Who am I?

My family took a road trip from Friday until yesterday to visit my dad near Lancaster, PA. The trip added up to about 9 hours each way. There was a mix-up with the arrival date, so at 1:30 AM, the security guard at the Retirement Community who was supposed to have keys and show us to our room, had no information on our stay. I did not have the room name either. It took man an hour of slow looking through notebook and paper stack and locker and computer to conclude that he should call someone, despite my begging for anything (a couch, a closet, the lobby floor). So at around 3 AM after he called the woman in charge, we got to our room and all attempted sleep.

I took on my role as host, and tried to figure out food, entertainer for four very different people, activity planner, etc. Tense moments, left me feeling anxious, until my neck and shoulder pulsed in pain. Half way through day two, I realized my whole effort lay in trying to get past now and make it to the next thing without anyone being unhappy. Just get to through the meal of fish and bland chicken, just get through the vacuuming and hall clearing, just occupy the kids to keep them out of the way, just have real moments being with my dad, trying to make him comfortable, just have a good conversation. I did honestly didn't give much of anything to my husband, besides permission to work. Then on to sleep and waking so my husband could sleep in, my dad could rest, my kids would say they had a good time.

I wonder about getting through, because I miss being with my family. I miss enjoying each smile, each, tear and the silly jokes between the boys. Taking it further, I ultimately resent myself for bailing. What is it about saying how I want to be present in this space. I could have just made a plan that included me.

Meanwhile, my shoulder gripped tighter. I did not write, run, sleep in, read or sit alone. I deferred to the moment someone would give me permission to be alone, as my neighbor had the hour before the trip, telling me to go for a run while she watched the kids.

I keep wondering about Moses at the burning bush. He keeps telling God to give the Exodus mission to someone else. He talks back to God at least four times.
1. "Who am I, That I should go to Pharaoh, and that I should bring the sons of Israel out of Egypt?" (Ex3:13) God has a long answer about being God, the one who will do the work.

And then Moses tries again. . .
2. "What if they will not believe me or listen to what I say? For they may say,'The Lord has not appeared to you." (Ex 4:1) So God gives Moses the power to take objects and turn them into living things.

And that not enough, Moses goes on with. . .
3. "Please Lord, I have never been eloquent, neither recently nor in time past, nor since You have spoken to Your servant; for I am slow of speech and slow of tongue." God Answers with, "Who has made man's mouth? Or who makes him mute or deaf, or seeing or blind? Is it not I, the Lord? Now then go, and I, even I, will be your mouth, and teach you what you are to say.'"

4. "But [Moses] said, "Please, Lord, now send the message by whomever You will" (i.e. anyone but not me).
God gets angry at this point and gives him Aaron to speak for Moses.

I don't have a burning fire in front of me, with the voice of God coming out of it. I do have a soul crying out for more. More with God, more with myself, more with my family. I want to be with others, not just around them. So I ask that God would speak on my behalf and that I might listen.

"This is the Best Day Ever"

This morning my boys and I sat at the Barry's Bagels bakers window. We watched a guy hop around and dynamically engage with one of the mechanics who often sits at the back table in his jumpsuit and complains about his personal life. David said of the hopping guy, "he's silly." I told him about how the joys in fun teases and games was that we got to be creative and enjoy one another. Upon coming home David added to the moment with his mantra, "this is the best day ever." David's friends overwhelmed our porch and mimicked Isaac as he did an "Obbwaaawaaa," by singing out while his hand moved to his lips and away and to and away for several seconds.

Failing to Reach the Next Cairn

 Today a good friend suggested I am spoiling my kids by buying them little things in preparation for each hour of our drive to and from Pennsylvania to visit my dad (who just had surgery for bladder cancer). She clarified that she knew how much I wanted to give them, just that it is hard to top oneself next time. A neighbor shared the work she was doing to help another neighbor who is moving (it is really thoughtful!), while I sat and ate my lunch, not lifting a finger. Yesterday, my husband asked if I could have dinner ready earlier on days when I agreed to host a writers workshop events (which makes good sense). Just prior to that I read three stories in preparation for the workshop and of course they were better then anything I feel capable of (I know we will hear from these folks in a public way soon).

Each exchange seems to be like a cairn piling in my gut, reaching upwards towards my throat. I want to justify my own inadequacy with some excuse, but I am so tired of seeing myself as a failure. I feel like I am a life-size laminated paper doll [like Flat Stanley], that is on display, but has no flesh. I think I could change this if. . . 

- I had thick skin and a good mantra. 

- I could genuinely say something like, "I am so glad for you and what you do." 

- I had a blanket comeback for myself like, "I'm just an organic personality" or "I am feeling a bit chaotic today, so I hope you can excuse me."

I could become one of those spewers of my accomplishments or just cut people off (myself mainly) regarding my buying toys with, "I am trying to recreate a memorable experience I had as a child" or "The toys every hour are for me and I am counting on my kids being strong enough to not assume that I will top this next time," or that there will even be a next time. The alternative is I could take them back and we could just drive 8 hours on Friday and back 8 on Tuesday.

The reason for a toy an hour (mind you, they are all a dollar or two) is because when I was sixteen, I was in an initiation where we were tasked with keeping a fire burning all night and each hour we got to open a package. They were plastic animals, anchovy pizza, and random things like that, but it was a marking of time and I loved being in that adventure. So here are presents for our own family adventure, which will be made up of a lot of driving. Presents will probably breed discontent, wanting more and a sense of letdown later as I don't plan to top it next time, but I will attempt to engage now and hope that I have grace for the mistakes I make. 

New Mind

I have been told that God commands us to Be Joyful. Maybe it is referring to "Be joyful always, pray continually and give thanks in all circumstances," verse? The idea that takes me back to middle school where someone talked about the hymn, "It is well with my soul." The author wrote from a boat just after hearing that his family had died. I imagine him on his knees weeping onto the words.

I want to sit here and complain today! I feel off. I have legitimate reasons that can get your empathy. Things like, I sat for two hours at the apple store attempting to restore photos that were permanently deleted. I went to Ann Arbor Public Schools Administrative Offices to hear that there are no openings in any schools and there will be no second round of "In District Transfers Requests." There was no empathy for my missing the first round, or my son's having no school to go to next year. I have been out of coffee for three days and sitting in Roos, the coffee is so bitter. I am Jonah with a dead plant lying next to me.

In spite of my "Yes Fast," I am too busy with non- essentials and the pile up of laundry, dirty fuzzes, and empty fridge to consider my heart. I started driving to therapy this morning to think about getting on a new path, only to realize I don't have that today. I wonder how I ever said yes to anything or manage as an adult.

Our Small Group is in our second year on the same Book of the Bible, Mark. This week was Mark 8 and the pattern of the chapter is a BIG miracle of feeding people, a group rejecting Jesus, the healing of a single man's eyes and a conversation/teaching with his disciples. There is something profound in this rendering of Christ. A power that is beyond me. A sense of looking at my own heart and how I engage, and an ultimate hope that I will surrender and beg and be opened to his life and work in me.

I sat in the parking lot a few times this morning wishing I looked like a high powered attorney with suit and make-up and a fierce presence that would command people to do my bidding. Then I prayed. I prayed for David's education, then his life's journey and that he would follow after Christ as he stands up to kids saying "bad word, bad word, bad word," [just like that, without getting specific on any one] and the word "poop, poop, poop." It makes me wonder why I don't spend longer asking God to engage his heart. At this point I need prayer to know God and experience being known by him to the point that the little things like photos and Kindergartens are not millstones around my neck. God help me to know you.  

Being Fully Known

I went to a Women's Tea, because a woman that I love invited me. Upon arriving at her table, she handed me a gift that I adore, with the attached pendant she made from an postcard. She knows me and running and I adore this pendant in a way I can't describe! She got me!

Once she and I caught up, I turned and observed the others at my table. I instantly wanted to bail. There were hats and fancy dresses and women who had lovely scripts, articulate speakers and a label that said Be on your best behavior. I thought I should write a scene about it, creating caricatures of people who go to teas on Saturday afternoons, juxtaposed against me, who doesn't own a hair brush.

Then each woman opened her mouth and spoke. Each one had a heartbreaking and hope-filled story. My internal jaw kept dropping as each new story unfolded. One lady shared a severe health issues, another parenting struggles, another the journey of she and her husband living apart for several years, a few of the heartache of aging parents, one a late divorce, and each of us entering into an ache for being loved. We talked while nibbling at thumb-sized cucumber sandwiches.

Then came a speaker named Joanne Beckman, talking out of her life and recent book, titled Groceries on a Saturday Morning (available on Amazon). I tried to retell one of her stories and sobbed to my husband just before arriving at a dinner party last night (oops). I had no idea how much it would hit me. She talked about being known, saying the worst thing a child can say to a parent is, "You don't know me." One story she shared was about how her adopted son from an early age was fixated on if his "Real Mom," would recognize him if she saw him. Joanne's answer goes something like this, "If all the Chinese boys age four were lined up in a row (some huge 9 million or such number) and I went down the row, I would see you and Know you."What a picture.

It relates to the idea of Christ knowing me. It does not matter how much I know him or how much I have changed since college or what I did yesterday good or bad, but he knows me. He formed and continues to grow each finger nail and eye lash.

One of my best friends sent me a Bob Dylan song, I am learning to play before she and I go camping next month, that I just have to end with.

In the time of my confession,
in the hour of my deepest need
When the pool of tears beneath my feet
flood every newborn seed
There's a dyin' voice within me
reaching out somewhere,
Toiling in the danger and in
the morals of despair.

Don't have the inclination to
look back on any mistake,
Like Cain,
I now behold this chain of events
that I must break.
In the fury of the moment
I can see the Master's hand
In every leaf that trembles,
in every grain of sand.

Oh, the flowers of indulgence
and the weeds of yesteryear,
Like criminals,
they have choked the breath
of conscience and good cheer.
The sun beat down upon the steps
of time to light the way
To ease the pain of idleness
and the memory of decay.

I gaze into the doorway of
temptation's angry flame
And every time I pass that way
I always hear my name.
Then onward in my journey
I come to understand
That every hair is numbered
like every grain of sand.

I have gone from rags to riches
in the sorrow of the night
In the violence of a summer's dream,
in the chill of a wintry light,
In the bitter dance of loneliness
fading into space,
In the broken mirror of innocence
on each forgotten face.

I hear the ancient footsteps like
the motion of the sea
Sometimes I turn, there's someone there,
other times it's only me.
I am hanging in the balance
of the reality of man
Like every sparrow falling,
like every grain of sand.

Friends in Distant Places

As I think about my living in close proximity to 56+ co-housers (neighbors), to the point that they pull weeds form my front yard, know where I am most of the time, see my son barefoot in only a diaper and observe my parenting (or non-parenting when my 5 year old can't find me). I have talked about the struggle to appear competent, but as one of my best friends departed for Chicago today, I got to thinking that all of my closest friends live elsewhere. Not that I don't have close friends here, but I have more depth in my knowing people when they no longer live here.

I have lost a few of my favorite people over time, a few college roommates, a few women who wanted to go deeper with me and even family members who live nearby but who I never see. It got me thinking about why that is? Why are distant friendships safer? Why are having people in my life on a daily basis too threatening? I know that part of it is that I tend to offer and try to help too much. I think too that my friends who actively want God to show up in BIG ways in their lives, want that for me too. I can't imagine what I would have to do to manage anyone wanting too much for me.  

My writing coach often fights for my time and gifts more then I do. Maybe accountability to people who want so much for me and whom I see every morning would feel scary. Maybe that is my conflict with God. I know he wants so much and I just want to hide in the belly of a ship heading for an opposite shore (like Jonah).

As I think about what I want, there are a few narratives I could work towards. One would be limit my focus to my family alone (safety). The second would be some kind of work/ structured ministry or job (this one is appealing, but feels like I would abandon my household). The third is to do everything to avoid the question all together. But what I really want is to observe and write life. To work out the conflicts and questions, so like my friend heading for Chicago, I too see myself on a journey that is bigger then me and congruent with who I am in Christ. I want to speak in such a way that my neighbors become more open, I become more open. I see long term wilting of people, because they focus more and more on the dead bush in their view then the budding forest just beyond it. A friend mentioned advice she received that if you have options, choose the one that is least certain, where you have to rely the most on God. That is where I sit.

My struggles are about engaging people as me, engaging with a God that wants great things for me and letting go of control in my knowing and being known by anyone.

I'm Being Followed

I sat in on a sermon that talked about neighborhoods.  My pastor asked about how well we know our neighbors and suggested that with knowing, some of life's tough moments wouldn't go unnoticed. My feeling is the opposite. Knowing my neighbors means the depression, abuse, fear and hunger settle in my lap. I am more accountable to respond. If someone is hungry, lonely, afraid, rejected, then suddenly I am the answer. Well, God is, but through me?

The trouble is every person lives with those struggles much of the time. All 56+ people that live within 200 yards of me have real needs. Somewhere in the last month or two (or maybe longer), I reached a breaking point, because I realized that they do not know me. They know what I can do for them, the "How" of my role, but not the "Why." I haven't stopped to live out the "why" behind my work with people

I started running from people's needs and dreaming of a large plot of land all to myself. Then at church I heard of more needs, people hungry and unable to get work due to visa issues. They just need odd jobs that pay cash. I don't even read about the real crisis in human trafficking, polluted water, starvation and worse.

The Why should be because I long to know Jesus and be known by him. I long for a real working relationship with God, through loving his people. I long to feel heart needs and for Christ to satisfy. I long for the depth of love that Christ has for the lost. One non-believing friend mentioned that his mother was one of those Crazy Born Again Christians and I smiled as if she must be nuts. I didn't say, "Oh, like me?"

Marilyn Robinson is clear in her words, her living and her relationships about who she is in Christ. She is a raving Calvinist and she speaks of radical integrity. People come to talk with her about their questions. My youth leader was the same way. He would sit alone in the grass and wait for people to come, and they always did. That is what I long for. An identity in Christ and the freedom to let people see that in me. To give out more then stale bread and calcified water.

I heard the story recently of a guy who got divorced and decided he should move far away to escape the conflict with his family. He had three kids and his therapist said to him on his last visit, "See you in a few weeks." He responded with, "No, I'm not coming back." She said, "Of course you are. Your dad abandoned you and since you know what this is like,  there is no way you would let your son experience it." So he chose to stay in it and fight. He asked for more then two visits a month, went to court many times and lived/s as a flawed but present father.

So I wonder what I fight for today, beyond fear of meeting someone I deem to be needy or judging. I want more then to divert my gauze. I want to pray for the real desperation inside myself and them. To come to the well, drink, eat, rest, grab onto Christ's cloak, climb a tree to just get a glimpse of Him.

God says (Isaiah 62:6 & 7)
On your walls
    Oh Jerusalem, I have
    appointed watchmen;
All day and all night they
    will never keep silent
You who remind the
    Lord, take no rest for
    yourselves;
And give Him no rest
    until He establishes
And makes Jerusalem a
   praise in the earth.

My Mom Is Beautiful

My brother posted a beautiful picture of my mom on Facebook, which made me teary. I thought about her but really felt her absence in that moment late this afternoon. Her life brings me to my writing. I feel my calling as a writer comes most significantly out of my knowing her and wanting her stories and my stories and our being children of a Shepard King to come alive on the page. 

Her internal life through books along with her general presence in each moment is part of what I take to my work. I sit and imagine holding her hand without embarrassment, apology or pain, because we are both free. The promise of life with Jesus feel close and spurs me on towards that day I will know her all over again in all her beauty. 

I AM A YES ADDICT

I have decided that I am a YES ADDICT. I have the nice list of ways to decline, that I keep adding to which includes, "That won't work," "I can't," pretending I did not receive or hear the request, and deflecting attention from me by saying: "What's up? or What options do you have?" And yet, on the third and fourth request that come in from the same person, I say, Sure or Yep or Ok. I suppose I should ban those words as well. I really want to say, FINE and then curse (except that I have trouble swearing), because I don't want to do the work. I do want people to get what they need, it's just I am tired of being their only solution. If someone asking suggests they are trying to help me practice my "no," I am all the more intent on proving that I can help them. I respond with Yes and think, "Don't tell me I can't say YES." Classic addiction, right? I can control myself, really, I can. And then I am back in the pattern of being little miss helpful at my own expense.

So I am taking a YES-FAST. Not aloud to say the word. Ideally, I can use all the time I am not living up to my "Yes'es" for others to be on Sabbatical. To be awake to myself, to God. Off doing, off pleasing, off pretending I am a good person.

What does my dishing out "No's" look like in reality? I assume you will call me names like "Mean" (just like a two yr old did this morning after I told him to vacate the sandbox after repeatedly throwing sand). Saying I am mean makes me crazy, but being a compliant Yes woman is worse!  To move past this kind of relating, I want to talk about life with you. I want to ponder why faith in God and not ourselves is so threatening. As for my being able to say no. I suppose you will just have to repeatedly ask me to do something and see what happens.

(Even as I write this, I know I will want to help you out of my own discomfort at not meeting what I perceive is your expectation for me. This is my illness and I know I will have to keep working on it for life. Sigh.)

Christianity = Falling Asleep?

There are so many learned behaviors, routine actions we do in our sleep. Things like standing up, getting shoes on, driving somewhere for the 100th time. If you know the song "Jesus Loves Me," that is beyond robotic. For me, it feels like choosing to sing my ABC's to myself,  without my kids around. Why is my first instinct to sleep. Why is "Jesus loves you" hollow to me. If I speak about the one God, I am holding him up for a nanosecond and then sticking him in a dark box. I see people and think, they will too.

"Quiet time," has had that feeling for me as well. It's not that I dislike being quiet and I certainly love being alone, it's just that as a word or idea, I sorta shut down or nod off when I hear it. Prayer can come across that way too. I rarely pray past health and strength and good fortune in the generic sense.

Sitting down in a Chapel by myself to listen to God is suddenly terrifying. When I can't avoid it any longer (because it is an assignment), I sit down in the back by myself and unravel. There is no one to be, nothing to do and actual time. It is outside of the world I know.

In a Sanctuary God feels big and I the opposite. I lose my facade of nice, of compliant of "I will solve your problems." My brain steps asside and I consider God as God. It means pushing others out to get a boat for the shore where he has reappeared since last night. It means digging through a roof and being lowered down and forgetting to eat, because I am desperate to be with him.