leaning against the front of her Sunday dress and her hands are oddly lying next to her on the chair. She isn't holding me. Who doesn't hold a baby?
I just don't remember much physical contact other than some back of the hand to the face or pinches or arm twists. I remember being around 11 or 12 and climbing up into my tree, sitting for hours sobbing and talking to myself, repeating over and over to myself, “why did you have me”. And now, I am one of the generation of intimacy challenged--the ones that have a hard time sorting out touch and love.
That maple tree became a keeper of secrets. God must have known that there would be a little girl in the mid-west that would need a safe place, so He grew the perfect tree with just the right place to stretch out and breathe.
Friday, June 25, 2004
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I bought this doll yesterday. There was something about the eyes that drew me; creepy, yet enticingly calm. I wondered what little girl the doll had belonged to. Was it loved , was it a favorite? I'm not sure what place it will fill in my life. For now I will lovingly refer to it as "Creepy Dollbaby".
Thursday, June 24, 2004
I moved away a while back and I miss me...
A while back I packed some bags and sent myself packing.
I packed away some pieces of me;
those parts that are like little children.
They might say the wrong thing at the wrong time.
Very inappropriate.
But today I realized that I miss me.
Predictability isn't worth what I paid for it.
I think I'd rather blow bubbles or skip.
Maybe I'll say the words that are in my head out loud.
It takes a long time to grow young.
Picasso says so.
I want to put away my 'inside voice' and
talk about important things like
what I want to be when I grow up.
So, when I come to your house and knock
and keep knocking and yell inside the
screen door of your heart,
please come out and play with me.
Because, you see, forever is not long enough
to do all of the playing we need to do.
I packed away some pieces of me;
those parts that are like little children.
They might say the wrong thing at the wrong time.
Very inappropriate.
But today I realized that I miss me.
Predictability isn't worth what I paid for it.
I think I'd rather blow bubbles or skip.
Maybe I'll say the words that are in my head out loud.
It takes a long time to grow young.
Picasso says so.
I want to put away my 'inside voice' and
talk about important things like
what I want to be when I grow up.
So, when I come to your house and knock
and keep knocking and yell inside the
screen door of your heart,
please come out and play with me.
Because, you see, forever is not long enough
to do all of the playing we need to do.
Frostbite, lovers and whores...
I fear that I am becoming boring. Others might suggest that it is a founded fear and possible a "johnny come lately" fear, because maybe I have already arrived. I used to tell myself that it is called comfortable. Without attention, comfortable becomes complacent and complacency not attended to breeds bitterness and anger.
I have spent the better part of the last two decades in an emotional winter freeze. It's often easier to feel numb than caustic anger or knife-sharp bitterness. I remember when I was little I would spend over a half and hour getting all of my winter gear on so that I could go out to play in the snow. Snow rarely lasts long in this area of the country and you are never guaranteed there will be another lasting snow before spring arrives. You have to eek every minute of play out of the wet, white powder. We would grab our sleds and head to the nearest hill and sled until we were frozen and stiff. When we got home we would peel off the wet clothes and our cold, red skin would suffer the sensation of a hundred bee stings. Our fingers, near frostbite, would tingle and then burn until eventually the feeling returned.
That has been my life over the last year. As my capacity for feeling has returned it has gone through the same process of hovering near death, tingling and then burning before the feelings return. Each situation invites the beginning of this process or one similar to it.
I realized today that sometimes I engage in behaviors, either consciously or unconsciously, that offer me the opportunity to "feel". I admit it; many times the ragged edges of feeling are what remind me that I'm alive. I used to use pain in the same way. Our senses (touch, taste, smell, see, hear) are an amazing part of who we are. The dance of pleasure and pain teases me and often lulls me into hypnotic repetitions. The stimulation of the sensual can either be a lover or a whore. Sometimes my motive is pure love and other time, without thinking, I place the wad of cash in the palm of my conscience and prostitute my soul.
I have spent the better part of the last two decades in an emotional winter freeze. It's often easier to feel numb than caustic anger or knife-sharp bitterness. I remember when I was little I would spend over a half and hour getting all of my winter gear on so that I could go out to play in the snow. Snow rarely lasts long in this area of the country and you are never guaranteed there will be another lasting snow before spring arrives. You have to eek every minute of play out of the wet, white powder. We would grab our sleds and head to the nearest hill and sled until we were frozen and stiff. When we got home we would peel off the wet clothes and our cold, red skin would suffer the sensation of a hundred bee stings. Our fingers, near frostbite, would tingle and then burn until eventually the feeling returned.
That has been my life over the last year. As my capacity for feeling has returned it has gone through the same process of hovering near death, tingling and then burning before the feelings return. Each situation invites the beginning of this process or one similar to it.
I realized today that sometimes I engage in behaviors, either consciously or unconsciously, that offer me the opportunity to "feel". I admit it; many times the ragged edges of feeling are what remind me that I'm alive. I used to use pain in the same way. Our senses (touch, taste, smell, see, hear) are an amazing part of who we are. The dance of pleasure and pain teases me and often lulls me into hypnotic repetitions. The stimulation of the sensual can either be a lover or a whore. Sometimes my motive is pure love and other time, without thinking, I place the wad of cash in the palm of my conscience and prostitute my soul.
Saturday, June 19, 2004
looking for love in all the wrong places...
I know a story about a girl who didn't feel loved growing up. She felt like a bother to her mother, and her father, although loving, was busy working much of the time. She didn't quite fit in and spent many hours up in a tree reading. She may not have known everything, but she definitely had a keen sense about her and she figured out how life worked at an early age. It's a strange thing to live in a young girls body, but think with a mind and feel with a heart that probably extends beyond the world of some adults.
As the girl grew to be a young woman she felt a yearning and void in her life to matter to someone. Her overly critical mind had a list of rules to live by, although they were summarized in theory only. Because the rules and remembered voices often exercised harsh and arbitrary authority, her decisions were not always her own. It would have benefited her greatly if she had been taught and encouraged to live from her heart. But, such as it was, she often chose in a manner that befit a means to an end.
Slowly, without even realizing that it had happened she began to notice small cracks that led to empty spaces in her heart. It reminded her of walking down the damp, slick wooden steps to her grandmother's cellar. The darkness of those empty spaces felt like the dozen steps it took to reach the string hanging from the naked light bulb in the middle of the cellar. It swallowed her. It was darker and deeper than layers of scribbled black crayon on construction paper.
She began searching. The journey was long (she still searches today) and often painful. The map she had been given was very faded and it was often impossible to read. She had a strange 'knowing' that love must be the glue that would seep into those empty places and mend the cracks. Love might be the light in the middle of the cellar.
Her travels led her through backseats of cars on lonely country roads. Probing wants and needs traded placed with probing tongues and exploring fingers. The more present sad realization is that she often caught glances of the fulfillment of her desire, but she was so intent on the search that she missed the moment. After a while she didn't feel like she even deserved to dream.
Decades have raced by and the desire has faded. Love has often eluded her and she has paid a high price to find out what she doesn't want. I think that maybe she is just scared of the truth; that maybe love is more than just a fleeting moment or an elusive dream.
I often sit in the quiet of the night and whisper hopes that my heart and body will find a place to call home.
As the girl grew to be a young woman she felt a yearning and void in her life to matter to someone. Her overly critical mind had a list of rules to live by, although they were summarized in theory only. Because the rules and remembered voices often exercised harsh and arbitrary authority, her decisions were not always her own. It would have benefited her greatly if she had been taught and encouraged to live from her heart. But, such as it was, she often chose in a manner that befit a means to an end.
Slowly, without even realizing that it had happened she began to notice small cracks that led to empty spaces in her heart. It reminded her of walking down the damp, slick wooden steps to her grandmother's cellar. The darkness of those empty spaces felt like the dozen steps it took to reach the string hanging from the naked light bulb in the middle of the cellar. It swallowed her. It was darker and deeper than layers of scribbled black crayon on construction paper.
She began searching. The journey was long (she still searches today) and often painful. The map she had been given was very faded and it was often impossible to read. She had a strange 'knowing' that love must be the glue that would seep into those empty places and mend the cracks. Love might be the light in the middle of the cellar.
Her travels led her through backseats of cars on lonely country roads. Probing wants and needs traded placed with probing tongues and exploring fingers. The more present sad realization is that she often caught glances of the fulfillment of her desire, but she was so intent on the search that she missed the moment. After a while she didn't feel like she even deserved to dream.
Decades have raced by and the desire has faded. Love has often eluded her and she has paid a high price to find out what she doesn't want. I think that maybe she is just scared of the truth; that maybe love is more than just a fleeting moment or an elusive dream.
I often sit in the quiet of the night and whisper hopes that my heart and body will find a place to call home.
Thursday, June 17, 2004
"let it go"
I listened as my friend told me she was thinking about the times and the places where she has told me to just "let it go". I give her many opportunities to at least think those words, if not say them. In my quest to make perfect sense of my history, past and present, happy and down-right hellish, I have unloaded many loads of my filthy laundry at her feet. I usually don't have expectations of her to tend to my laundry-- just to keep me company; to chit-chat as I fold my thoughts and put them away until a later time.
Sometimes it's my whites and self-righteous ponderings/wanderings that I bring to life's laundromat. But, more often it's the everyday clothes, the worn out favorites that I'm trying to preserve. It's my personal integrity, my sanity, my feeble 'rememberings', and the list could go on...and she sits with me at life's laundromat and quietly picks up the pieces. When the socks/thoughts don't match and the stains/pains won't go away she quietly tells me "let it go".
Tonight she told me that she might be ready to start thinking about making more frequent visits to the laundromat. She might even start entertaining the notions of letting go. I'm very proud of her. Those laundry baskets that she drags around are wearing her out.
I'll help you fold any day.
Sometimes it's my whites and self-righteous ponderings/wanderings that I bring to life's laundromat. But, more often it's the everyday clothes, the worn out favorites that I'm trying to preserve. It's my personal integrity, my sanity, my feeble 'rememberings', and the list could go on...and she sits with me at life's laundromat and quietly picks up the pieces. When the socks/thoughts don't match and the stains/pains won't go away she quietly tells me "let it go".
Tonight she told me that she might be ready to start thinking about making more frequent visits to the laundromat. She might even start entertaining the notions of letting go. I'm very proud of her. Those laundry baskets that she drags around are wearing her out.
I'll help you fold any day.
Wednesday, June 16, 2004
The "chocolate chip cookies" of desire...
Desire can be sneaky. I have spent the better part of my life pushing desire down until it is barely noticeable. But, it's one of those odd pieces of how we are made. It never goes away. It just manifests itself in another form; the "Terminator" of human psyche. Just when you think you can name a desire, a passion, it morphs into a hidden yearning that just, well, sneaks up on you.
I think desire that's unacknowledged becomes like fresh, gooey chocolate chip cookies. You nibble on the edge of one and promise yourself you'll eat that solitary cookie, but before you know what happened, the whole plate is empty.
I'm not sure if I'll every notice the whispers of desire in their infancy. If I could figure out what the core need is then maybe I wouldn't stuff all of the cookies into my mouth thinking I will feel satisfied. More often than not, I just feel a queasy.
I want to feel alive. I want to find healthy ways to feed the cravings. I want to explore the balance between the physical, mental and spiritual.
I think desire that's unacknowledged becomes like fresh, gooey chocolate chip cookies. You nibble on the edge of one and promise yourself you'll eat that solitary cookie, but before you know what happened, the whole plate is empty.
I'm not sure if I'll every notice the whispers of desire in their infancy. If I could figure out what the core need is then maybe I wouldn't stuff all of the cookies into my mouth thinking I will feel satisfied. More often than not, I just feel a queasy.
I want to feel alive. I want to find healthy ways to feed the cravings. I want to explore the balance between the physical, mental and spiritual.
Sunday, June 13, 2004
Jesus to me...
It's a pretty comfortable thing for me to express and feel the not-so-pretty emotions. I doubt if anyone would characterize me as 'sugar and spice and everything nice', well, maybe the spice would fit sometimes. I don't generally classify myself as pathetic, but I have had my share of butt kicks during the game of life over the last decade. It has left me with a dose of skepticism and I'm little hard around the edges.
I have found it much easier to remember painful and hurtful instead of being able to easily retrieve joys and blessings.
Today I decided to do life differently. The actions themselves probably didn't look much different, but the sunglasses that I viewed life through were a different shade. I sat in church and watched the sun play hide and seek through the stain glass windows. I noticed babies. I sweetly remembered those two teenagers sitting next to me when they still had baby smells and kissably soft baby toes. I keep quite a distance from their men's size 9 and 10 feet these days. I rubbed the back of there necks, you know, that place in the middle were it indents and the hair grows soft. I breathed in the blessings that I call my own.
Jason Clark,from Vineyard Church, Sutton, UK shared on being 'in the red' in our lives as believers. There are places that I give beyond myself, but my life as a believer is not an area I have felt comfortable sharing with others.
The communion is open, interactive and weekly at Jacob's Well. I've been attending since around Easter and I have yet to take communion. Walking down the aisle and looking someone in the face as they offer me the body and blood of Jesus for my sins is way too personal and feels like a huge commitment; first, to God himself and secondly to Jacob's Well as a community. I have not been in consitent fellowship for over two years and frankly, the idea of becoming a living, breathing part of a community scares the hell out of me.
There is this emotional bubble that rises in the back of my throat when I sense that our time is coming to a close on a Sunday morning. My heart whispers to enter in and partake and let go and every other part of me is yelling at me to "shut up" and sit down because it has never made a difference; the letting go that is. This morning I held onto my heart and eased myself out of the pew before the crowd in my head could protest. I felt the anxiety rise as I walked down the aisle to the altar. I searched for escapes, but none were to be found and something kept drawing me forward. I looked into gentle eyes and heard a sweet voice inviting me to the table, inviting me to re-commune, and I saw Jesus. That man standing before me was Jesus to me.
One the drive home I started thinking about people who have been Jesus to me. Jody was Jesus to me when I was told that I would have to deliver a dead baby. Joe was Jesus to me when he shyly walked into my hospital room and handed me flowers; I barely knew him. Paul was Jesus to me when I was ready to tell God how angry I was with him. Charlie was Jesus to me when I needed to rest my tear swollen eyes in someone's embrace. Pam and Wanda have been Jesus to me as I've walked through the last two years of pain and loss. Jan has been Jesus to me as we learn how to renegotiate friendship. Lisa continues to be Jesus to me as she walks through everyday life. And most recently, Mike and Bill have been Jesus to me when they have sat and listened to me share a piece of my story and made me feel welcome.
I'm going to hang on to these sunglasses. I like the way that life looks like through them and I like the feeling of gratitude in my heart. Right now it's easy to embrace the idea that we are His hands and His feet. Who has been flesh and blood Jesus to you lately?
I have found it much easier to remember painful and hurtful instead of being able to easily retrieve joys and blessings.
Today I decided to do life differently. The actions themselves probably didn't look much different, but the sunglasses that I viewed life through were a different shade. I sat in church and watched the sun play hide and seek through the stain glass windows. I noticed babies. I sweetly remembered those two teenagers sitting next to me when they still had baby smells and kissably soft baby toes. I keep quite a distance from their men's size 9 and 10 feet these days. I rubbed the back of there necks, you know, that place in the middle were it indents and the hair grows soft. I breathed in the blessings that I call my own.
Jason Clark,from Vineyard Church, Sutton, UK shared on being 'in the red' in our lives as believers. There are places that I give beyond myself, but my life as a believer is not an area I have felt comfortable sharing with others.
The communion is open, interactive and weekly at Jacob's Well. I've been attending since around Easter and I have yet to take communion. Walking down the aisle and looking someone in the face as they offer me the body and blood of Jesus for my sins is way too personal and feels like a huge commitment; first, to God himself and secondly to Jacob's Well as a community. I have not been in consitent fellowship for over two years and frankly, the idea of becoming a living, breathing part of a community scares the hell out of me.
There is this emotional bubble that rises in the back of my throat when I sense that our time is coming to a close on a Sunday morning. My heart whispers to enter in and partake and let go and every other part of me is yelling at me to "shut up" and sit down because it has never made a difference; the letting go that is. This morning I held onto my heart and eased myself out of the pew before the crowd in my head could protest. I felt the anxiety rise as I walked down the aisle to the altar. I searched for escapes, but none were to be found and something kept drawing me forward. I looked into gentle eyes and heard a sweet voice inviting me to the table, inviting me to re-commune, and I saw Jesus. That man standing before me was Jesus to me.
One the drive home I started thinking about people who have been Jesus to me. Jody was Jesus to me when I was told that I would have to deliver a dead baby. Joe was Jesus to me when he shyly walked into my hospital room and handed me flowers; I barely knew him. Paul was Jesus to me when I was ready to tell God how angry I was with him. Charlie was Jesus to me when I needed to rest my tear swollen eyes in someone's embrace. Pam and Wanda have been Jesus to me as I've walked through the last two years of pain and loss. Jan has been Jesus to me as we learn how to renegotiate friendship. Lisa continues to be Jesus to me as she walks through everyday life. And most recently, Mike and Bill have been Jesus to me when they have sat and listened to me share a piece of my story and made me feel welcome.
I'm going to hang on to these sunglasses. I like the way that life looks like through them and I like the feeling of gratitude in my heart. Right now it's easy to embrace the idea that we are His hands and His feet. Who has been flesh and blood Jesus to you lately?
Saturday, June 12, 2004
"Hide it under a bushel, NO!! I'm gonna let it shine"
Last night I went to see the movie SAVED!. The story is a brave undertaking, the acting is adequate at best, but you do leave the theatre with some questions mulling around in your head. I'm sure that lines will be drawn and "religious" fundamentalist's will righteously object, but then, maybe that's what the movie is begging. Much fun is poked at church doctrine, personal interpretation and the herd instinct of non-thinking believers; but that mentality is worthy of ridicule.
Jesus never called us to be part of the herd; grazing in the fields of a complacent religious subculture. If anything, we have been invited into an radically evolving relationship full of desire, passion and brutal honesty. It wasn't by accident that we were created with a palette of emotion that is often too big or colorful to be limited to the canvas we each call "ME". Contrary to some fundamental, religious teaching, maturity is not marked by our ability to beat our emotions and desires into submission. Like long-forgotten batteries left in an old toy, those desires and emotions will eventually start leaking out like caustic acid. I affectionately call it the "Swaggart-Baker" syndrome.
The ability to trust, from the very core of my being means that every day, hour and minute I will walk into the unknown future with an unabashed childlike desire to be like Jesus. All of the other things, i.e. sin, obedience/disobedience, and lacks and overindulgences will fall into place. There is grace for the growth.
I've been reading the book "Stealing Jesus" by Bruce Bawer. The book is a bit academic, but Bawer, as a practicing Episcopalian who happens to be gay, tackles the questions that many people who are exploring relationship with God are asking.
As believers and banner-wavers for God we often need to ask ourselves what the hell we are doing! Are our churches social clubs where we come to insulate ourselves and make us feel better about the lives we choose to live and the choices that we make? If part of being a "Christian" required us to "life swap" with others less fortunate than ourselves would we still claim faith? What if I woke up tomorrow and found myself the single mother of five child in a third world country; would I still believe?! What if, by some strange twist of fate my life began as an abused child of a drug addict, and now I find myself alone, homeless and dying of AIDS? Jesus said that how we treat others is how we treat him. I could have been one of the "others".
Tomorrow is Sunday. As we drive to our church, Jacob's Well, I want to remember constricting and religious bondage that I once embraced.
My prayer will be:
O Lord, here I am now bowing humbly down before your throne of grace I am in awe of your unmerited love in spite of my sinful ways.
O Lord, here I am still trembling and clinging to you my Strength and my Shield. O Lord, I feel the pain this wretched existence of sin is writhing within my soul.
My Father, my Teacher, my Master the Lifter of my trampled spirit the Author of all that is righteous and holy all praise and all glory to You my sweet Savior in You sweet Lord Jesus I rest...I rest...I rest...
O my Sweet Lord Jesus Savior Gave yourself and set me free I lift up my voice and praise You are worthy, You are worthy Lord...
Jesus never called us to be part of the herd; grazing in the fields of a complacent religious subculture. If anything, we have been invited into an radically evolving relationship full of desire, passion and brutal honesty. It wasn't by accident that we were created with a palette of emotion that is often too big or colorful to be limited to the canvas we each call "ME". Contrary to some fundamental, religious teaching, maturity is not marked by our ability to beat our emotions and desires into submission. Like long-forgotten batteries left in an old toy, those desires and emotions will eventually start leaking out like caustic acid. I affectionately call it the "Swaggart-Baker" syndrome.
The ability to trust, from the very core of my being means that every day, hour and minute I will walk into the unknown future with an unabashed childlike desire to be like Jesus. All of the other things, i.e. sin, obedience/disobedience, and lacks and overindulgences will fall into place. There is grace for the growth.
I've been reading the book "Stealing Jesus" by Bruce Bawer. The book is a bit academic, but Bawer, as a practicing Episcopalian who happens to be gay, tackles the questions that many people who are exploring relationship with God are asking.
As believers and banner-wavers for God we often need to ask ourselves what the hell we are doing! Are our churches social clubs where we come to insulate ourselves and make us feel better about the lives we choose to live and the choices that we make? If part of being a "Christian" required us to "life swap" with others less fortunate than ourselves would we still claim faith? What if I woke up tomorrow and found myself the single mother of five child in a third world country; would I still believe?! What if, by some strange twist of fate my life began as an abused child of a drug addict, and now I find myself alone, homeless and dying of AIDS? Jesus said that how we treat others is how we treat him. I could have been one of the "others".
Tomorrow is Sunday. As we drive to our church, Jacob's Well, I want to remember constricting and religious bondage that I once embraced.
My prayer will be:
O Lord, here I am now bowing humbly down before your throne of grace I am in awe of your unmerited love in spite of my sinful ways.
O Lord, here I am still trembling and clinging to you my Strength and my Shield. O Lord, I feel the pain this wretched existence of sin is writhing within my soul.
My Father, my Teacher, my Master the Lifter of my trampled spirit the Author of all that is righteous and holy all praise and all glory to You my sweet Savior in You sweet Lord Jesus I rest...I rest...I rest...
O my Sweet Lord Jesus Savior Gave yourself and set me free I lift up my voice and praise You are worthy, You are worthy Lord...
Friday, June 11, 2004
my very own alcoholic...
My grandfather's name was Frank. He was a rough lookin' old cuss and he was an alcoholic. To be kind we usually say that he was ornery, but most often he was just mean.
Not too long ago I was sitting around with my brother and sister and the topic of my grandfather's family came up. My nephew told us that the thing he remembered was how he was held over a hot floor furnace grate. It is a shared experience; family hazing.
It was hard loving my grandfather. It was always an unmentioned dare that he threw out there. I remember riding down the country roads in his old green Ford pickup as we went to feed his horses. He would threaten to run off of the road or hit a bridge and then in the knick of time pull back onto the road. You could see the sheer delight on his face as we recovered from the terror.
One summer he injured is forearm while on the job. It was cut deeply and wrapped in bandages. As we picnicked in the backyard, he slowly sipped away his pain. I was about ten years old and behaving exactly the way any ten-year-old should in the heat of the summer, dancing around and chasing butterflies. He tried to launch himself out of the rickety old lawn chair chaise and stumbled back. His arm and I collided and as he stomped around the barrage of cursing flowed freely. I remember that he called me a "little mother f*cker". No one flinched, no one came to my defense. I'm not sure why, but I felt much shame. I remember sliding to the side of the house and hiding, hoping someone would come and find me and protect me.
I was an adult with children when my grandfather died. He wasted away from cancer and meanness.
My father is an amazing man. I watched as he took care of my grandfather as he grew old. I watched him attend to him when he was sick and I watched him graciously attend to burying his father. He is truly a picture of a redeemed heritage and made choices to father differently than he was fathered.
"Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one's courage" Anais Nin
My dad's not perfect, but he was brave enough to do life differently. For that his children and his grandchildren are blessed.
Not too long ago I was sitting around with my brother and sister and the topic of my grandfather's family came up. My nephew told us that the thing he remembered was how he was held over a hot floor furnace grate. It is a shared experience; family hazing.
It was hard loving my grandfather. It was always an unmentioned dare that he threw out there. I remember riding down the country roads in his old green Ford pickup as we went to feed his horses. He would threaten to run off of the road or hit a bridge and then in the knick of time pull back onto the road. You could see the sheer delight on his face as we recovered from the terror.
One summer he injured is forearm while on the job. It was cut deeply and wrapped in bandages. As we picnicked in the backyard, he slowly sipped away his pain. I was about ten years old and behaving exactly the way any ten-year-old should in the heat of the summer, dancing around and chasing butterflies. He tried to launch himself out of the rickety old lawn chair chaise and stumbled back. His arm and I collided and as he stomped around the barrage of cursing flowed freely. I remember that he called me a "little mother f*cker". No one flinched, no one came to my defense. I'm not sure why, but I felt much shame. I remember sliding to the side of the house and hiding, hoping someone would come and find me and protect me.
I was an adult with children when my grandfather died. He wasted away from cancer and meanness.
My father is an amazing man. I watched as he took care of my grandfather as he grew old. I watched him attend to him when he was sick and I watched him graciously attend to burying his father. He is truly a picture of a redeemed heritage and made choices to father differently than he was fathered.
"Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one's courage" Anais Nin
My dad's not perfect, but he was brave enough to do life differently. For that his children and his grandchildren are blessed.
Thursday, June 10, 2004
it's just a word...
I remember the first time I felt those letters roll around inside my angry mouth. One at a time, the "f" bumping against my teeth as it tumbled around like a little boy struggling to do a cartwheel (we all know that most little boys are cartwheel challenged). The letters started soldering together and the heat and flux seared my tongue and gums like pure acid. Was it really any different than saying "duck"? That word, you know, the "f" one, can really mean so many things. It can define the obvious. It can vomit hate or it can be as tepid as a forgettable frustration. Words can be sweetness one day and a razor the next.
I was twelve, Minnesota was hot, and forced togetherness was choking the introverted breath from my soul. Like an Alka Seltzer tablet dropped into a glass of warm water, the adolescent anger was bubbling under the surface. The explosion spewed as the parental demand was uttered.
"*&%# you!"
"What did you say?"
Honesty equaled stupidity. I quietly repeated myself. That's what a childhood of Baptist Sunday School will get you. I was told to go and wash my mouth out with soap. As the suds multiplied in my mouth I realized that no one was watching me complete the punishment. Was it a developing moral compass that compelled me to honesty and obedience?
I wanted to be a good girl. The fear was very real that any action might exclude me from heaven. I just wanted to be loved. If I could I would go back and hold that little girls hand. We'd take a walk and I'd tell her that every feeling, thought and wound, from this distance of time and growing, was an absolutely necessary prelude to the process of healing her life. I would wipe the tear from her cheek and let her know that the cycle of violence would end and grace would be an everyday ingredient in her parenting...that her children would know, without even knowing otherwise, grace.
I was twelve, Minnesota was hot, and forced togetherness was choking the introverted breath from my soul. Like an Alka Seltzer tablet dropped into a glass of warm water, the adolescent anger was bubbling under the surface. The explosion spewed as the parental demand was uttered.
"*&%# you!"
"What did you say?"
Honesty equaled stupidity. I quietly repeated myself. That's what a childhood of Baptist Sunday School will get you. I was told to go and wash my mouth out with soap. As the suds multiplied in my mouth I realized that no one was watching me complete the punishment. Was it a developing moral compass that compelled me to honesty and obedience?
I wanted to be a good girl. The fear was very real that any action might exclude me from heaven. I just wanted to be loved. If I could I would go back and hold that little girls hand. We'd take a walk and I'd tell her that every feeling, thought and wound, from this distance of time and growing, was an absolutely necessary prelude to the process of healing her life. I would wipe the tear from her cheek and let her know that the cycle of violence would end and grace would be an everyday ingredient in her parenting...that her children would know, without even knowing otherwise, grace.
Wednesday, June 09, 2004
lover of mine...
Kisses like wine; I remember the sweet taste, the intoxication.
Explorers of familiar, yet unvisited terrain.
Trails and ravines; fingers trace.
Crushing desire, sweet surrender.
The gate is open, the moon invites.
The want, the need; shy desire.
I know, understand, accept.
Let's redefine, re-create.
Innocence reborn.
Souls are river washed.
Hearts bound.
Peace.
Explorers of familiar, yet unvisited terrain.
Trails and ravines; fingers trace.
Crushing desire, sweet surrender.
The gate is open, the moon invites.
The want, the need; shy desire.
I know, understand, accept.
Let's redefine, re-create.
Innocence reborn.
Souls are river washed.
Hearts bound.
Peace.
Tuesday, June 08, 2004
two gold velvet sofas...
Yesterday I climbed to the 3rd floor of a large, old brick church. The church sits on the corner in the middle of a quiet mid-town neighborhood. The disheveled office was pea-soup green. Neat offices make me uncomfortable. Life is usually messy and those who make choices to live in reality tend to inhabit 'lived-in' spaces.
I sat on one of the two cornered mid 70's gold velvet sofas and he sat on the other. Introductions aside, I started carefully unpacking the contents of me. He listened, he did not judge and he invited.
We talked about the unfairness of life and I shared about a couple of my emotional wounds. As I sat back, in third person I listened to myself and realized how easy it was to dress up my bandages and minimize the very noticeable scars that made me "ME".
I have a hard time really feeling what I feel and acknowledging how things affect me. Growing up I remember being told to "stop crying, only babies cry". Over and over I was instilled with the message that it is not okay to live with what I really feel. What I know now is that the adults around me didn't want to get their hands messy with emotions and sure didn't want to understand what made up the wonderful little girl that they had in their lives. What a pity it would have been for "christians" to admit that they have feelings that they can't control. Feelings like hate, lust, emptiness. Seems like a whole generation walked around the piles of elephant sh*t in their gold and orange living rooms, grabbing air freshener and spraying furiously. No wonder a large percentage of 30-40 year olds make frequent visits to pastors/counselors/life coaches. We don't know who the hell we are! We are the product of the "no aftertaste, no unplesant odor" age.
Sitting on that gold velvet sofa I realized that I had a whole box of disassociated feelings and I often don't have the faintest clue where to place them or how to appropriately feel them. Most often I dismiss them. So here is the short list of feelings that have been swirling around in my head: ANGER, loneliness, distrust, desire. Most of the time I try to quiet them enough to be able to function and at night I just hope that I'm tired enough to slide into sleep without realizing that there isn't someone next to me who might stroke my hair and love me to sleep.
I sat on one of the two cornered mid 70's gold velvet sofas and he sat on the other. Introductions aside, I started carefully unpacking the contents of me. He listened, he did not judge and he invited.
We talked about the unfairness of life and I shared about a couple of my emotional wounds. As I sat back, in third person I listened to myself and realized how easy it was to dress up my bandages and minimize the very noticeable scars that made me "ME".
I have a hard time really feeling what I feel and acknowledging how things affect me. Growing up I remember being told to "stop crying, only babies cry". Over and over I was instilled with the message that it is not okay to live with what I really feel. What I know now is that the adults around me didn't want to get their hands messy with emotions and sure didn't want to understand what made up the wonderful little girl that they had in their lives. What a pity it would have been for "christians" to admit that they have feelings that they can't control. Feelings like hate, lust, emptiness. Seems like a whole generation walked around the piles of elephant sh*t in their gold and orange living rooms, grabbing air freshener and spraying furiously. No wonder a large percentage of 30-40 year olds make frequent visits to pastors/counselors/life coaches. We don't know who the hell we are! We are the product of the "no aftertaste, no unplesant odor" age.
Sitting on that gold velvet sofa I realized that I had a whole box of disassociated feelings and I often don't have the faintest clue where to place them or how to appropriately feel them. Most often I dismiss them. So here is the short list of feelings that have been swirling around in my head: ANGER, loneliness, distrust, desire. Most of the time I try to quiet them enough to be able to function and at night I just hope that I'm tired enough to slide into sleep without realizing that there isn't someone next to me who might stroke my hair and love me to sleep.
Monday, June 07, 2004
soul sludge...
There is a definite backlash to a conscience placed on hold; sort of like a spiritual or emotional overload. Eventually it becomes like that suitcase that you can't get closed when your coming home from a trip. You always come back with more cr*p than you took and you never repack quite as neatly as you do when getting ready for the trip. You end up shoving stuff in the sides and bouncing up and down on the top of the suitcase to get is closed. And then you pray to God that the zipper or the latches don't give way in flight. No one wants to see their dirty underwear exposed in public.
That pretty much explains the state of my union. I can feel a slow and, most-often, gently tug/invitation to pay attention to what my heart is whispering and yet more times than not I put my fingers in my ears and hum an all-to-familiar tune. Emotional selective hearing. It's served me well in life, but it also has great potential to keep me where I'm at.
So, there it is. My Rip Van Winkle conscience is starting to stir; that unsettled feeling of being half-awake when you don't quite have your finger on reality.
I have a lot of 'shoulds' in my life. I should pay better attention as a mother. I should get up earlier and get something done. I should exercise. I should want to attend to my relationship with God. They are all part of the heavy charm bracelet that I drag around. 'Should' usually equals prison or entrapment to me. 'Could' has a greater chance of looking like a choice or an invitation. I could just admit that I feel pretty f*cked up most of the time and that relationship with God doesn't have to be some grand parade. Maybe it's just that--being able to whisper that I feel pretty f*cked up and then being able to hold those words in my dirty five-year-old hands and offer them to my Father with a one-word prayer, "help".
That pretty much explains the state of my union. I can feel a slow and, most-often, gently tug/invitation to pay attention to what my heart is whispering and yet more times than not I put my fingers in my ears and hum an all-to-familiar tune. Emotional selective hearing. It's served me well in life, but it also has great potential to keep me where I'm at.
So, there it is. My Rip Van Winkle conscience is starting to stir; that unsettled feeling of being half-awake when you don't quite have your finger on reality.
I have a lot of 'shoulds' in my life. I should pay better attention as a mother. I should get up earlier and get something done. I should exercise. I should want to attend to my relationship with God. They are all part of the heavy charm bracelet that I drag around. 'Should' usually equals prison or entrapment to me. 'Could' has a greater chance of looking like a choice or an invitation. I could just admit that I feel pretty f*cked up most of the time and that relationship with God doesn't have to be some grand parade. Maybe it's just that--being able to whisper that I feel pretty f*cked up and then being able to hold those words in my dirty five-year-old hands and offer them to my Father with a one-word prayer, "help".
Sunday, June 06, 2004
Squirming...
I visited a new church today.
About 3 weeks ago someone called me and sang the praises of the church she and her husband were now attending. After I disengaged my 'religious' paranoid-meter I was able to finish the phone conversation. Did she really know that I haven't consistently been in church for almost 2 years? I felt like I was standing there in my underwear. After convincing her that I would consider visiting we ended the conversation and I headed out the door.
This weekend I finished the book, "home is always the place you just left--a memoir of restless longing and persistent grace" by Betty Smart Carter. At the least, I choked downed an unsettled feeling when I closed the back cover. Like a hubcap that rolls down a slow stretch of highway, I am still processing the why's and how's and where my head and heart have landed. The book made my long to find a place called home; a comfortable chair inside my heart. That's why I decided to visit the new church. Weeks ago my friend shared with me that several people I know also attend. I longed for familiar.
I walked into the converted storefront and took a seat at the back while the end of the first service concluded. Before I could slip out as one of the "first service attenders", I was noticed. The handful of people that I knew surrounded me and introduced me to a few people that they could snatch in to the small gathering. Someone grabbed the pastor and thrust my hand into his. Pastor P. had called and left a message a couple of weeks earlier in anticipation of my impending visit. He sounded energetic and young. My suspicions where confirmed.
An acquaintance from about 4 years ago grabbed me and proceeded to yank me up to the front row with her and her mother. There was no escaping. The room filled with about 75 people and the worship team started playing. That's when all heaven/hell broke loose. About 5 minutes into the first song the woman next to me, my acquaintance, started looking for a box of tissues. She then proceeded to lean over and share with me that her husband of 19 years had just left her for her best friend and she was having suicidal thoughts. At that point I remembered why I hadn't pursued friendship 4 years ago. Needy was an understatement!
As the music flowed into the second song, Pastor P. borrowed the microphone from one of the singers and started praying, inviting a stampede to the front. Don't get me wrong, I am not against enthusiastic displays of faith and worship, as long as they are sincere and original. 95% of the attenders stood at the front swaying like a herd of cattle. Skeptical could be my middle name. I have done a stint in the charismatic scene and can smell tendency for herd-instinct following a mile away. After all 'laid on hands' were retrieved and everyone snaked their way back to the seats we continued singing with just a few more interruptions.
The hair was standing up on the back of my neck and I wanted to go home and take a shower. But I have to tell you, there was a slight whisper in my ear. The majority of me wanted to stand up and yell "weirdo's". Propriety kept me in my seat. When it was all said and done, Pastor P. shared some things that poked some holes into the parched dirt of my heart.
Will I go back? I don't know. What I do know is that my heart is bruised and hurting. I want to find a place to belong. I don't want to have to define myself everywhere I land. I want to be known. Here's the litmus test--will someone call me? Does fellowship and family mean Sunday morning only or does it extend into the cracks of the rest of their week? We'll see.
About 3 weeks ago someone called me and sang the praises of the church she and her husband were now attending. After I disengaged my 'religious' paranoid-meter I was able to finish the phone conversation. Did she really know that I haven't consistently been in church for almost 2 years? I felt like I was standing there in my underwear. After convincing her that I would consider visiting we ended the conversation and I headed out the door.
This weekend I finished the book, "home is always the place you just left--a memoir of restless longing and persistent grace" by Betty Smart Carter. At the least, I choked downed an unsettled feeling when I closed the back cover. Like a hubcap that rolls down a slow stretch of highway, I am still processing the why's and how's and where my head and heart have landed. The book made my long to find a place called home; a comfortable chair inside my heart. That's why I decided to visit the new church. Weeks ago my friend shared with me that several people I know also attend. I longed for familiar.
I walked into the converted storefront and took a seat at the back while the end of the first service concluded. Before I could slip out as one of the "first service attenders", I was noticed. The handful of people that I knew surrounded me and introduced me to a few people that they could snatch in to the small gathering. Someone grabbed the pastor and thrust my hand into his. Pastor P. had called and left a message a couple of weeks earlier in anticipation of my impending visit. He sounded energetic and young. My suspicions where confirmed.
An acquaintance from about 4 years ago grabbed me and proceeded to yank me up to the front row with her and her mother. There was no escaping. The room filled with about 75 people and the worship team started playing. That's when all heaven/hell broke loose. About 5 minutes into the first song the woman next to me, my acquaintance, started looking for a box of tissues. She then proceeded to lean over and share with me that her husband of 19 years had just left her for her best friend and she was having suicidal thoughts. At that point I remembered why I hadn't pursued friendship 4 years ago. Needy was an understatement!
As the music flowed into the second song, Pastor P. borrowed the microphone from one of the singers and started praying, inviting a stampede to the front. Don't get me wrong, I am not against enthusiastic displays of faith and worship, as long as they are sincere and original. 95% of the attenders stood at the front swaying like a herd of cattle. Skeptical could be my middle name. I have done a stint in the charismatic scene and can smell tendency for herd-instinct following a mile away. After all 'laid on hands' were retrieved and everyone snaked their way back to the seats we continued singing with just a few more interruptions.
The hair was standing up on the back of my neck and I wanted to go home and take a shower. But I have to tell you, there was a slight whisper in my ear. The majority of me wanted to stand up and yell "weirdo's". Propriety kept me in my seat. When it was all said and done, Pastor P. shared some things that poked some holes into the parched dirt of my heart.
Will I go back? I don't know. What I do know is that my heart is bruised and hurting. I want to find a place to belong. I don't want to have to define myself everywhere I land. I want to be known. Here's the litmus test--will someone call me? Does fellowship and family mean Sunday morning only or does it extend into the cracks of the rest of their week? We'll see.
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