It is a rare thing, when in one’s life, one can consider the meaningful. Considering the meaningful is usually left to poets and inde film directors and college drop-outs smoking a joint at a coffee shop. Rarely though, do the rest of us get a chance to peek at the divine, or the shadow of the divine, or for those of us to don’t believe at all: the concept of the other-worldly.
All of our lives are like a map. And along the way there are landmarks that are familiar to all of us, no matter how different our maps look. Some of our maps look like Morocco, some like a small farm village in Holland. Some look like London or Amsterdam some look like a tribal village in Africa and some of our maps look like American cities. Our maps all look different. But along the way on each of our maps, we find the same markers. The same icons exist in the lives of each of us: we have icons for beauty, icons for meaning, icons for justice, icons for love.
My bet is that love: real, painful, selfless, rich, visible, action-driven love is the best fixed-navigation point to have in your life. Fixed navigation meaning that as long as Love exists in your life, other things can be in motion and you’ll be fine. But as soon as you lose your grip on Love, everything else stops working.
Another way to say it might be that Love is the best title for your life story, no matter who you are. Think for a second about your life story. If a group of 10 year old boys were watching your life story like some kind of TV movie, what would they call it? ‘Money’, perhaps? ‘Intellect’? ‘Religion’? ‘Tradition’? ‘Trying very hard’?'Failure’? ‘Success’? ‘Everything’s perfect’? ‘Cool’? ‘Friends’? 'Lonely'?
Love is a hard word. It’s like the Dutch word gezellig. It’s hard to get the real meaning of. I try to translate gezellig and end up saying five or six words in the hopes of someone getting the point: cosy/friends/relaxing/cool/laughing/drinks/easy/where you want to be.
Love is like that. It’s been defined so long by bad movie makers and even worse song writers that we don’t quite know what to do with it. So let me tell you using pictures isn’t of words:
Love. A young woman named Harper McConnell moved after university to Goma, Eastern Congo to help provide care to women who need a surgery for something called a fistula: a hole in their uterus stemming from a labor where the baby became stuck, died within the birth canal, and days later usually was pulled out of the mother after she was already fevered with infection and waiting to die. Harper gave up a comfortable life to life in Congo… in an area where there are 2 gynecologists in an area with hundreds of thousands of people.
Love. A young woman who babysits for a family who lost their mother in a heartwrenching tragedy, and wants to help them. So she organizes meals to be brought over to their home for a month.
Love. Desmond Tutu, who led South African through a reconciliation instead of a blood bath through the concept of forgiveness.
Love. Mahatma Ghandi, who liberated India through peace.
Love. A young kid who saves his allowance in order to sponsor a poor child in Tanzania.
Love. The God of the Universe.
Some have said, though amazingly only quite a few in the history of humanity, that a search for this shadow of the divine - this God of the Universe - is simply a crutch. A prop. Something to help the weak things of the world when they had no strength for breathe or work.
I agree. But I propose that is simply like saying food is for keeping us alive. Of course it is. The Divine is for giving support in the face of tragedy, for holding up weak women and for giving strength to tired old men? Yes, I say. Bring it on.
The AIDS orphan in Dar es Salaam says bring it on.
The trafficked woman in the red light window that we laugh at and snap pictures of says bring it on.
Your partner, when you yell and scream in a fit of selfishness, says bring it on.
People trying to feed the hungry and dispossessed in Palestine say bring it on.
Those who fought for women’s rights, the rights of slaves, who fought against the Holocaust and who fought from inside the Holodaust say bring it on.
If there is something like that, something that can bring rest to a restless soul or meaning to a life of a girl who has been gang-raped in Somalia? Bring it on.
A crutch is just what most of this world needs. We need a crutch with a lot of bandaging, and care, and love. And if not, what better do you have to offer? I’ve never met anyone who doesn’t walk with a limp, who doesn’t show rust even if it’s just in a few small places on their bike. We need help. I need a crutch, I’m happy to admit it.
The strange buzz inside the human soul seems to, for most people, leads to the belief that there is some sort of current, energy, or presence that we can’t see… just like having a hundred people in a room using wireless makes us pretty sure that there are invisible signals crossing into and out of our bodies on their way to the other end of the connection.
Did you know that Ghandi loved Jesus?
"Of all the things I have read what remained with me forever was that Jesus came almost to give a new law - not an eye for an eye but to receive two blows when only one was given, and to go two miles when they were asked to go one. I came to see that the Sermon on the Mount was the whole of Christianity for him who wanted to live a Christian life. It is that sermon that has endeared Jesus to me."
"In Jesus' own life was the key of his nearness to God, that he expressed as no other could, the spirit and will of God... I do believe that something of the spirit that Jesus exemplified in the highest measure, in its most profound human sense exist... If I did not believe it, I should be a sceptic, and to be a sceptic is to live a life that is empty and lacking moral content. Or, what is the same thing, to condemn the human race to a negative end."
I think I can hear what some of you might be thinking in your heads right back at Ghandi, and he agreed:
"I like your Christ. I do not like your Christians. They are so unlike your Christ."
But Christ: He was a radical. A revolutionary. An artist and a pragmatist and an intellectual. His life of love offended everyone who thought that rules were the key to life and death. His life of tolerance offended everyone who thought that they were the gatekeepers to Heaven.
In my mind, if there is a God, that God should be rather nasty at best. Because that’s what I am. In my mind, God should just get angry and wipe off all of the people in the world who hurt each other.
But wait. Could it be that I might, at some point, fall into that category? I’ll never be a murderer, as long as my life stays lovely and my kids aren’t gang raped by neighbors and my home isn’t taken away from me in war and I have enough food in my stomach…
Actually, falling into categories we find unthinkable is something that most humans do rather well, and fairly easily.
But hurting others comes much easier than murder. So, perhaps the nasty God is not the kind of God I want after all.
Perhaps, the kind of God I want is a God who, for some unfathomable reason, is so full of Love for me that he would make a way to maintain his divinity, his essesential one-ness, and to reveal himself to the world and to the woman next door just in the way that we always hope for:
"If God exists, why doesn’t he just show up?"
He did. That is the claim. That God showed up and that is who the historical person of Jesus is. God, wrapped up in a story called “love”.
Ask the girls in the hospital in Congo if God showed up. Ask the kid being given food and medicine and a school uniform because he’s being sponsored by a 7 year old if God showed up. Ask the kid who’s heart is broken by the death of his mom if maybe, just a tiny bit, God is showing up.
I think they’d tell you yes.
The Jesus of history showed up, said He was God. We know that at minimum he was miraculous and that he changed the world, because the world was changed.
Jesus’ story was titled: “love.”
Was he crazy? Wrong? Just a really great teacher? Perhaps.
Are his followers many times hurtful and absurd? Absolutely.
But He called himself two things: God, and Love.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Oh, as the summer flies by...
The last U2 show I saw started with a Bowie song, which was only slightly upsetting as I had just revisited the infamous movie Labrynth. David Bowie in tights is not something that normally puts me in the mood for Bono, but that night it worked: Major Tom. Lights flashed. Smoke blew. And 50,000 people knew that something great was about to begin.
We came on bikes, trams, metros, trains and in cars. Thousands of people waited for hours just to get a chance to be close to the front, to perhaps catch a close up glimpse of Bono’s eyes. It’s been a lifelong dream of mine to be the girl who gets to slow dance with Bono during With Or Without You. And, sufficiently warmed up by Snow Patrol, for three hours we screamed and sang and closed our eyes and believed, for real, that it was a Beautiful Day.
After a long enough set to exhaust even the highest fan the lights went on, and everyone quickly realized that it is true: We still hadn’t found what we were looking for. And the same 50,000 people who had closed their eyes to sing One Man Betrayed With A Kiss stumbled out into the Amsterdam night, shoved onto the metro, and complained that Bono’s voice sounded raw, and gossiped that Edge didn’t really play the first two notes of Sexy Boots, but that it was a sound tech underground. The €5 beers had worn off, and everyone had to go to work in just a few hours.
It reminded me of my spiritual life.
All too often we expect the same thing out of God that we do from the Rolling Stones or Fleet Foxes or Regina Spektor or Barry Manilow, for that matter: entertain us! Look me in the eye while you croon! Make me feel special! Distract me from my day! Provide good background music for my life!
And while we all might wish that we’ll be the one pointed out, lifted onto the stage, and held tight by the lead singer, we all know that the chances of that happening are slim to nothing. So we stop expecting, stop asking, stop waiting, and stop looking.
And in the same way we deal with God as though He is either a magic genie, or a distant and sort-of withdrawn father. We either assume He’ll grant our every passion-delivering as it were a life without wisdom, or we believe he’s given us marching orders so all we can do is keep putting on foot in front of the other-leaving us to life without passion.
I am convinced of only a few few things. Most statements in my life end with a question mark. I was much more self-assured at 23 than I am now at 36. But I know, that I know, that I know…. That just like playing Bowie after the opening act signals the start of the show, Jesus showing up into history & reality signaled something that you and I have got to remind ourselves of every minute, every day, every morning.
Jesus’ showing up means that everything is getting switched around. It means that you are not who you think you are. It means that your pain is not only pain, and that your joys are not simple expressions of happiness. Jesus showing up means that death isn’t death and that, most certainly: life is not just life. Suffering isn’t only suffering, excess isn’t just greed, and hunger is not only about food.
Jesus, if He is who He said He was, makes everything different. This world is not what it seems. And your life, and what you think about it, and what you do with it, and what is hidden inside it and what is visible about it, is to be turned inside out by Him.
So if you’re like me, you’re left asking yourself where you fit: in life, in work, at church, in your family.
And where do your thoughts fit? And your doubts? And your episodes of great faith and the times you can’t work because you’re having a panic attack? And were does your loneliness fit, and your fear, and your shyness, and your pride, and your sin, and your materialism and apathy and how do they work together with the call on your life and the fact that you’re not quite sure what you’ll be doing one year from now? And where do you fit when you’re 40 and single or 25 with three children and where do you fit when you have a child with special needs or a parent with cancer? And where do you fit when you’re pregnant but not married or when your addiction has been discovered or when being good enough is no longer good enough?
I suppose the only answer is that you fit. You just fit. Me too. I don't know why, or how. Or where. But this morning, as everything is turning upside down and inside out and as I am losing my ability to keep cool in the middle of chaos, I am grateful simply to fit somewhere outside of myself, even if I don't quite understand how all of this works.
We came on bikes, trams, metros, trains and in cars. Thousands of people waited for hours just to get a chance to be close to the front, to perhaps catch a close up glimpse of Bono’s eyes. It’s been a lifelong dream of mine to be the girl who gets to slow dance with Bono during With Or Without You. And, sufficiently warmed up by Snow Patrol, for three hours we screamed and sang and closed our eyes and believed, for real, that it was a Beautiful Day.
After a long enough set to exhaust even the highest fan the lights went on, and everyone quickly realized that it is true: We still hadn’t found what we were looking for. And the same 50,000 people who had closed their eyes to sing One Man Betrayed With A Kiss stumbled out into the Amsterdam night, shoved onto the metro, and complained that Bono’s voice sounded raw, and gossiped that Edge didn’t really play the first two notes of Sexy Boots, but that it was a sound tech underground. The €5 beers had worn off, and everyone had to go to work in just a few hours.
It reminded me of my spiritual life.
All too often we expect the same thing out of God that we do from the Rolling Stones or Fleet Foxes or Regina Spektor or Barry Manilow, for that matter: entertain us! Look me in the eye while you croon! Make me feel special! Distract me from my day! Provide good background music for my life!
And while we all might wish that we’ll be the one pointed out, lifted onto the stage, and held tight by the lead singer, we all know that the chances of that happening are slim to nothing. So we stop expecting, stop asking, stop waiting, and stop looking.
And in the same way we deal with God as though He is either a magic genie, or a distant and sort-of withdrawn father. We either assume He’ll grant our every passion-delivering as it were a life without wisdom, or we believe he’s given us marching orders so all we can do is keep putting on foot in front of the other-leaving us to life without passion.
I am convinced of only a few few things. Most statements in my life end with a question mark. I was much more self-assured at 23 than I am now at 36. But I know, that I know, that I know…. That just like playing Bowie after the opening act signals the start of the show, Jesus showing up into history & reality signaled something that you and I have got to remind ourselves of every minute, every day, every morning.
Jesus’ showing up means that everything is getting switched around. It means that you are not who you think you are. It means that your pain is not only pain, and that your joys are not simple expressions of happiness. Jesus showing up means that death isn’t death and that, most certainly: life is not just life. Suffering isn’t only suffering, excess isn’t just greed, and hunger is not only about food.
Jesus, if He is who He said He was, makes everything different. This world is not what it seems. And your life, and what you think about it, and what you do with it, and what is hidden inside it and what is visible about it, is to be turned inside out by Him.
So if you’re like me, you’re left asking yourself where you fit: in life, in work, at church, in your family.
And where do your thoughts fit? And your doubts? And your episodes of great faith and the times you can’t work because you’re having a panic attack? And were does your loneliness fit, and your fear, and your shyness, and your pride, and your sin, and your materialism and apathy and how do they work together with the call on your life and the fact that you’re not quite sure what you’ll be doing one year from now? And where do you fit when you’re 40 and single or 25 with three children and where do you fit when you have a child with special needs or a parent with cancer? And where do you fit when you’re pregnant but not married or when your addiction has been discovered or when being good enough is no longer good enough?
I suppose the only answer is that you fit. You just fit. Me too. I don't know why, or how. Or where. But this morning, as everything is turning upside down and inside out and as I am losing my ability to keep cool in the middle of chaos, I am grateful simply to fit somewhere outside of myself, even if I don't quite understand how all of this works.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
23 May, 2009
First of all, I remain totally surprised whenever I write the year as 2009. I always double-check it, and as soon as I realize I've not made an error, my insides gasp at just how quickly everything moves. I see it of course every day in how long the kids' hair gets so fast and in how my house seems to be layered in dust and dishes overnight and then I realize that my 'overnight' has really been a month or two. Sobeit that 2009 shoves me back into reality every time I write it down. Honestly, I find '02 much more tangible.
Today the passing of time has slowed though for just a bit and I have an empty house, totally empty, and I am in it. Alone. I'm fairly sure (only to be dramatic here) that this has not happened since I've lived in Amsterdam. And for that, I consider myself very lucky. Most people in this world feel Alone and wish for company. It's very nice to have it otherwise. Even so, a day of quiet!? What will I do? It's 11:25am on a Saturday. I've made coffee, and eaten three slices of Rachel's homemade bread with jam. I've opened the windows to let in the cool air and warm sun, I've surveyed the mess and decided to let it wait, I've started to make a grocery list in my head. I'm stirring my coffee with a 'souvenir spoon'. I've started to collect them: little teaspoons with decorative handles showing a picture of a European city. This morning, it's the spoon from Ramstein Air Base. It makes me smile. I've never collected anything before and it makes me feel happy that one day I will be an old lady and my grandchildren-Godwilling-will be in my home stirring their tea with my souvenir spoons asking me to tell them stories about my life.
Or maybe not, but it's a very nice thought on such a quiet, still day.
So I should get to the point: I have sort realized that I usually don't have much time to think or to contemplate (probably a very good thing) so blogging for me has become sort of an impossibility. I just can't do it. I can barely now think of enough words to make up a status line for my facebook page. Twitter seems to be do-able only I just can't seem to justify telling the whole world the random things that make up my day: delaying dishes. working. helping with homework. need a shower. working. watering plants. Plus I don't have my own mobile phone (it is my husband's helpmate) for which I am grateful to God.
Because I have no words anymore, I started to write poetry again, trying to force a little bit of language outside of my head. The best part was that, in sharing a poem with a dear dear friend who remains the-only-one-who-will-ever-read-my-poetry-so-don't-ask, she shared one of her poems with me and it was just amazing, and it made me happy to be growing older with friends who can write lovely, metered poetry.
But today, sitting here it becomes obvious that I didn't so much run out of words as I ran out of space in my day to write them down. Words that rush out are usually the words that should remain shut up inside, and those seem to be the only words I was able to get to: the ones that come quickly, reacting to something or other, or stating the obvious. Now I have space though, so I have just written down a lot of words which-for better or worse-are helping me find pace in this: my precious gift of a day, the brainchild of my Eric, who noticed that my words were running out or slipping out too fast and who, in his really very sweet wisdom, decided to take the kids and get the heck out of dodge so that I could indulge in Alone.
Perhaps then I should share some of the fun from the past few weeks? You know, starting a new church is really a very strange thing to almost the entire world, even to those who follow Jesus along with me. So let me begin by saying that if you are going somewhere to start a church, and you get asked the question, "so what actually do you do for work??", you'll have to think very fast on your feet. Sometimes I try new answers other than the basic. Last week, when asked what I actually, uh, "do", I said that I pray and meditate and commune with God in order to be filled with His love for the rest of the world. And I tried to say it in Dutch, too. It was brilliant, as then the conversation turned toward communing with God vs what I'm exactly paid to do. But honestly, what we do here is so much in the doing and not so much in the saying that turning the people, prayers, struggles, joys, and fun into words to fall behind bullet points is very challenging for me.
But push comes to shove and we all love bullet points, don't we, as they show us where to look when we've not enough time or patience or interest in the rest of the words. So here is my bullet point for this little blog.
Last week, something very, very special happened! We've been doing lots of stuff around here. We run a small group for followers of Jesus which has been growing and growing! There is a group for men too and another for women, and a group for those who want to study the Bible to find out about Jesus a bit, and a group for those who are interested in talking about spiritual things like truth and faith and prayer but not quite Jesus. There is a group for leaders where they talk and exchange ideas across culture and very often say the same words with very different meanings, so then they have to dig in deeper together to find where the Kingdom of God lies in the midst of a group of American and Dutch Christians. So over the past six months or so, really, everything has been going swimmingly. And last week, we had our first of two (the other being tomorrow) vision sundays, where we took a day to be together in the city, eat lunch together, worship together, let the children do art together, and where we spent about an hour sharing the story behind this little burgeoning church, and the vision for what it will, by the GraceofGod, become. We had about 40 people come together.
I wrote on Facebook that some times life feels like Dancing with the Stars when it's really Return of the King. That's how it felt to me. Must I explain? Here we are, a group of people have given up life and grandparents and houses and yards and best friends and a church and jobs and retirement to do this thing here in Amsterdam called 'starting a new church' and sometimes, it can be very easy to forget that the reason we do this is because we have a very solid foundational life-theology that states that the Kingdom of God has engaged with the world, and that sadness and sin and sorrow and hungry children and skinned knees and orphans and parents who have lost will not overcome, and the darkness will never run over the light.
Last Sunday was a huge moment for our church, which is still in utero, still developing and taking shape, still being formed by God through us and still, for now, just gaining in shape. But last Sunday, a group of Jesus-followers gathered together in the city of Amsterdam, 40 people grown from 12, and we worshipped God. And I thought to myself, just like I think when I write down the year 2009: when did this happen?
It happens in-between school and homework and language learning and learning how to pay bills in Dutch and visa applications and play dates and talking with the neighbor and days at the park and bible study and new friends and homesickness and failure and bike crashes and bad colds and kids' doctor appointments and missing mom and skyping grandkids and befriending bartenders and culture shock and writing down vision on paper coasters and doing laundry and taking pictures and writing poetry and making meals for 15 and having gatherings for 50 and speaking a new language and being exhausted and having Alone days and it happens because the Kingdom of God Is At Hand. And we simply can not stop it, if only we relax ourselves and let the Wind of God blow us where He pleases.
What joy! I realize when I actually take the time to write down those good words! In the beginning was the Word and the Word was God and the Word was with God and so we realize that it is not our words or my words that make any difference at all: only the Word. and that Word has found His way into history and He is everywhere, we can see Him everywhere if only we look around.
Do Not Worry the Word says. Do Not Be Afraid the Word says. Come To Me the Word says. Hear My Voice the Word says. Come With Me and Walk With Me, Learn My Unforced Rhythms of Grace.
You've heard that before, right: unforced rhythms of grace?
Romans says that the whole earth is groaning and in expectation of the End-Which-Is-Really-The-Beginning and I sit around and whine about being tired. When scripture says "don't grow weary in doing good" I always thought it had to do with getting to the end of one's rope and deciding that doing bad was just easier. The older I get, the more I think it has to do with being sleepy. I have seen a giving into sleepiness take more people out of the game that doing-badness.
Anyway. There you have it. I've had some nice Alone time to reflect and to enjoy the Word. I should move on. Give my love to those I know, if you know any of them. Tell my parents hello. I suppose I haven't run out of words just yet, so perhaps I will be back before too long... for now, I will carry my teacup and souvenir spoon downstairs and do the dishes, quietly, and in the reflection of a city which I love.
Today the passing of time has slowed though for just a bit and I have an empty house, totally empty, and I am in it. Alone. I'm fairly sure (only to be dramatic here) that this has not happened since I've lived in Amsterdam. And for that, I consider myself very lucky. Most people in this world feel Alone and wish for company. It's very nice to have it otherwise. Even so, a day of quiet!? What will I do? It's 11:25am on a Saturday. I've made coffee, and eaten three slices of Rachel's homemade bread with jam. I've opened the windows to let in the cool air and warm sun, I've surveyed the mess and decided to let it wait, I've started to make a grocery list in my head. I'm stirring my coffee with a 'souvenir spoon'. I've started to collect them: little teaspoons with decorative handles showing a picture of a European city. This morning, it's the spoon from Ramstein Air Base. It makes me smile. I've never collected anything before and it makes me feel happy that one day I will be an old lady and my grandchildren-Godwilling-will be in my home stirring their tea with my souvenir spoons asking me to tell them stories about my life.
Or maybe not, but it's a very nice thought on such a quiet, still day.
So I should get to the point: I have sort realized that I usually don't have much time to think or to contemplate (probably a very good thing) so blogging for me has become sort of an impossibility. I just can't do it. I can barely now think of enough words to make up a status line for my facebook page. Twitter seems to be do-able only I just can't seem to justify telling the whole world the random things that make up my day: delaying dishes. working. helping with homework. need a shower. working. watering plants. Plus I don't have my own mobile phone (it is my husband's helpmate) for which I am grateful to God.
Because I have no words anymore, I started to write poetry again, trying to force a little bit of language outside of my head. The best part was that, in sharing a poem with a dear dear friend who remains the-only-one-who-will-ever-read-my-poetry-so-don't-ask, she shared one of her poems with me and it was just amazing, and it made me happy to be growing older with friends who can write lovely, metered poetry.
But today, sitting here it becomes obvious that I didn't so much run out of words as I ran out of space in my day to write them down. Words that rush out are usually the words that should remain shut up inside, and those seem to be the only words I was able to get to: the ones that come quickly, reacting to something or other, or stating the obvious. Now I have space though, so I have just written down a lot of words which-for better or worse-are helping me find pace in this: my precious gift of a day, the brainchild of my Eric, who noticed that my words were running out or slipping out too fast and who, in his really very sweet wisdom, decided to take the kids and get the heck out of dodge so that I could indulge in Alone.
Perhaps then I should share some of the fun from the past few weeks? You know, starting a new church is really a very strange thing to almost the entire world, even to those who follow Jesus along with me. So let me begin by saying that if you are going somewhere to start a church, and you get asked the question, "so what actually do you do for work??", you'll have to think very fast on your feet. Sometimes I try new answers other than the basic. Last week, when asked what I actually, uh, "do", I said that I pray and meditate and commune with God in order to be filled with His love for the rest of the world. And I tried to say it in Dutch, too. It was brilliant, as then the conversation turned toward communing with God vs what I'm exactly paid to do. But honestly, what we do here is so much in the doing and not so much in the saying that turning the people, prayers, struggles, joys, and fun into words to fall behind bullet points is very challenging for me.
But push comes to shove and we all love bullet points, don't we, as they show us where to look when we've not enough time or patience or interest in the rest of the words. So here is my bullet point for this little blog.
Last week, something very, very special happened! We've been doing lots of stuff around here. We run a small group for followers of Jesus which has been growing and growing! There is a group for men too and another for women, and a group for those who want to study the Bible to find out about Jesus a bit, and a group for those who are interested in talking about spiritual things like truth and faith and prayer but not quite Jesus. There is a group for leaders where they talk and exchange ideas across culture and very often say the same words with very different meanings, so then they have to dig in deeper together to find where the Kingdom of God lies in the midst of a group of American and Dutch Christians. So over the past six months or so, really, everything has been going swimmingly. And last week, we had our first of two (the other being tomorrow) vision sundays, where we took a day to be together in the city, eat lunch together, worship together, let the children do art together, and where we spent about an hour sharing the story behind this little burgeoning church, and the vision for what it will, by the GraceofGod, become. We had about 40 people come together.
I wrote on Facebook that some times life feels like Dancing with the Stars when it's really Return of the King. That's how it felt to me. Must I explain? Here we are, a group of people have given up life and grandparents and houses and yards and best friends and a church and jobs and retirement to do this thing here in Amsterdam called 'starting a new church' and sometimes, it can be very easy to forget that the reason we do this is because we have a very solid foundational life-theology that states that the Kingdom of God has engaged with the world, and that sadness and sin and sorrow and hungry children and skinned knees and orphans and parents who have lost will not overcome, and the darkness will never run over the light.
Last Sunday was a huge moment for our church, which is still in utero, still developing and taking shape, still being formed by God through us and still, for now, just gaining in shape. But last Sunday, a group of Jesus-followers gathered together in the city of Amsterdam, 40 people grown from 12, and we worshipped God. And I thought to myself, just like I think when I write down the year 2009: when did this happen?
It happens in-between school and homework and language learning and learning how to pay bills in Dutch and visa applications and play dates and talking with the neighbor and days at the park and bible study and new friends and homesickness and failure and bike crashes and bad colds and kids' doctor appointments and missing mom and skyping grandkids and befriending bartenders and culture shock and writing down vision on paper coasters and doing laundry and taking pictures and writing poetry and making meals for 15 and having gatherings for 50 and speaking a new language and being exhausted and having Alone days and it happens because the Kingdom of God Is At Hand. And we simply can not stop it, if only we relax ourselves and let the Wind of God blow us where He pleases.
What joy! I realize when I actually take the time to write down those good words! In the beginning was the Word and the Word was God and the Word was with God and so we realize that it is not our words or my words that make any difference at all: only the Word. and that Word has found His way into history and He is everywhere, we can see Him everywhere if only we look around.
Do Not Worry the Word says. Do Not Be Afraid the Word says. Come To Me the Word says. Hear My Voice the Word says. Come With Me and Walk With Me, Learn My Unforced Rhythms of Grace.
You've heard that before, right: unforced rhythms of grace?
Romans says that the whole earth is groaning and in expectation of the End-Which-Is-Really-The-Beginning and I sit around and whine about being tired. When scripture says "don't grow weary in doing good" I always thought it had to do with getting to the end of one's rope and deciding that doing bad was just easier. The older I get, the more I think it has to do with being sleepy. I have seen a giving into sleepiness take more people out of the game that doing-badness.
Anyway. There you have it. I've had some nice Alone time to reflect and to enjoy the Word. I should move on. Give my love to those I know, if you know any of them. Tell my parents hello. I suppose I haven't run out of words just yet, so perhaps I will be back before too long... for now, I will carry my teacup and souvenir spoon downstairs and do the dishes, quietly, and in the reflection of a city which I love.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
Did I tell you yet about the dude rollerblading in a thong?
Well, if i didn't yet, there you have it: I was cycling around and saw a dude rollerblading in a thong. And today I went to a carnival and rode a ride and ate cotton candy, and this morning a marching band collected on my street and then began to, uh, march. And Play.
I love this city. Can't imagine going back to the suburbs. Only ever for the people...
Okay that's all. Just didn't want to forget to share about the rollerblader. Nothing else to report and I've run out of words anyway.
I love this city. Can't imagine going back to the suburbs. Only ever for the people...
Okay that's all. Just didn't want to forget to share about the rollerblader. Nothing else to report and I've run out of words anyway.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Easter's coming.
I used to be depressed. Several years ago, after my youngest child turned about one, something changed in my system and I felt it as clearly as you might feel a punch to the arm. The clearest signal, to me, that my depression was on the move was when I'd wake up and feel like all of the muscles in my face had gone slack. It sounds trite now, but it really did feel like any smile I could muster up was only a shadow of what it might have been before.
It was really awful.
I kept telling people that something was wrong with me. Well-intentioned friends told me it was normal, that I was a busy woman with three kids and a busy husband. That life in the suburbs was trying and isolating. That I was only human.
So I ate piles of vitamins (helped) tried to exercise (didn't help) prayed with friends (sort of helped) slept more (helped only while asleep) tried to have 'alone time' (didn't help) saw a counselor (helped) and finally, got so sick of feeling like there was another, really mean, sad, angry, impatient, horrible woman living in my body, I went to see my internist.
"So, Julia, what do you need?"
"Uh, I'm pretty sure I'm depressed. I've taken a good year to try every good and holy spiritual way of dealing with it, but may I please have some medicine?"
Now, said internist is a wonderful dude, Catholic, big family, loves God. He became my new best friend. And for $4/month, I came home with a little pill that rescued me.
I felt a little weird about taking an antidepressant. I am a Christian after all. Not only a Christian, but a Christian conference speaker. A Pastor's wife. Good Lord, I thought, am I allowed to take a happy pill? What about prozac nation? What about the over medicating of America's good people?
Screw it, I thought. I was taking $30 worth of vitamins each month, so a $4 prescription sort of felt like that ethical way to go about things. "I could put the rest in the poor boxes at church", I thought.
The girl who worked in the pharmacy and who gave me my prescription for ANTIDEPRESSANTS said, when she saw my name on the sticker: "hey, Julia PIckerill? Don't you teach at Vineyard Church? I know you!!! Hi! How are you??".
"Oh, just a little embarrassed and depressed," I thought.
"Great", I said. "May I please have my prozac? See you at church."
After about four days I was rejoicing. The Julia I had remembered from months ago had crawled out of the ugly box of depression. My face felt normal. My smile felt full. I didn't feel the urge to throw things at the wall when my kids were loud. I didn't cry in the car with thoughts of what a loser I was, and what a failure. I felt okay. I felt good. I felt great.
About a month after I started taking my PROZAC I was in the car with my mom and three kids. The kids were being crazy, I think maybe there were more than three (neighbors, perhaps), everyone screaming, I can't really remember what was happening, but my mom said: "Man, what pill are you on to be able to do this!?"
She was joking.
"Prozac, actually," I said. "The generic kind. I'ts only $4 a month. Total bargain."
Oswald Chambers says, about walking in the Spirit of God, that "you will never cease to be the most amazed person on earth at what God has done for you on the inside."
Lent for me this year is all about remembering the year I was depressed. Remembering what my insides felt like. I can blame it on being depression, on hormones, on brain chemicals, but it was still my insides. And it was so ugly.
Lately, I've been feeling afraid that it'll come back. After about five months on my medicine, and after my move to Amsterdam, I've felt normal without it. Which is great. But sometimes, when I have a hard day, and am stressed out, and tired, and the house isn't perfect I begin to feel my face get limp and I begin to hear thoughts in my mind calling me names that typically have to do with me being a loser. And it makes me scared.
Lent, is scary. Coming up to Good Friday is frightening. Jesus getting on a donkey: a laughable sight. Everyone else rode war horses. It's like Harley rider getting on a Vespa. And he rides in, on this donkey, so low to the ground. And the people rejoiced, but only for a moment. And then the man I call God finishes up Lent by hanging on a cross.
And Mary stands by his feet, weeping, watching her baby boy and her only hope suffer and die. And I can't imagine what it felt like her to feel his absence. Like she'd lost Him.
This lent, I realize I've been afraid of losing Jesus. Losing Jesus to a lot of good things.
This lent, I realize I've been afraid of who I become when I lose Jesus. I haven't become depressed, and I know now I don't need to fear depression again. But I become carnal without Jesus. Chambers says that it's the flesh lusting against the spirit, and the spirit lusting against the flesh. That's who I am. Lusting flesh, for all things selfish, and immediate.
It's not depression. It's me. It's standing at the feet of Jesus, looking up, and thinking for a moment that I've lost Him. Like Mary... only not.
But here He comes, like a thief in the night, like a silent Lover, like someone who's eyes mirror truth without words, like the very best of who I might be... He comes and my heart wakes up again, and my agenda is interrupted, and a cold wind blows and I am chilled to the bone and I remember
that it was I who have been lost this whole time. On the right course, but taking the Long Way.
In my depression, I felt lost. But I held on to the Lord as tight as I could and one day, finally, my Easter came through a sweet Catholic doctor who said, "oh, yea, of course let's try some medicine. No worries, Julia. It'll be okay. What you're feeling is normal, it's a part of having babies and your body changing and being a bit too busy and not sleeping well. You'll get back to normal. I've seen this before, and you're doing all the right things. Go ahead and let's try some medicine for a few months, and see how you do. We'll get this worked through. No worries."
That's seriously what he said. "No worries." I'd been nothing but worried for an entire year.
Easter's coming. This time, for real. And what does my Jesus say to me when I come to Him feeling like a jerk for not praying more and not reading my BIble longer? And when I feel like a bad church planter and when I feel so sad for losing my temper with the kids and when I run out of patience and when I'm just sort of tired out?
"No worries." Easter's coming. And the Ash on my forehead still reminds me of death and this Lent can only be long enough when it makes us turn inside out and upside down at the deep, mysterious truth of Jesus being alive again. That every sad day, and every cheap pill, and every bad moment, is redeemed. That every deep pain, and every worldly injustice will have it's redemption. That's it's been finished.
Heaven's calling us this Easter. No more tears, no more pills, no more skinned knees, no more having to steal water no more people being bought and sold no more kids being hurt no more illness no more highschoolers in hospitals no more urgent prayer requests no more pain no more pain no more pain
....You're not alone, so sing along.....
It was really awful.
I kept telling people that something was wrong with me. Well-intentioned friends told me it was normal, that I was a busy woman with three kids and a busy husband. That life in the suburbs was trying and isolating. That I was only human.
So I ate piles of vitamins (helped) tried to exercise (didn't help) prayed with friends (sort of helped) slept more (helped only while asleep) tried to have 'alone time' (didn't help) saw a counselor (helped) and finally, got so sick of feeling like there was another, really mean, sad, angry, impatient, horrible woman living in my body, I went to see my internist.
"So, Julia, what do you need?"
"Uh, I'm pretty sure I'm depressed. I've taken a good year to try every good and holy spiritual way of dealing with it, but may I please have some medicine?"
Now, said internist is a wonderful dude, Catholic, big family, loves God. He became my new best friend. And for $4/month, I came home with a little pill that rescued me.
I felt a little weird about taking an antidepressant. I am a Christian after all. Not only a Christian, but a Christian conference speaker. A Pastor's wife. Good Lord, I thought, am I allowed to take a happy pill? What about prozac nation? What about the over medicating of America's good people?
Screw it, I thought. I was taking $30 worth of vitamins each month, so a $4 prescription sort of felt like that ethical way to go about things. "I could put the rest in the poor boxes at church", I thought.
The girl who worked in the pharmacy and who gave me my prescription for ANTIDEPRESSANTS said, when she saw my name on the sticker: "hey, Julia PIckerill? Don't you teach at Vineyard Church? I know you!!! Hi! How are you??".
"Oh, just a little embarrassed and depressed," I thought.
"Great", I said. "May I please have my prozac? See you at church."
After about four days I was rejoicing. The Julia I had remembered from months ago had crawled out of the ugly box of depression. My face felt normal. My smile felt full. I didn't feel the urge to throw things at the wall when my kids were loud. I didn't cry in the car with thoughts of what a loser I was, and what a failure. I felt okay. I felt good. I felt great.
About a month after I started taking my PROZAC I was in the car with my mom and three kids. The kids were being crazy, I think maybe there were more than three (neighbors, perhaps), everyone screaming, I can't really remember what was happening, but my mom said: "Man, what pill are you on to be able to do this!?"
She was joking.
"Prozac, actually," I said. "The generic kind. I'ts only $4 a month. Total bargain."
Oswald Chambers says, about walking in the Spirit of God, that "you will never cease to be the most amazed person on earth at what God has done for you on the inside."
Lent for me this year is all about remembering the year I was depressed. Remembering what my insides felt like. I can blame it on being depression, on hormones, on brain chemicals, but it was still my insides. And it was so ugly.
Lately, I've been feeling afraid that it'll come back. After about five months on my medicine, and after my move to Amsterdam, I've felt normal without it. Which is great. But sometimes, when I have a hard day, and am stressed out, and tired, and the house isn't perfect I begin to feel my face get limp and I begin to hear thoughts in my mind calling me names that typically have to do with me being a loser. And it makes me scared.
Lent, is scary. Coming up to Good Friday is frightening. Jesus getting on a donkey: a laughable sight. Everyone else rode war horses. It's like Harley rider getting on a Vespa. And he rides in, on this donkey, so low to the ground. And the people rejoiced, but only for a moment. And then the man I call God finishes up Lent by hanging on a cross.
And Mary stands by his feet, weeping, watching her baby boy and her only hope suffer and die. And I can't imagine what it felt like her to feel his absence. Like she'd lost Him.
This lent, I realize I've been afraid of losing Jesus. Losing Jesus to a lot of good things.
This lent, I realize I've been afraid of who I become when I lose Jesus. I haven't become depressed, and I know now I don't need to fear depression again. But I become carnal without Jesus. Chambers says that it's the flesh lusting against the spirit, and the spirit lusting against the flesh. That's who I am. Lusting flesh, for all things selfish, and immediate.
It's not depression. It's me. It's standing at the feet of Jesus, looking up, and thinking for a moment that I've lost Him. Like Mary... only not.
But here He comes, like a thief in the night, like a silent Lover, like someone who's eyes mirror truth without words, like the very best of who I might be... He comes and my heart wakes up again, and my agenda is interrupted, and a cold wind blows and I am chilled to the bone and I remember
that it was I who have been lost this whole time. On the right course, but taking the Long Way.
In my depression, I felt lost. But I held on to the Lord as tight as I could and one day, finally, my Easter came through a sweet Catholic doctor who said, "oh, yea, of course let's try some medicine. No worries, Julia. It'll be okay. What you're feeling is normal, it's a part of having babies and your body changing and being a bit too busy and not sleeping well. You'll get back to normal. I've seen this before, and you're doing all the right things. Go ahead and let's try some medicine for a few months, and see how you do. We'll get this worked through. No worries."
That's seriously what he said. "No worries." I'd been nothing but worried for an entire year.
Easter's coming. This time, for real. And what does my Jesus say to me when I come to Him feeling like a jerk for not praying more and not reading my BIble longer? And when I feel like a bad church planter and when I feel so sad for losing my temper with the kids and when I run out of patience and when I'm just sort of tired out?
"No worries." Easter's coming. And the Ash on my forehead still reminds me of death and this Lent can only be long enough when it makes us turn inside out and upside down at the deep, mysterious truth of Jesus being alive again. That every sad day, and every cheap pill, and every bad moment, is redeemed. That every deep pain, and every worldly injustice will have it's redemption. That's it's been finished.
Heaven's calling us this Easter. No more tears, no more pills, no more skinned knees, no more having to steal water no more people being bought and sold no more kids being hurt no more illness no more highschoolers in hospitals no more urgent prayer requests no more pain no more pain no more pain
....You're not alone, so sing along.....
Friday, February 13, 2009
Insomniac.
I'm bored. Of course, I've been up since about 2 and it's now 4:38 so I'm irritated as well. I wouldn't be irritated if, upon going back to sleep somehow, I could wake up whenever I see fit. But I am irritated because I know that in somewhere around two or three hours, I'll be summoned to pour cereal, tie shoes, and pack lunch.
I really wish I was asleep.
I wish a lot of things. I wish that I could make chocolate truffles like Erin Zappin does. I'm going to attempt her recipe for our fierce Valentine's Day party on Saturday night, but I'm already feeling defeated about the outcome. I thought I had come to terms with my complete lack of kitchen skills years ago, but after watching my housemate Rachel I've developed a new sense of guilt and inadequacy and wonder. Not in a bad way (which is good). More like in the same way that I wish I had a lovely singing voice or was a black belt in some form of martial arts.
My colleges and I host a lot of parties. For work. For life. Work and life are a total mix for us. Lucky? Yes we are. So we throw parties. I'm not sure how many we've had here in Amsterdam so far. I think we're at six or seven. People from all across the world come together, shove into one of our small Amsterdam apartments, laugh really loudly, lean their heads back on the couches in rest, and oftentimes, in between a drink, talk about meaningpurposelifecommunityjesus. I love our parties.
For me, these gatherings are a time when everything good can overlap and where even Trinity has a place. I love overlapping life with God. Of course *my* life is overlapped with God. But it's especially sublime when other lives, who are unused to it, find Him lurking in a corner of an apartment full of forty people laughing. I suppose really that God doesn't so much lurk, though. Perhaps it would be better to say that He waits. Which He certainly does.
So God waits, and I wish.
And outside, I hear what can only be an owl! Strange. First time. 4:49 is certainly full of treats.
I want to get a cat. I'm going to name him Karma. I have to talk with my family about this, but I'm fairly sure about it because last week, Eric made himself a peanut butter and jam sandwich and as he placed the top piece of bread onto it, he noticed that a hole - a rather large hole - had been eaten out of it. Come to find that a little mousy had eaten a circle the size of a silver dollar through the bottom of our loaf of bread into about 6 slices. Dangit. So I think that took Eric over the edge.
For me, it was the name. I don't like having things I can't put language too. But naming a cat Karma really rings a bell for me. You can ask Eric about that. Or Liz in D.C.. I won't elaborate.
I'm going to start language school again after a two-week-break-that-felt-like-a-massage this coming week. Quite excited. My Dutch is very good for studying a few months but very bad, really. But I like to fake it, so I usually speak Dutch and then just throw in English words that I've 'Dutch-ized' when I don't know a piece of vocabulary. It's a hit with Dutch kids, who refer to me as 'gek'. That means 'crazy'. Go figure.
And then too we got our work visas. Which means really that I got my 'spouse' visa. I told Bernie & John (the other spouses) that we should start a spousal-care group and make tshirts and buttons that say 'helpmate' on the back. Sort of like the ones that say 'security' for bouncers at nightclubs. I wouldn't mind the helpmate business so much if i wasn't pretty sure that I wasn't a very good one. But I'm a firm believer in buttons, so maybe that would help somehow. Buttons are a postmodern form of legitimizing things. Buttons and website. Maybe I just need a website. Perhaps then, I will radiate success.
All this to say...
What On Earth!
does it really mean to be getting older and chubbier while three kids grow so fast you can't even tell and you live in europe and love jesus and want to be a help and a mate and to stay up late listening to music with good friends even though you have to wake up and work in the morning? what does it mean to have a house that is always full and a agenda that is always full and a mind that is always full and a heart that always full? what does it mean to try hard enough? what does it mean to pray and to follow and to lead all at the same time? what does it mean to live under the sweet conditions of grace while you work and strain and sweat and try and try and try? what does it mean to get a cat called karma and to have parties where Jesus is waiting and to build a church in a place where church buildings are meaningless? what does it mean to have sold-out to a theology and philosophy that takes over everything? what does it mean?
sometimes i think... that i wish i could see my life from above the stars. that i could understand. that i could know what to do. that i could be certain. and perfect. and make chocolate truffles and be beautiful and know how everything would work out in the end.
but that would be like reading my book backwards. and where's the mystery in that?
and in this very quiet 5:04 moment, i remember that i used to wish for more mystery. so mystery it is, i suppose.
and God waits.
happy valentine's day, mijn liefdes.
I really wish I was asleep.
I wish a lot of things. I wish that I could make chocolate truffles like Erin Zappin does. I'm going to attempt her recipe for our fierce Valentine's Day party on Saturday night, but I'm already feeling defeated about the outcome. I thought I had come to terms with my complete lack of kitchen skills years ago, but after watching my housemate Rachel I've developed a new sense of guilt and inadequacy and wonder. Not in a bad way (which is good). More like in the same way that I wish I had a lovely singing voice or was a black belt in some form of martial arts.
My colleges and I host a lot of parties. For work. For life. Work and life are a total mix for us. Lucky? Yes we are. So we throw parties. I'm not sure how many we've had here in Amsterdam so far. I think we're at six or seven. People from all across the world come together, shove into one of our small Amsterdam apartments, laugh really loudly, lean their heads back on the couches in rest, and oftentimes, in between a drink, talk about meaningpurposelifecommunityjesus. I love our parties.
For me, these gatherings are a time when everything good can overlap and where even Trinity has a place. I love overlapping life with God. Of course *my* life is overlapped with God. But it's especially sublime when other lives, who are unused to it, find Him lurking in a corner of an apartment full of forty people laughing. I suppose really that God doesn't so much lurk, though. Perhaps it would be better to say that He waits. Which He certainly does.
So God waits, and I wish.
And outside, I hear what can only be an owl! Strange. First time. 4:49 is certainly full of treats.
I want to get a cat. I'm going to name him Karma. I have to talk with my family about this, but I'm fairly sure about it because last week, Eric made himself a peanut butter and jam sandwich and as he placed the top piece of bread onto it, he noticed that a hole - a rather large hole - had been eaten out of it. Come to find that a little mousy had eaten a circle the size of a silver dollar through the bottom of our loaf of bread into about 6 slices. Dangit. So I think that took Eric over the edge.
For me, it was the name. I don't like having things I can't put language too. But naming a cat Karma really rings a bell for me. You can ask Eric about that. Or Liz in D.C.. I won't elaborate.
I'm going to start language school again after a two-week-break-that-felt-like-a-massage this coming week. Quite excited. My Dutch is very good for studying a few months but very bad, really. But I like to fake it, so I usually speak Dutch and then just throw in English words that I've 'Dutch-ized' when I don't know a piece of vocabulary. It's a hit with Dutch kids, who refer to me as 'gek'. That means 'crazy'. Go figure.
And then too we got our work visas. Which means really that I got my 'spouse' visa. I told Bernie & John (the other spouses) that we should start a spousal-care group and make tshirts and buttons that say 'helpmate' on the back. Sort of like the ones that say 'security' for bouncers at nightclubs. I wouldn't mind the helpmate business so much if i wasn't pretty sure that I wasn't a very good one. But I'm a firm believer in buttons, so maybe that would help somehow. Buttons are a postmodern form of legitimizing things. Buttons and website. Maybe I just need a website. Perhaps then, I will radiate success.
All this to say...
What On Earth!
does it really mean to be getting older and chubbier while three kids grow so fast you can't even tell and you live in europe and love jesus and want to be a help and a mate and to stay up late listening to music with good friends even though you have to wake up and work in the morning? what does it mean to have a house that is always full and a agenda that is always full and a mind that is always full and a heart that always full? what does it mean to try hard enough? what does it mean to pray and to follow and to lead all at the same time? what does it mean to live under the sweet conditions of grace while you work and strain and sweat and try and try and try? what does it mean to get a cat called karma and to have parties where Jesus is waiting and to build a church in a place where church buildings are meaningless? what does it mean to have sold-out to a theology and philosophy that takes over everything? what does it mean?
sometimes i think... that i wish i could see my life from above the stars. that i could understand. that i could know what to do. that i could be certain. and perfect. and make chocolate truffles and be beautiful and know how everything would work out in the end.
but that would be like reading my book backwards. and where's the mystery in that?
and in this very quiet 5:04 moment, i remember that i used to wish for more mystery. so mystery it is, i suppose.
and God waits.
happy valentine's day, mijn liefdes.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Sometimes
when I ride along canal streets at night, or down a residential lane edged with tall row houses, I feel like maybe the houses will grow up over me and become a cave. Or that maybe the canal will widen and widen until there is no more street left. And there will be no where to go but either deeper into a cave, or deeper into the water, or back the way I came.
But I don't want to turn around.
Sometimes you have to squint to see what's ahead, because it's not there yet. So if you squint, a part of what you want and a part of what you hope will combine with a blur of what you don't see. Faith. A squint of faith. Like a flock of seagulls. Or a murder of crows. (Oh, I love alt music from the 90's!)
So anyway, Why am I always surprised that there is more becoming to do? Sometimes I'm tired of becoming. I know people who have
stopped.
And they seem to be okay. Bored, yes. Uninteresting, yes. But okay, even so.
And so a great paradox of my life is that I hate to be bored, and uninteresting things bother me. So, becoming, it is.
To become means that you have to ride deeper into the cave or deeper into the water. Where it is dark, and unknown, and cold, and deathly still. To become means to give away your fear and your energy and your heart. To become means to give away your soul.
It's hard. To give away your soul. But becoming is better than how hard it is.
There once as a girl who's hands were made of clay.
But I'm much too old, I think. Not old enough, but too old. Perhaps her hands were made of clay so that, after use, they would dry up and the fingers would crack off and then they'd have to be made again. Maybe being made of clay is why we always have to continue becoming. Because after use we dry up and everything cracks off and falls down and becomes dust. Maybe we have to be continually remade, or maybe we stay dust. And dust is clay and clay are hands, but not really. Something can be the same, but very different, I think.
Sometimes I think that I have more words that I can say fewer things with. So how is it that I continue to say too much of not enough? Sometimes I love silence. Always I love silence. Quiet is very gentle.
But if we are becoming (and we must, I think), silence is gentle and also brief. There are air raid sirens going off every second of every day in the live of many someones, and if our hands are going to dry up and break off like they are supposed to, the silence has to be interrupted so that we become.
Sometimes I wish I could sing. Or paint. Or dance like the loveliest dancer. But that is not my becoming. My becoming is all in the interruptions, and in the dry and breaking hands.
My becoming is in being remade.
My becoming is dirt and clay and ashes.
My becoming is Heaven and beauty and a deep breath
deep breath
deep breath.
But I don't want to turn around.
Sometimes you have to squint to see what's ahead, because it's not there yet. So if you squint, a part of what you want and a part of what you hope will combine with a blur of what you don't see. Faith. A squint of faith. Like a flock of seagulls. Or a murder of crows. (Oh, I love alt music from the 90's!)
So anyway, Why am I always surprised that there is more becoming to do? Sometimes I'm tired of becoming. I know people who have
stopped.
And they seem to be okay. Bored, yes. Uninteresting, yes. But okay, even so.
And so a great paradox of my life is that I hate to be bored, and uninteresting things bother me. So, becoming, it is.
To become means that you have to ride deeper into the cave or deeper into the water. Where it is dark, and unknown, and cold, and deathly still. To become means to give away your fear and your energy and your heart. To become means to give away your soul.
It's hard. To give away your soul. But becoming is better than how hard it is.
There once as a girl who's hands were made of clay.
But I'm much too old, I think. Not old enough, but too old. Perhaps her hands were made of clay so that, after use, they would dry up and the fingers would crack off and then they'd have to be made again. Maybe being made of clay is why we always have to continue becoming. Because after use we dry up and everything cracks off and falls down and becomes dust. Maybe we have to be continually remade, or maybe we stay dust. And dust is clay and clay are hands, but not really. Something can be the same, but very different, I think.
Sometimes I think that I have more words that I can say fewer things with. So how is it that I continue to say too much of not enough? Sometimes I love silence. Always I love silence. Quiet is very gentle.
But if we are becoming (and we must, I think), silence is gentle and also brief. There are air raid sirens going off every second of every day in the live of many someones, and if our hands are going to dry up and break off like they are supposed to, the silence has to be interrupted so that we become.
Sometimes I wish I could sing. Or paint. Or dance like the loveliest dancer. But that is not my becoming. My becoming is all in the interruptions, and in the dry and breaking hands.
My becoming is in being remade.
My becoming is dirt and clay and ashes.
My becoming is Heaven and beauty and a deep breath
deep breath
deep breath.
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