Good Grief

"This isn't happening," was all my mind was capable of with my phone pressed to my ear, trying to make sense of the words. Ryan held my hand as we drove home as fast as we could, both of us crying intermittently. 

We moved in slow motion across the dark road into the circle of lights from the police cars and the cars of the kind strangers who had stopped and stayed until we arrived. They shone on him as he lay beside the road, my beautiful Alex. 

"Dear God, don't let his head be smashed," had been the only thought in my stuck brain as we drove. Mercifully, his body was perfect. Even his slender, iron-muscled legs were only bent in the familiar position of him asleep. He was still warm and his fur so luxurious and soft. 

I tried to pick him up, but he was too heavy. Ryan gathered him, so oddly limp, into his arms and laid him in the back seat of the car. We took our boy home. 

We lay him on a sheet on the living room floor and sat on either side, crying until our noses ran. We stroked and stroked him, trying to memorize him with our hands, occasionally laughing with tears dripping when we remembered his conquests and idiosyncrasies. We were shameless in our grief over "just a dog", because there was no way around it. He was a big part of our little family. 

He was the dependable one, the one who let us know if there was something outside that needed our attention. While we lived on the prairie, I felt perfectly safe in our yard after dark because he'd calmly, fearlessly moved the cougar off while we watched, a bit disbelieving because we would have never known it was sitting in the dark at the edge of the yard had it not been for Alex's sharp nose and protective instincts. He got me running again, while recovering from a CFS low. He just knew what was needed, pulling steadily and gently on the leash so I could coast when I wasn't sure I could keep on. And he held his head so nobly and utterly glowed with pride when I thanked and praised him. He was the dog I'd dreamed of having, a dignified, loyal, intelligent partner who was almost an extension of myself. He'd been a rock for all of us, and we all depended on him. Ryan, Aliyah, and me.

And now he is gone. 

We buried him the next day under the trees at the edge of the yard. His rope toy we'd spent hours fetching, trying to outwit each other in tug-of-war, and leaping on command to pull from our hands while carefully missing our fingers with his impressive canines was tucked between his front paws. The bone he had been working on gnawing lay beside him. Those had been His Things; Aliyah had very little interest in either. And he'd been so proud of them, quietly storing them in a safe spot if other dogs came to play. 

He'd been the dog we imagined having until he was too old to move, the dog we imagined being the loyal companion and protector of our child. He was so much, and in a second he was gone. "Death is just messed UP," Ryan said. 

Friends who loved him cried with us and patted him for the last time before we closed the box. Ryan and I lowered it into the hole Ryan had dug, and Ryan told me I should be the first to shovel dirt onto the board he'd cut to fit over the box. Elaine carefully spread a handful over evergreens over the first layer of dirt. "Life is everlasting," she said. Zac and Miriam took turns helping us fill the dirt to a mound. Aliyah whimpered and cried, too. 

And you know what? It never occurred to me that we were being too sentimental. I never felt ashamed for being too emotional. We only acted out of the loss we felt, and treated his body with the dignity his noble self demanded. 

When Ryan hugged me and whispered that I was the best owner Alex could have had, and that I'd invested and helped him develop into all he could have been, it's when I started to feel that honest grief is good. 

It's cleansing. It forms in me a new resolve to love unabashedly. I have no regrets about how I raised Alex. The only thing that haunts us is that we thought the newly-rebuilt fence around our yard was impervious to Alex's intelligence and underestimated his adventurous bent. We simply underestimated him, as often happened in other areas. 

We're so glad we'd taken the time to visit the dog park to let the dogs run in a big space off-leash the day before, trying to help ease the adjustment from freely-adventuring country dogs to play-in-the-yard and walk-on-leash town dogs. It hadn't been the most convenient evening to take them, but we made it work because Alex was restless. The evening the four of us spent tearing around happily is good to remember. Alex's eyes were bright with the freedom of exploring every corner of a new place, and he and Aliyah ran and ran, reading each other's maneuvers perfectly. We're so glad we gave them that evening, not knowing it was the last evening we'd spend together. 

This is why grief is good for me: I tend to hold myself back from engaging with all my heart. A bit of emotional distance makes me feel loftier and more superior than the me that goes all in without apology. You know what? Grief teaches me that I don't care about being above caring too much. It reminds me that what I have today is all I have, and I cheat myself if I don't engage it completely. 

Grief, even over a dog, is good. Because of it, I'm making today matter. Doing the inconvenient to love those I have. Making memorable things happen. Taking pictures of happy moments. And engaging without reservation or embarrassment over big emotions. Now is precious. Now is all we have. 

About prayer

[these Kansas evenings]

The soul needs ritual and practice in order to grow and deepen. I'm learning this. Slowly, as common prayer becomes habit, the reflexes of my being are turning toward God like the muscles of my hands can now tamp espresso without conscious thought.

A few mornings ago was one that I thought might be a bad dream. Nothing horrific, just everything Not Working, one on top of the other. Frustration rising, suddenly part of the usual morning prayer (which I hadn't prayed that morning because oversleeping and hurrying) came to me:

O Lord, let my soul rise up to meet you
as the day rises to meet the sun.
Glory to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit,
As it was in the beginning, is now, and will be forever.
Amen. 

And suddenly I was patient and restful. And could be present with customers. I hadn't consciously thought, "I should pray." It was just there. Part of the fabric, woven into other days before this one. And I don't know about you, but my prayers (if I think of praying) when I'm frustrated consist mostly of my talking about how frustrated I am, rather than bringing myself to God in praise. I need the well-worn prayer paths of saints before me sometimes. A lot of the time, actually.

I've always yearned for a more constant abiding in God, and we've discovered the strength of the practices, ancient creeds, daily rhythms, and prayers of the early church. I know, it sounds goofy to those of us, most of the American church, who grew up thinking those are just Catholic things. But did you know the church calendar was formed, prayers written, and creeds recited hundreds of years before Scripture was canonized? I didn't. And now, discovering that my soul is indeed formed by orienting, in actual practice, my day around the reality of the presence of God, I wonder how we've lost this rich heritage.

And hey, "Common Prayer" (compiled in part by Shane Claiborne), even has an app.

And now I'll go to bed with these beautiful words in my mind:

Now as we come to the setting of the sun,
and our eyes behold the evening light,
we sing your praises, O God:
Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.
You are worthy at all times to be praised by happy voices,
O Son of God, O Giver of life,
your glory fills the whole world.

Hope is for the Foolish Ones

I lit the Advent candle by the lights of Joshua Tree. (I always name my tree Joshua. For Yeshua, our undying hope, and because of a certain favorite music album by a certain favorite band.) I read the day's prayer of longing and hope, and sat in the half dark, bringing to God the dark things waiting for His light to dawn. 

Waiting is hard and hope a reckless necessity when a bride is dying of cancer. I begged God to shine on my friends Josh and Jean, and still the updates of her battle were filled with anguish and little hope. 

That was last year.

Hope isn't for the blithe. Darkness and longing must be faced in order to know how to watch at the window for the first streaks of dawn. Only those whose eyes are trained to peer through the night will catch the moment it begins to pale.

Hope isn't for the times we feel we can control the ending of the page or the chapter, or even know the end of the book. We're allowed to seal our hearts against it, if we want. God lets us choose numbness and despair, in cowardice and pride refusing to open ourselves to the possibility that we do not know and do not rule. 

Because hope is an admission that we are not in control.

It's foolishness to sit in darkness, asking God to rise like the sun, when you have said the same words over and over for endless weeks while the waiting grinds on and you have no proof God hears. Only a fool will stand in defiance against suffocating despair and proclaim, "Even if God isn't listening and these are only words, I WILL SAY THEM." 

And this is how hope redeems us of our pride.

Because hope is only for the foolish who gamble everything on God... The reckless ones who are brave enough to admit we can't see the end. And can't begin to control it. 

Hope is for the foolish ones who trust the One who knows what it is to be blood and bones and walk in dirt and cry over dying ones He loves... and wait long and hard until He shows up... whether in this age or in the next. 

(Thank you, God. Thank you that Josh still has Jean this year.)

something wonderful

Sometimes, 

in the face of all that is twisted, broken, painful, and wrong,

the bravest act of worship is

celebration

of all that is right and good and wonderful and whole.

Something wonderful will happen today.

Look for it.

Smile in recognition.

Celebrate it with abandon.

Things I'm Learning

Truth isn't always found in the corners of logic, although truth contains logic. 



No matter the issue... political or non-... SOMEONE'S life, 

in very personal, 

very vulnerable ways, 

is labeled for other people to discuss with no regard for 

their experience or emotions. 



We learn best from people when we know we're equal to them 

and cared about by them. 


Even controversial conversations are important, 

but no one was ever argued into the Kingdom... or much else. 


Relationships are where the best, 

most important, 

and most life-giving conversations happen.

Slow Learner

When I started working in the human services field, I remember making a determination: the day I watch a kid cry and don't cry with them, that's the day I quit.

If I am numb and cynical, I am incapable of love. And love heals. Cynical distance can further wound. In all my feeble efforts, I want to love. More than anything.

But what I want and what I do aren't always identical twins. Sometimes they don't even look like siblings.

Rob Bell says that Jesus calls us to relinquish the things that keep us from his Kingdom, that He tirelessly works to prepare us to handle the perfection of a world that turns the right way.

Jesus called the rich man to generosity and sacrifice.
The stone-throwing Pharisees to empty hands and humbled hearts.
The soldiers from violence.
The woman at the well from serial relationships to a satisfying Love.

If I've been listening at all over the past year or two, Jesus insists that I give up my awesome, black-belt-level self-protection skills. Unlike karate black-belt, my relationship black-belt skill is disengagement. If hurt or misunderstood, I move to a safe distance faster than a speeding bullet. And initially, I give enough of myself to think I'm making a difference... loving... until my wariness is eased. All these self-defense maneuvers keep me checking my surroundings and watching my space and I end up thinking more about myself and whether things are going to turn out safely for me than I do about the other person. Love, by nature, requires a decreased self-consciousness... a focus on the good of the other.

All the seemingly arbitrary pieces of losses, gifts, fears, and hopes of late interlocked recently... and I realize...

It's for my own redemption as well as for others' that God blesses me with tears.

****

"May God bless us with discomfort at easy answers, half truths and superficial relationships, so that we may live deep within our hearts.

May God bless us with anger at injustice, oppression, and exploitation of people, so that we may work for justice and peace.

May God bless us with tears to shed for those who suffer from pain, rejection, starvation, and war, so that we may reach out our hands to comfort them and to turn their pain into joy.

May God bless us with enough foolishness to believe we can make a difference in this world, so that we can do what others claim cannot be done.

And may the blessing of God, Who creates, redeems, and sanctifies, be upon you and all you love and pray for this day and forevermore." 

-Franciscan blessing

A Case for Sabbaths

I was on vacation with a group of friends who have had the best adventures together since we were fifteen years old. Let's just say there are few inhibitions among us. At some point during the evening, I fell asleep. I do remember finding it impossible to stay awake. For the rest, I had to rely on their confessions and my sore muscles. Apparently the night was still young and I had made a mumbled promise to rejoin the fun after "sleeping half an hour". They, being the great friends they are, decided to take me at my word when a much longer time had passed and I remained comatose. I'm told they pulled me out of the bed, and I hit the floor without stirring. Or reacting to their varied and imaginative waking techniques. (I am just grateful no one filmed it. They still laugh too hard at the memory to tell me everything that transpired.) Um. Yeah. That probably isn't normal. Neither the unresponsive state or my friends. (Hey, guys. You know I love you.)

I have this problem. I confuse physical and emotional energy. If I would enjoy doing something, I say "of COURSE I'll do it!" and assume I'll have time and physical energy. And I enjoy a great many things and adore doing things for people and have far too many interests. So I throw myself at them all simultaneously. And I knock myself out sometimes. Literally.

Partly through sheer necessity and partly through other people's examples and encouragement, I think I might be starting to learn a few things.

We human creatures, fearfully and wonderfully made though we are, are not invincible.

We need rest. Hard work gives us the honorable pride of working with God in ordering and blessing His world. But we aren't valued according to our output. We aren't machines. Work is an invitation to dignity and fulfillment, not a struggle for worth and value.

Knowing your limitations and saying "no" or asking for help is a sign of maturity. That's what my friend Carla said. I think it's also a sign of humility. Because admitting I have limitations is brutally hard on my pride. (I am a Yoder. I pretend I'm invincible. It's what we do.) 

It is possible to say "no". Hard. But possible. I was talking to my dad about all this and concluded, "I think I need to learn how to say 'no'." His immediate reply? "It starts with a 'n' sound, and then a long 'ooooooh'." Yes. Noted. And I thought of this explication the following day and actually utilized it. 

Interdependence fosters community. When I rush around, trying to do everything myself, insisting on procuring my own resources, I deprive myself of precious connection with other people. 

God integrated times of Sabbath from the dawn of the world because He knows us and wants us to thrive. Because I work the majority of weekends, I have a tendency to forget to fully rest. I'm fortunate to still be able to attend church most Sundays, even if I work, which is refreshing and invigorating... but when my days off roll around, it's the middle of the week and I'm in get-stuff-done mode... and after a while I start to feel depleted and realize I haven't taken a whole day of Sabbath for a long time. I've been grabbing snatches of solitude by eating a meal on a tree stump between projects and talking to God while I'm driving and reading Scripture while I'm at work while I drink my coffee in the wee quiet moments before I wake my girls. All of that is meaningful and adds life and magic to the day, but never taking an entire day to relax and just be with God makes me start to feel (to quote the venerable Bilbo Baggins) "Thin... sort of... stretched. Like butter, scraped over too much bread." 

I need to change, and I think I've made a start.

Hopefully someday soon I'll be able to wake and defend myself against my friends. 

In Which I Discover My Place

We left the sand, Sharon and I. Through the rippling greys and out to stand waist-deep where the water glowed with pink and coral on the tips of its wrinkles to fall lavender in its folds. Silent in awe, just breathing, suspended between sky and reflected sky. Enveloped in brilliance. Small and securely lost in immensity.

The beauty built until I had to open my mouth to ease the aching and we began to sing. Cupping handfuls of water, we threw them in exultation to the sky. Each droplet hung in the air for long seconds, each reflecting so it seemed full itself of sky... diamonds and stars falling back to their whole.

Weight that had accumulated from two years of daily trying to ease suffering and fill holes of neglect flew from my hands with the droplets. And nothing feels sacred now that these griefs have ripped into the inner circle of my world. The actuality that my love cannot protect my dad from heartbreak, my sisters from trauma, my friends from date rape and death has repeatedly glared closer than my reflection this past year. Realizing that loving and picking up the pieces is no prevention or magic wand has worn thin places of guilt. All that rose from murky depths to the surface. And I flung it into the air to watch it sparkle and fall.

Worship is a celebration of God's vastness. A letting in of His intimacy. An emptying and a filling.

I can't be enough, and I despise that fact. But I am eventually crushed if I walk under a load that isn't mine to bear. I wasn't meant to be enough, only a drop in the sea of God's presence with us.

He has been and is constantly enough for me. So I threw to Him the responsibility to be enough for them.

I stand in worship, and I keep filling and emptying my hands. Only a drop in the sea that washes jagged brokenness smooth into sea glass treasure.

I was meant for this.

The Bigger Truth

It's true. 

Earth groans with the weight

Of horrifying twistedness.

But, already, 

The untwisting redemption

Has sprouted and grown. 

Even the darkest dark

Burnishes the brilliance

Of all else:

The good, the wholesome,

The honest, peaceful,

Safe, and loving. 

Whole & Broken

It always seems to me a wee bit tragic to crack eggs open.

Whole, they are perfection.

I love their shape, their range of calm colors,

the way their matte shells play with light,

their smooth roundness in my hands.

But,

whether they are fertilized and warmed

or cartoned and chilled,

they only fulfill their destiny of nourishment 

when they're broken. 

I've been thinking about forgiveness.

My friend Julie told me that I need to forgive someone.

She's right. 

We often hear how we need to forgive

in order to be whole. 

That's true.

But why does forgiveness feel like 

breaking open

when someone has really, really hurt me

and hasn't asked for pardon

even when I tried to move

toward restoration?

Maybe my silent breaking

will nourish a chance of new life

for that person.

Maybe that freedom from who I want her to be,

my making peace with who she is,

is as much about 

her redemption 

as it is 

about mine?

I'm thinking,

maybe,

it's good to be 

cracked.

Love never fails

"...if I give all my possessions to feed the poor, and if I surrender my body to be burned, but do not have love, it profits me nothing." 


Sacrifice makes no pretense of ease. Shedding not only excess, but perceived necessities, to ease the pain of needy people isn't exactly something we're all flocking to do. Because it is hard. It hurts. It unmasks the face of our own vulnerabilities and exposes to naked eye the fears we bury with fun and things.


But sacrifice is easier than martyrdom. No possession casts a shadow on the prospect of landing on a beach and facing the spear of a headhunter, willing, like Nate Saint, to give all that is yourself to break open astounding reality. Love is here. And you are found. 


Still, martyrdom is a once and done deal. Heaps of courage and selflessness are required to die for Love, but might it take even mountainous heaps to live in it?


"Love is patient, 


love is kind and is not jealous; 


love does not brag and is not arrogant, 


does not act unbecomingly; it does not seek its own, 


is not provoked, does not take into account a wrong suffered, 


does not rejoice in unrighteousness, but rejoices with the truth;


bears all things, believes all things, 


hopes all things, endures all things." 


Every day. Scrubbing boots, talking through nightmares, saying "no" and holding accountable, giving hugs, applauding progress, teaching the same lessons over and over, and still occasionally (or sometimes for weeks at a time) receiving disrespect, name-calling, yelling, and punches. I end up rubbing my nose in the filthy rags that are all that remain of my own loving skills. 


And I wonder how in the world any of my feeble efforts can make any shade of difference. Can the Love that knows no limits stretch around my world, when so much spills through the cracks of my brokenness? 


But love is from God. And God is Love. 


On the best morning of the past week, one of my teens walked, penguin-like and giggling, back to the office where I was finishing med pass. "Becky, what would you do if I always walked like this?"


"I'd still love you, silly!" 


Back in the next room, she laughed to her sister, "I asked Becky what she'd do if I always walked like this. And she said, 'I'd still love you'." 


Her sister's quick response stung my eyes with tears. "Becky will ALWAYS love you. Except when you swear. But she still LOVES you. She just tells you to stop." 


It stole my breath. This unhesitation from the girl who made me bite my tongue and use every coping skill to not swear myself while I confronted her for things far less desirable than swearing? "Jesus, be here." That's what I'd asked, but I didn't know she'd seen anything more than me, not letting her do what she wanted. Me, clutching desperately to the very tail of my patience. 


But she had seen Love.


Maybe my love isn't all I have to give. Maybe God is its source. 


Maybe the source torrents out when my reservoir trickles dry. 


Maybe, just maybe, this


"Love never fails."


[All quotes from 1 Corinthians 13]

possibilities

"Seriously, you're going to want to make a lot. We have Mr. Skinny Bottomless Pit over here, plus the other six of us guys."

Oh, well. Leftovers aren't a curse. I fried up the huge chunk of hamburg and started dumping in sauces and spices. The kitchen was crammed with guys beatboxing while they washed plates (because, inexplicably, the dishwasher hadn't been run earlier) and setting out taco fixings. I hadn't expected their help with dinner, but that's what always amazes me about the teens I work with. Once "everybody cool", they are so quick to operate as a cohesive force. Perhaps because they lose so much of their identities in their many transitions to different environments, they morph into a strong group identity. Their alliances are strong and deep, as is their joy in just being together. Dinner was happening, so everybody was there.

Everybody except P. He had been in his room since I arrived on shift, and that had been hours ago. He can be pretty quiet sometimes and I didn't want to be too intrusive, so I didn't press the issue. We yelled for him before we ate, but he didn't show.

All that massive lot of food was consumed in 20 minutes flat, with Mr. Skinny Bottomless Pit doing a very convincing taco-attacking-his-face (with his "fourth-OK-maybe-fifth" taco) and gasping, "Believe me, bro! Don't eat 'em! They're disgusting! You don't want them! It's just they all want ME!" We were loading the dishwasher and washing pans when P. descended and started cooking his own dinner without a word to anyone. The other guys gave him a respectful berth and retreated to the basement to watch the football game.

"You need anything?" I asked when the others had gone. He kept his back turned and replied with a slight shake of his head.

He didn't exchange a word with anyone for hours longer. I was told, "Hey, I think P. punched something. Check out his hand." On a scale of one to ten, whatever he was feeling must have been about a 14, because he's the guy who smiles and says, "Hey, man. It's not solving anything" when his peers glorify their wins over rivals in street fights.

I found him in the kitchen and asked him if he wanted anything for his hand. As I bandaged his split knuckles, he started talking. Frustration tensed his ever-quiet tone. "I'm tired of being here, being in state custody with a judge deciding where I live. I want to go home, but my caseworker is talking about recommending I go home and that scares me. I look back on that life and know home isn't good for me. I know I'll..." He turned his brimmed eyes to the ceiling.

I could bandage his hand. I couldn't say words that could magically produce an easier reality for his 17-year-old self. Intelligence, artistic ability, maturity, and a wonderful personality... he has so much. With a stable group of people to fall back on for applause and support for life, the sky really and truly would be the limit for him. Instead, he faces these wrenching decisions alone, with the fact looming that, no matter which decision he makes, he will have to build his future from the ground up. Alone.

And so I fumbled with words that told him he has what it takes to make good choices for himself. That I've never been anything but impressed with him and know he will be alright someday. "Hey, I don't know if it means anything to you, but I'll pray for you."

He joined the crew in watching football and protested, laughing, when the others wanted to start a movie. "I don't care about the game, I just want to keep making fun of the cheerleaders' crazy hair!" Oh, it was just good to have him back again.

If the past year has taught me anything, it is this: redemption burgeons faster than the realization of our own worst nightmares. It fills to capacity the holes bored by loss and leaps splashing over the tops of the heaps of debris thrown above surface. Nothing is beyond the reach of its cleansing. Nothing can't be remade into such vibrance that it stretches the imagination to entertain the possibility that the unwrecked could have been more beautiful.

God's vivacious mercy so undeniable in my heart and in my family gives me hope.

Hope for the teens I work with.
Hope for the child soldiers in Uganda.
Hope for the mother of a former student of mine who is battling cancer after losing her husband. 
Hope for the starving in every country.
Hope for those caught in the unending cycle of crime.
Hope for peace.

Hope in a God Who, now, today, is working toward the final restoration of all that sin and brokenness steals from us all.

Emmanuel.
God with us.
With.
Us.
Redemption is here.

And He calls us to have a hand in the healing He is bringing today.
Here's to the possibilities of this year...
the possibilities of today.

about fear, courage, and love

I must have been about 17, and I was milking cows. The bull had followed the cows into the holding area, and for some reason a group of cows thought it was much cooler to hang out with the bull in the back of the holding area than come into the barn.

Dad was doing the feeding, so it would have only made sense for me to go out and herd the cows in. But it was much easier to casually yell for Dad than step inside a concrete-and-metal enclosure with about 2,000 pounds of brute force.

Instead of doing the scary job for me, Dad handed me the manure scraper. Basically a metal blade on a wooden handle, like a hoe, only flat. "Show him the scraper and let him know you're boss. And remember that, if he would charge you, you have the strength to stop him. You plunge the end of the scraper into his nose, and he will stop long enough for you to get away. So don't be afraid. If you're afraid, he will know it."

Somehow, I made my barn boots walk into the pen. The wooden handle of the scraper felt comforting to my hands. I used it every day. I knew its weight. Its length. Its balance. I tried to believe that I could stop the bull if I needed to. But my legs were trembly inside my boots and my voice was a little warbly when I called to the cows, hoping I wouldn't have to get too close to the bull before the cows got the message.

They didn't. And the bull turned his head and regarded me with one unblinking, baleful, bloodshot eye. Almost imperceptibly, his head dropped lower and lower until his chin neared the concrete. His front hooves made tiny scraping sounds.

And I found myself slipping back through the metal bars, the scraper trailing me.

Dad vaulted into the holding area with an amused, "this-is-how-it's-done" grin on his face. He hit the concrete running at top speed toward the bull, waving his empty hands above his head and emitting his signature wildcat scream.

The bull's head snapped up and this time it was his back feet making scuffling sounds as he backed himself into the corner. Knowing the time had come and the time was now, the cows disbanded and headed obediently for the milking area.

That's one of the many things I learned from my dad: don't run away from things because you are afraid.

Now my dad is facing things much scarier than Holstein bulls, and I see him doing it with a different kind of courage. This courage admits qualms. Asks for advice. It mourns. And yet still it runs into unfamiliar territory, propelled by love.

This new kind of courage inspires me even more than the impressive bull-intimidating stuff. Because it is a result of looking your worst fears in the face and not running away for this reason:

"I am convinced that neither death,

nor life,

nor angels,

nor principalities,

nor things present,

nor things to come,

nor powers,

nor height, nor depth, nor any other created thing,

will be able to separate us from the love of God,

which is in Christ Jesus our Lord."

[Romans 8:38]

If the worst thing you can imagine happens to you, and even in that, you can go to God and find your core unshaken because you are secure in His love for you... really, what is left to fear? I see this kind of courage in my dad. The solidness that comes from finding the very core-est core of your identity to be safe in God's love for you... and simply accepting God's acceptance of you.

When big, scary stuff happens (with the exception of rabid animals and glaring bulls), I tend to be very matter-of-fact. If you can't change what is happening, look at your options. Figure it out. Everything's going to be fine. Your heart can stretch to absorb this and keep on trucking. I feel genuinely calm and a little dauntless.

For a day. Or a month. And then I feel all fluttery inside. Tumultuous and a little bit insecure and panicky. And it doesn't make sense to me because I thought I was fine, you know? I thought I could take this on. Yesterday, I was feeling like that. And I was trying to just power through and it wasn't working too well.

I must admit that it was mid-afternoon until I thought, "Maybe I should talk to God about this."

There is a prayer by Richard J. Foster that I sometimes pray when I don't know what else to say:

"Abba Father
Abba Father
Abba Father
Abba, my Abba!"

And, after calling on Him and throwing the entire weight of myself into His hands, I knew what I needed... to center myself in His love. Security, calm, and courage replaced my muddle.

I am beloved.

My Abba's cherished possession.

And nothing can separate me from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus. My Lord.

That gives me the courage to face things... and not run away.

the adventure begins

Raising the lid of the trunk that contains my sweaters, sweatshirts, and scarves, I first felt delight. Cold weather means layering colors and textures and more creativity with clothes.

Rummaging around, delight faded a little and I started thinking things like this: "I wore these last year, and some the three years before that. They still look new, but I am tired of them."

Tired of them? Why? And thus began a week of the question rattling around my brain until it settled into a deep introspection.

Why do I want new things? New things make me feel more confident, I suppose. Well, that's rather nauseating, when I admit it to myself. I look to mere fibers for proof that I am capable of living my life well... when my me-ness wasn't made by me and therefore I'm not even responsible for the entirety of my existence? Well, that just grosses me out.

Especially when I think of many people who are lucky to have two sets of clothes. I say I care about poverty, slave labor in the clothing industry, and living a sustainable and eco-friendly lifestyle. I do care about those things. Hugely. But I'm an artist. How things look is a big deal to me. So I justify having a whole trunk full of sweaters because I got them on sale or at thrift stores.

Please understand that I do believe that God wants us to enjoy life and His good gifts. Wearing pretty clothes reminds me that God created beauty and loves it even more than I do. But I know that I can use this truth as an excuse to indulge myself.

I feel God calling me to a beauty in dress that is content. Aware of need and injustice. And knows beyond cognition that He is the source of my identity and confidence.

So, for the next six months, I'm not going to buy any clothes. The adventure begins. Anyone want to join me?

something good

I should be working ahead on Algebra homework because I have a Psych exam on Thursday and I really and truly don't want to have to worry about my least favorite class while I study. Notice that I didn't use words like "hideous" and "malevolent" to describe Algebra. This is proof that my extremely right-brained mind is learning how to think in stringent procedures again... after not doing much math for seven years. Thank God.  But instead of solving equations, I am reading blogs and starting to process all that has happened in the past two weeks.

For the sake of privacy I will not say much here, but I think it's ok to admit that our families are broken. Maybe this is just in "plain", Mennonite circles, but the term "broken home" is often used to describe families whose parents are separated. I am choosing to not feel shame. I believe that every family is broken, just like every person is broken. Some types of "broken" are more visible than others. Even healthy, loving individuals and families can hurt each other and take each other for granted. This is something my closest friends have told me repeatedly since my mom left, and I feel it to be true.

When brokenness shows itself in nightmarish proportions, everything about life can feel wrong. It can be hard to imagine this, but

{made by me, so copy and paste if you like without fear of the copyright police}

Whether today's brokenness is job frustration, misunderstandings between people, sickness of someone you love, or grief over losing someone, all of us have our dark places. But please know this with certainty:

Something good is going to happen.

Every day.

Something good.

Something that proves that the world isn't completely hideous and that your life hasn't run into a gray cul-de-sac with the exit blocked by a toppled building. The world is hideous, but it is also beautiful. Look for the orange poppies under the tree on the east side of your cul-de-sac. They are there, and you will find them if you have eyes to see.

How do I know?

Because I know God to be a nurturing god of healing and redemption. Every time I get trapped in gray cul-de-sacs, I see Him working. Preserving. Healing. Making GOOD out of broken. He is the source of GOOD and WHOLE, and He is always here. I see him in my dad's care of his girls, my sisters' and my closer bond, the misty sunrises every morning, and (tonight!) a free concert of Chopin and Schubert's masterpieces.

Because something good is always going to happen, I can feel blows that break me and still say

 I will extol the LORD at all times;
   his praise will always be on my lips.

I will glory in the LORD;
   let the afflicted hear and rejoice.

Glorify the LORD with me;
   let us exalt his name together.

I sought the LORD, and he answered me;
   he delivered me from all my fears.

Those who look to him are radiant;
   their faces are never covered with shame.

This poor man called, and the LORD heard him;
   he saved him out of all his troubles.

The angel of the LORD encamps around those who fear him,
   and he delivers them.

Taste and see that the LORD is good;
   blessed is the one who takes refuge in him.

Fear the LORD, you his holy people,
   for those who fear him lack nothing.

The lions may grow weak and hungry,
   but those who seek the LORD lack no good thing.

Psalm 34:1-10



a fun reminder

I was walking down the sidewalk, my head in overdrive with things to be accomplished within the next few hours and days. I hate when I get like that. All tense and only semi-conscious to the world around me.


"Hey!"

I looked to see who had yelled, and a middle-aged African American guy waved from across the street.

"Yo sure are pretty!" His smile took up half his face, and he kept bobbing his head respectfully.

I waved my thanks and walked on, smiling and relaxed.

And I remembered the words God had dropped into my thoughts earlier: "in quietness and in confidence shall be your strength" (Isaiah 30:15).

Beauty. Quietness. Confidence. Strength.

They're linked, somehow.

Linked, and the result of finding deep rest in God.

Trusting that He sees.

He knows.

And He is capable.

Affirmation

I clearly remember where I was when Anna told me. I had gone to visit her in the calm of her home, surrounded by the energy, noise, and sometimes violence of Lancaster City. Rocking her daughter as I sat on the couch, she asked, "Do you know what most people think of you?"

"I have no idea." But, inaudibly, I added, "They most likely see how deeply I question myself and probably think my life is falling apart at the fringes most of the time."

"They think Becca has it all together. I have heard countless people talk about how confident and knowledgeable you are." She looked at me dead on as I gaped at her.

That moment is so clear to me, years later, because it was the first time that I realized other people might see me differently than I see myself. I realized that sometimes I need to be honest and vulnerable about my fears and battles because... people can't read me as well as I thought they could.

Maybe I inherited it. Maybe I learned it. But this natural inclination to carry one's self with confidence despite internal questions is both a blessing and a curse.

Pros:

- When working in social services, especially with teens, sometimes you have to appear calm while, inside, you're crouched like a cat, ready for anything. Sometimes you have to make a rather large judgment call and follow through with it, even though you might be terribly afraid that you just made the wrong decision. I know that this ability to appear genuinely calm and confident has served me well. My co-workers have told me so. No matter what your work, there are often people in your care who need to rely on your strength. Even when you're just as scared as everyone else. Maybe even more so, because you know the implications of your responsibility. I'm not saying we should be walking oaks, impenetrable, or dishonest about our weaknesses and fears. But you get my point... before this develops into a study on what strength is or is not.

- Face it. Sometimes life is really hard and you wonder why on earth you're even here. Maybe this reservation of dignity is plain old pride, but I don't think the whole world needs to know when these times occur. I have an inner circle of friends who know Becca's weakest moments and most vulnerable side, which is a treasure I wouldn't trade for all of Buckingham Palace. But most of the world needs my head and dignity in plain sight. I do wonder if this inclination a wild result of all the stoic German in my ancestry mixed with the grit of the Scotch, French Canadian, Irish, and Native Americans who color my blood. (Mom says this eclectic mix is why we kids are prone to some rather odd adventures at times. Like riding in a car trunk for over an hour. Yes, that was me. At 20 years old. But I won't be starting stories here.) At any rate, sometimes you just have to [wo]man up and keep going. It's part of living in a broken world, and I think God redeems this as a strength we wouldn't know or need if the world was as He intended.

Cons:

- Pretence. Sometimes weakness is required for redemption. It's hard to lay aside dignity and ask for help. Yet the moments that build trust in community are the ones in which everyone stops pretending they are fine. That they don't need. In fact, the truest connections are often centered around need. For further reading on that subject, check out my friend Josh's post. Be sure to read the comments, too, which are more entertaining if, as is my utter privilege, you know the commentators.

- People tend to assume you don't need affirmation if you look and act as if you don't need it. It is true that pretty girls often wonder whether they ARE pretty because everyone assumes they already know and don't need to be told. People who seem (and, most of the time, ARE) fairly confident in both their capacities and the Presence of God to sustain them in situations beyond their experience and skill level are rarely affirmed.

And we need affirmation. All of us. I have heard so many talented, competent, beautiful (or handsome, as the gender requires), and visionary people admit that they deeply question themselves. They wonder whether they are truly making a difference, whether they truly do have what it takes, whether they are attractive, or whether they actually are a good man or woman. Because no one ever tells them. This starvation is tragic.

So... when you're starving for affirmation, I'm sorry that someone might not notice. It feels so wrong to have to ask for it, but remember that only God sees your insides. And that your emotions can be invisible even to your doctor who, if he wants to, CAN see your insides. Maybe you need to let your dignity crack a little. Maybe you need to find some people with whom you can be vulnerable enough to let your biggest questions about yourself take the form of words. Maybe no one knows you need it.

And don't forget that the same is true of most everyone else. Give affirmation to people who don't ask for it. Realize when you are viewing someone as above the need for reassurance and look for ways to tell them that they are seen, valued, applauded, and loved. In your work, home, friendships, neighborhood, and church, foster an environment in which people don't need to ask for affirmation in order to receive it.

Now, just for fun, here is a list of some of the affirmations I have received lately. Please don't mistake this as a brag list. It is, rather, a tribute to the many people who speak words to me that I cup in my heart long afterward because I was wondering the opposite and needed to hear them. It humbles me to realize that, for most of these, I didn't even ask.

Carla: "You're just an incredible person." This came at a moment when I was feeling rather small in comparison to all life was asking of me at the moment.

One of my teen girls at work, as I arrived for my shift: "Becky, you getting so skinny!" I didn't notice, but what woman doesn't love to hear that?

Tatianna, a German girl I met in Ireland: "I've been watching you and wanting to meet you because you fascinate me. You remind me of a character from Pride and Prejudice." She said she wasn't sure which Bennet I resemble, but did assure me that it was one of the eldest. This is a vast relief, you will understand if you've read the book.

My dear friend Sharon sent me an incredible email yesterday: "hey, i hope you are feeling loved and significant. (cuz you really are) seriously, of all the friends i have, you are doing some of the bravest and unconventionalest stuff. I am  proud of you -i know it probably doesn't feel very shiny most of the time, and that it is mostly very "daily", but be cheered :) I think God is happy about you." I was a rather extremely shy, cautious, and introverted child, and sometimes I look at the things I want to accomplish and just want to find a nice, cozy stump in a large forest in which to hide. She didn't know it, but this was one of those days.

My supervisor at work: "Some rather nice compliments were paid you at a hiring interview. Two unit supervisors used you as a model for how the prospective employee should relate to this kids. I thought you should know." Um, wow?! I try to do my job well... and see it as less of a job and more of a challenge of loving my girls well, and loving them the way Jesus does... but I do in fact wonder if I am truly doing it well.

Bekah: "You're going to be a great mom someday. Your kids will be lucky to have you." I see parenting as the highest, truest test of a person's character and love. And, though I hope to do it well someday, don't all of us wonder if we genuinely have what it takes?

Carla's 3-year-old son: "I love Miss Becca." And I wasn't even present at the time or had just done something to deserve it. Carla told me about it later. Unless they are made to believe lies for a long period of time, kids see through disguises pretty stinkin' fast. That's why I treasure this affirmation highly.

When I started making the list, I started thinking of more and more people who have deeply affirmed me. So please don't feel left out if you're reading this and you're one of those people. Thank you. Your belief in me and your loving me help me become a better, truer version of myself. You really and truly enable me to live and love with confidence and sincerity.

Let this list inspire you to affirm the people in your life. Make a point of one-a-day, and let it become an unconscious habit.

after an hour of solitude

Beauty is freed through rest, and rest contained in trust.

When all is said...

Words.

They're so intangible, thinner than the wisp of curl from a blown-out candle.

But, set out into the center of silence, they seem to take on a life of their own. Even as we form them, they form us.

Perhaps this phenomenon is partially limited to females, but I noticed that when my girls are angry, they talk about fighting the person first. And they do it loudly, as if volume can cover fear and insecurity. The bluffing has a curious effect on everyone present. The bluffer becomes more infatuated with the sense of empowerment they feel, while the witnesses quickly move into survival mode. Everything goes downhill from there. No one feels safe, not even the person trumpeting away.

Of course, my professional duty in this scenario is to "de-escalate the client", but, reaching further, I really and truly hate the emotional damage this stuff inflicts on my girls. They have lived most of their lives on edge, in survival mode. They shouldn't have to. Especially not here. My heart for them all is that they feel safe and loved.

So I am trying to teach my girls this: what we say MATTERS. It has weight we might not intend.

Someone says, "Imma punch her/him." Instead of ignoring it as normal ghetto conversation, I'm learning to ask, "Are you seriously making a threat? Should I report what you just said?"

Then this ensues:

"BECKY! We just TALKING!"

"But did you hear yourself? What did you say?"

"Oh..."

This scenario happens a lot, too:

"What the *&%@#?"

"Hey, you're not trash. So stop talking trash, huh?"

These scenarios happen often, but I love the looks of realization that result. I love how their demeanor and the atmosphere gradually softens, as if we all knew all along that words are important... and someone saying so allows us to be our truer selves.

When all is said and done, more is said than done. And power for hurt is always equal to power for good.

For instance:

"Becky, why you always smilin' at us?" J. rarely causes problems, but she's one of the few that seems to have a built-in resistance to interaction with staff. I was surprised she initiated conversation at all.

"Because I love you guys."

"Aw... we love you, too."

Just a few words, but I hold them in my heart and treasure the quiet acknowledgment that lingers between us because of them.

Being Small

G.K. Chesterton says in Orthodoxy that "humility is necessary to the enjoyment of anything." We need to make ourselves smaller than the object, moment, or person we're experiencing in order to truly soak it up. Otherwise, we just trample it, like a galumphing elephant does a shrub, and move on in pursuit of the next big thing. Something about the picture of making myself small really got through to me and I've been thinking about it a lot. It takes a conscious effort sometimes, but I feel all the corners and cracks and enter into things more. It's so easy to feel entitled, you know? But when I'm small, I don't feel entitled. I feel awed. And alive.