tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-90382368618345624152024-03-13T00:59:52.833-04:00Left to GraceThoughts from a life full of all kinds of falls, and all kinds of grace.Heather Dillashawhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06439058366850942892noreply@blogger.comBlogger63125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9038236861834562415.post-4640329573987194682015-03-11T19:04:00.003-04:002015-03-11T19:05:08.554-04:00Jesus' ListI spend my days surrounded by literal and virtual stacks of regulations, rules designed to protect and ensure public funding goes to those defined as the least of these in our communities. There are both clear and opaque moments in making those funding determinations, overseeing projects and progress attempting to correct economic and social disparities embedded in the very fabric of the historic building I work in, packed into the earth under the dilapidated buildings that housed and fed and were the center of the African-American community until the forward movement of the City cut them off from the white establishment’s move back to further segregation - couched in language of urban renewal. Sins for which we will continue to bear the consequences for generations to come.<br />
<br />
In some ways, it’s work that attempts to decide who’s been left out the most – who has paid the most for an economic system that has rewarded some and penalized others for generations. Work that seeks out partners who can fix it, or can at least try to, and do so with some measurable result. As in, good ideas are awesome but if they do not result in someone or some part of the community gaining a foothold that has been inaccessible then it is just a good idea and doesn’t mean much of anything. All kinds of folks come to the funding table, from those who have led pioneering efforts for 30 years to those so desperate for practical evidence of hope in their neighborhoods they are willing to take on the ridiculous burden of public funding compliance for a handful of dollars to get a fledging idea off the ground.<br />
<br />
But then I go to church. And one of my pastors talks about Jesus’ guest list. And that guest list is not limited to the people that I want to limit my people to. That guest list – the one Jesus says matters most – includes more than the least of these and those who want to give their lives to lessen the gap between the least and the most. Jesus’ guest list has everyone on it. So Jesus pisses everyone off. The entitled have to make room for the poor, and the poor have to make room for the rich. And those in the middle have to stretch both ways.<br />
<br />
Not unlike the birthday party we had for the just-turned-6-year-old in our household this past weekend. She bears the burden of her parents casting a wide net of inviting everyone so no one feels left out, so it was an amalgamation of school classmates and family folks and church friends. One kid attempted, every time, to open all the presents. Another took all the bows and pitched a fit when our kid grabbed one back. Several were simply happy to be there. The 6.5-year-old who also shares our household made sure I remembered she was still older every minute she could while also delighting in the celebration of her half-sister, and the foster baby charmed everyone in sight. The uncle and grandmother on hand support our whole family, and celebrate with us on all occasions. The aunts present did their best to enter our diverse world - while squirming in their seats - but also providing food to show what their words struggle to say.<br />
<br />
And so I sit surrounded by well-meaning (mostly) regulations and Jesus’ guest list and find myself exactly where I am supposed to be. Walking in the tension of the well-meaning, giving it all I can to attempt to change course on long-standing wrongs, and constantly reminded of the Table that is, truly, open to us all. Messy. Beautiful. Hard. Ridiculously time-consuming. Potentially inching toward the Place where all are one. All I can say is thank you.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Heather Dillashawhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06439058366850942892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9038236861834562415.post-78071319620248462812014-09-23T22:45:00.001-04:002014-09-23T22:47:19.901-04:00The Disguise of Our Lives: A Letter to My Parents <style><!--
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Dear Mom and Dad,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What a day Sunday was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I got to sit in the church sanctuary that has been a second home for you
for more than 20 years today and be completely surrounded by the love that has
embraced y’all all those years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
was a packed room that celebrated Mom’s steadfast and remarkable gift of music
to so many.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were a lot of
tears.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mine included.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A whole lot of joy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Including mine, my wife’s, our kids as
they ran around making sure they could keep Nana and Papa in their sights and
be as close as possible to you at all times – even when the bell choir was
playing and we had to keep them in their seats so Mom could direct without
little hands and arms reaching up for some Nana love and attention.</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLV62TT7I6I77WB18J0i2io1YvpD5RUi_imJzGlsx7oWMQzxWY3CtgIMSQqmH2s1LDUDZ-IVudj6PfH8XAK4jAc4CfsEaLsUngD3sPoq21WZniLNpRS7BMy8FmyF7uh-5bBBNvsU3V8_tE/s1600/IMG_0985.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLV62TT7I6I77WB18J0i2io1YvpD5RUi_imJzGlsx7oWMQzxWY3CtgIMSQqmH2s1LDUDZ-IVudj6PfH8XAK4jAc4CfsEaLsUngD3sPoq21WZniLNpRS7BMy8FmyF7uh-5bBBNvsU3V8_tE/s1600/IMG_0985.JPG" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mom and Dad with Abby nearly 6 (!) years ago)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
These last several weeks the girls ask us, nearly daily now,
when you are going to be here so that you can see them more and not have to
drive “all the way from the other house.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>To say that we are looking forward to you living nearby all the time is
an understatement at best.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I
have also known, at least on a common-sense level, that leaving a home of 22
years must be a very big deal. (If I ever manage to live in one place for 22
years, I will understand better.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Since you didn’t land there until you are older than I am now, I have
faith I might land somewhere, someday, too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perhaps I already have, here in these mountains our family
returned to year after year.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Sunday, we also felt the grief of those who have loved you in the place
you are leaving.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You did, truly,
land there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Put down roots in all
the real ways – in the good and the bad and the everything-in-between seasons.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And in those 22 years, we – me, and the two of you – have
had our share of tears.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>More angst
than any of us would have preferred, more misunderstanding than any of us
deserved.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know that, now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That it was angst, or more likely
sorrow, at the chasms that opened between us as I tried to find my way, as I
desperately sought a place to feel at home and safe and known.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You wanted to understand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To help.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know that, now.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin-NitJMlZnTRVnUehyiyoC6C0HFdHD4m8JqHLRa2u40NLo4DGfgYvTaZh6sjhV1q7u2l-OQLs9Kw8PZ4ykQFp4gd0FvtBI9fEVjUP1OsvOVkE-ecl_Pv7_q1B280cB2eO_hgUYYhB0_Oq/s1600/IMG_0453.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin-NitJMlZnTRVnUehyiyoC6C0HFdHD4m8JqHLRa2u40NLo4DGfgYvTaZh6sjhV1q7u2l-OQLs9Kw8PZ4ykQFp4gd0FvtBI9fEVjUP1OsvOVkE-ecl_Pv7_q1B280cB2eO_hgUYYhB0_Oq/s1600/IMG_0453.JPG" height="239" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dad's birthday August 2014, with all 3 granddaughters: Abby, Zoe and Marley</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It is your steadfastness, your relentless commitment to your
faith, your unwavering “yes” to church on Sunday and music rehearsals on Monday
and leadership meetings and Sunday School lessons and grace before every meal,
your literal sharing of time, talent and treasure…your love for your children,
even when we wandered in ways beyond what you understood: your witness to the
compassion and grace of God that makes every community you land in better
because you were there and made it home.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My kids know it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Feel it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Delight in it,
running to you with dancing eyes and wide-open arms for the Nana and Papa they
cannot wait to have here, near them and not “just visiting.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My wife knows it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Soaks it in, reaches for it with a
gratitude born from too many years of more than enough judgment for anyone’s
lifetime.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Fr. Richard Rohr says something like this, “God, in the end,
comes disguised as our lives.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Witnessing the love of your 22-year-community made me realize how many
thank-you’s I have not said, how many moments I have been aware that I know
what I know because you are my mom and dad -- and neglected to tell you how
much of a difference that has made in all that I do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>God does, in the end, and in every beginning and
in-between come to me, to us, in all the mess and all the beauty we’ve managed
to create together.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I know,
now, that in all the places I have found a home that I always have – and always
will – be at home wherever you are.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I love you, Mom and Dad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>More than words could ever say.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thanks for loving me back.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Your
grateful oldest,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Heather</div>
Heather Dillashawhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06439058366850942892noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9038236861834562415.post-74361054207603481732014-08-02T12:16:00.001-04:002014-08-02T12:16:37.291-04:00Vision held open in the dark<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
We planted a garden in May, not long before we trekked
across the country with our beautiful and precocious 5-year-olds to get
married, to laugh and play in the gratitude and wonderment of discovering a
life together.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was lots
of hard work in our back yard, literally spending hours pulling up deep-rooted
weeds that would choke out any new growth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We mapped out our hopes for that garden, went to the
local nursery to buy seeds and good soil, till-ed up that ground and helped it
become something new.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwzQ6dlue27A9BeHeeTF0Qkrjp51ZWypXqeXSlFik9m5W0n09h2YTP_I40ApshoC0nHeKktF5C5t5980dvumxRrn6DKkAVnCuLQmQHN7gO5Ig1hJKr60wA1eT7a6IiHpCEuuxO74EVZ-oV/s1600/Garden.May2014.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwzQ6dlue27A9BeHeeTF0Qkrjp51ZWypXqeXSlFik9m5W0n09h2YTP_I40ApshoC0nHeKktF5C5t5980dvumxRrn6DKkAVnCuLQmQHN7gO5Ig1hJKr60wA1eT7a6IiHpCEuuxO74EVZ-oV/s1600/Garden.May2014.jpg" height="150" width="200" /></a></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then we
left for the Pacific Coast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The rocky cliffs and crashing waves embraced us all as we promised to
face the future together, as we enjoyed the beauty of its beaches, ancient
trees, sea animals frolicking around us we kayaked along its shores.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a week packed full of joy, tears
(joy and the occasional 5-year-old angst) and laughter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We came home to a sweet celebration put
on by friends that shared in our joy, a garden that needed weeding, and a depth
of contentment neither of us have known before.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCUxY5B0E2RHhCRytY5svCShuhyeFA049dZqGJIquzfaGicbugYQWnHsj9feDYJzqygZyy0ZdcCi-loDysM8ZI-BFMwaMSbYvEaR9XP_Gpo8DBCKgLVKVBTa4n6rdCAtGgwVzR7M4Tt-hk/s1600/IMG_1034.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCUxY5B0E2RHhCRytY5svCShuhyeFA049dZqGJIquzfaGicbugYQWnHsj9feDYJzqygZyy0ZdcCi-loDysM8ZI-BFMwaMSbYvEaR9XP_Gpo8DBCKgLVKVBTa4n6rdCAtGgwVzR7M4Tt-hk/s1600/IMG_1034.JPG" height="150" width="200" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Very soon after, the summer turned into a season that put
every one of those promises to the test.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It became a time of deep and wrenching loss that re-ordered the hopes
that went into the soil with those tiny seeds in May.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nothing went as we had thought or wanted or dreamed it would.<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Whatever
is foreseen in joy</span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"> Must
be lived out from day to day.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"> Vision
held open in the dark</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"> By
our ten thousand days of work.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"> Harvest
will fill the barn; for that</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"> The
hand must ache, the face must sweat.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"> And
yet no leaf or grain is filled</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"> By
work of ours; the field is tilled </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"> And
left to grace. That we may reap,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"> Great
work is done while we’re asleep.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"> When
we work well, a Sabbath mood</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"> Rests
on our day, and finds it good. –Wendell Berry </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In these very beginning days of August, we are
exhausted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Worn out from the ten
thousand hours of vigil and grief.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It is the certainty of the promises we made on that rocky cliff that
have held us up, accompanied by the unending prayers of those who love us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And today, walking out to the garden,
making my way through the overgrowth of the garden to see what might have
preserved, we find this bounty of harvest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a good morning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We are held by all that has been left to Grace. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br /></div>
Heather Dillashawhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06439058366850942892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9038236861834562415.post-26752755104668541872014-05-28T23:29:00.000-04:002014-05-28T23:29:59.785-04:00Caged Birds and Clouds of Witnesses <style><!--
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<div class="MsoNormal">
I do not know why the caged bird sings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not in any way to the extent that Maya
Angelou did, to have been caged in by extreme brokenness and abuse and trauma
and political will beyond my control – and then to live as witness to a
relentless hope birthed by scars formed out of too many unyielding flames.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am a white, privileged woman born to
highly educated parents who has been afforded every opportunity and more to be
anything and everything I want to be.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Yes, it is true that I face discrimination in my family
configuration.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And my experiences
are a fleck of dust in the context of slavery, the Jim Crow laws of the South
that still inform perception and reality in my home state and the ludicrous
over-representation of people of color in prison, below-cost-of-living jobs,
limited access to education and substandard housing.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Maya Angelou was – and is – one of the Sages who began to
penetrate my naïve consciousness while I grew up on college campuses in the
South.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her words were beautiful,
devastating, encouraging, challenging and empowering.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The formidable and gracious space her presence created, even
on a stage several rows from me, simply made me want to be more.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wanted to be more attentive, in tune
with the pulse of humanity's breadth and spurred to action and hope by the
messy intersection and co-existence of brokenness and hope.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I do not know if I have achieved any of them, those budding
aspirations she began all those years ago when her words and presence began
their work in me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I am working
toward it, still.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The news of her
death reached me – quite literally through an NPR broadcast – as I drove
through her hometown of Winston-Salem today following a day of discussion and
debate about what we need to end homelessness in North Carolina.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My faith, and its ancient texts, talks about the clouds of
witnesses that surround us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Witnesses to encourage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To
empower.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To tell the truth even
when that truth is crushing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To
push us to change everything.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And hold
out the promise and power of relentless hope.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIRVZuY5zms4QCAg-8OYEehULbB6TBy748euRMEiNumy_OxCFHCIu7LTCcy7SuPjVXv9lGL72rwfvgmKWIcrUEGMdwUlpLeGGxGBid40QGj0Ft_kvsNJT9CVpGWpBMnPNvkZwGHLvH_I8E/s1600/DSC01463.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIRVZuY5zms4QCAg-8OYEehULbB6TBy748euRMEiNumy_OxCFHCIu7LTCcy7SuPjVXv9lGL72rwfvgmKWIcrUEGMdwUlpLeGGxGBid40QGj0Ft_kvsNJT9CVpGWpBMnPNvkZwGHLvH_I8E/s1600/DSC01463.JPG" height="213" width="320" /></a>Deep sadness at the loss of Maya Angelou’s witness on this
side of God’s great embrace. Overwhelming gratitude for the undying legacy and
truth she leaves us. "Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear, I rise, " she says. And so she did. And is.</div>
Heather Dillashawhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06439058366850942892noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9038236861834562415.post-35541247093492600392014-05-11T19:48:00.000-04:002014-05-11T19:48:50.442-04:00Never Waste an Uphill <style><!--
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I try to run every now and then.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or, really, to jog.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I don’t have much interest in a flat-out run.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even when I played competitive sports, I was the last to the
line in every sprint.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I first
started attempting to put jogging into my life on a regular basis as an adult,
a friend told me to never waste a downhill – to always run a downhill to get a
breather.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Here in the southern
Appalachians, there are a whole lot of hills.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is one really great flat run in town by the French
Broad River, and I always feel like such a better runner when I get the chance
to follow that path.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But the more
accessible run – the one that is just outside my front door through the streets
of West Asheville – that one has hills.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Today was a day I got a couple of hours to myself, and so I went out my
front door in my running shoes and began to do my meandering jog.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It felt great. As I reached my turn
around point, I realized why – I had pretty much been running downhill for 25
minutes.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjE-HK6FVMfs9QPTT0UquUaAONsM0D6z5tCzfewmmN3nUTyPbHBbq9cpWog5Q_vxshMLn1vDBwMZlthwv1cJxsv7Y9UGZ9IgS_eX2sWUuJ08SRXiozOAx29ZBFOO8EmenETJin9pLBCjou/s1600/IMG_0157.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjE-HK6FVMfs9QPTT0UquUaAONsM0D6z5tCzfewmmN3nUTyPbHBbq9cpWog5Q_vxshMLn1vDBwMZlthwv1cJxsv7Y9UGZ9IgS_eX2sWUuJ08SRXiozOAx29ZBFOO8EmenETJin9pLBCjou/s1600/IMG_0157.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Like thousands of other people, today is a complicated day
for me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Full of angst and grief at
not being the mom I had always wanted to be for my Abigail, feeling her absence
more keenly as parades of moms and daughters walk past me at church, and stand
in line for brunch at the neighborhood eateries and the long stretch of hours
until Tuesday afternoon and I see her again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She taught me, and still does, that I can be a mom despite –
and maybe because of – my multiple levels of baggage and failure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And at the same time, as I sat with
tears streaming in church today, there are acres of gratitude for my Marley, an
unplanned for and completely unexpected gift of a child who I get to love and
parent and learn from in a hundred ways each day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She, too, reminds me that it is not my failures that define
me, but instead the expansive grace and love that forms me in my very real and
messy and chaotic humanness.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigxGFJMmoUesonveT6uqagwRQfsgiyjqkHxbeRusD7SWQTqSYEOvbBPr_92Y01RAd33MeAsXHRK_BXVIybeiGiCTSBwzD-ZvP-m4dRFSmhaON3HzarTFe4UvPhjNtCDvEILJ9s6LmhA60-/s1600/IMG_0164.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigxGFJMmoUesonveT6uqagwRQfsgiyjqkHxbeRusD7SWQTqSYEOvbBPr_92Y01RAd33MeAsXHRK_BXVIybeiGiCTSBwzD-ZvP-m4dRFSmhaON3HzarTFe4UvPhjNtCDvEILJ9s6LmhA60-/s1600/IMG_0164.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a>I think there are probably not many downhills for very many
folks that do their best to show up, in all of their humanness, for life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Certainly there are not for
me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s when I am going uphill, I
realized today, that I pay a whole lot more attention to what is around me –
‘cause I need every bit of it to make it to the top.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A spot of shade, a more gentle span of road, an encouraging
smile from the guy mowing his grass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A second chance, even, at love and marriage and
parenthood in the climb out of the ashes of other dreams. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">And the 25 minutes uphill to get back home today? Well, I walked the last 15. And was grateful for every step. </span></div>
Heather Dillashawhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06439058366850942892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9038236861834562415.post-90941344264529734882014-03-09T19:42:00.002-04:002014-03-09T19:48:18.828-04:00Choosing Church<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I joined a church today.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And not because I was the Pastor, or married to the
Pastor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But because I chose
to.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is the first time in my
life that I have done so as an adult (or as a child attached to parents who
made the choice) that was not attached to a vocation calling for either me or
my spouse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And, yet, it is
entirely that as well – our vocation as a family – that led us to the place we
have inhabited on Sunday mornings since September.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Each week, each email, each call or conversation I have
thought to myself, “this could be home.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Simultaneously, we have as a family said, “these are our people.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And we are not there each Sunday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We are the family I was often frustrated with when I was the
Pastor – absent sometimes for 3 weeks in a row when Sunday School needed extra
helpers and we as parents needed support and worship was sparse and we were
part of the reason why.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our life
as a family, with two more than full-time working parents and children who get
sick at inconvenient times, and sometimes with so much else going on that a few
hours of quiet removed from the world on Sunday morning is what we need more
than air to breathe…that is my life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>My reality, my joy, my angst, my waking dream – all in the same moment.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirGlBBvVRWN1hZmySu2vU17XalICsaxjI9i6b2QdDjNQ5cyoINm-NX9e2OSY3hgbnLJk9RRqRPCEc5wm30SU9-EVr1ca6NHhrMaTbicbfRmYqm7-bszha0gjIQuE0HFUZFAt0bhkObazdJ/s1600/IMG_0073.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirGlBBvVRWN1hZmySu2vU17XalICsaxjI9i6b2QdDjNQ5cyoINm-NX9e2OSY3hgbnLJk9RRqRPCEc5wm30SU9-EVr1ca6NHhrMaTbicbfRmYqm7-bszha0gjIQuE0HFUZFAt0bhkObazdJ/s1600/IMG_0073.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Still, though, it is Church that sustains and creates and
moves and changes and molds me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
has been so since before I was in the world, I suspect, and certainly since
that long ago moment in a Southern Baptist church in South Carolina that
welcomed and blessed me into God’s family to enter the journey Jesus offers us,
and walks beside us every step of the way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For Michelle and I both, taking this step today to say Yes
in a very public way is a not-small thing that signifies a
years-in-the-making-opening to so much that neither of us thought would ever
come into being again.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I joined a church today.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We joined a church today: a non-traditional (whatever that
means) family with all kinds of scars and hopes and loves and sorrows and joys
for the present and future that God is creating with us all the time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A church that reminds us, and lives,
that Jesus joins us right here in the middle of the story and that Jesus allows
our Alleluias to rest with him when necessary to remind us of the promise of
Easter – as my two pastors spoke of so wisely today.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A blessed life it is, with Easter ever on the horizon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And resurrection happening sometimes
even when the ashes are still lingering on our foreheads.</div>
Heather Dillashawhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06439058366850942892noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9038236861834562415.post-5668015032761765622013-04-05T21:02:00.000-04:002013-04-05T21:02:40.719-04:00Showing Up <style><!--
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Sunsets in the southern Appalachians are one of my favorite
times of day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The sun slips away
quietly here, earlier than in the flatlands, sliding behind the soft edges of
these old mountaintops.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Color
lingers in the sky a little longer, shades of pinks and oranges.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Today in the early days of Spring, bare
tree branches are outlined against the fading colors.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And so here I sit, watching the colors change, a glass of
decent wine beside me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s quiet,
peaceful and I have music on in the background to keep me company.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So much to be grateful for, and I am
thankful beyond words for all of it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And yet I struggle mightily to keep the sadness at bay because it’s one
of <u>those</u> weekends – the really long ones that stretch from Thursday
night to Tuesday afternoon without a glimpse of the little blond-haired,
blue-eyed girl that calls me Mama.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>These are the hardest days of the month.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While I am certain the same is true for her other parent
when my daughter is with me, I am learning to not try and tell a story that is
not mine to tell.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj17n6Qy6ODSzdZvf5tcw7rxhyRcNOPRA8EVwP4NpSi46hCJBXoAZbBIKlG83NfhiNy8g1XKwaXSrDPCJZAQzXl0qWXpoM1fzI1oJQw9lqNhPE7Pd4IXinGP4_2jCF2pTLr8ytk4zDPAy7-/s1600/IMG_1082.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="161" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj17n6Qy6ODSzdZvf5tcw7rxhyRcNOPRA8EVwP4NpSi46hCJBXoAZbBIKlG83NfhiNy8g1XKwaXSrDPCJZAQzXl0qWXpoM1fzI1oJQw9lqNhPE7Pd4IXinGP4_2jCF2pTLr8ytk4zDPAy7-/s400/IMG_1082.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Letting go of what I had known with certainty would be my
life – what I knew deep down in the blood and guts that make up who I am –
letting go of that life is a daily practice, and I suspect will be so for a
long time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because it doesn’t get
easier to not have those running feet of my girl running around me
everyday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It doesn’t get easier to
wake up thinking I’ve heard her cry out and then realizing it was just a dream
because her bed is filled only with her stuffed animals and princess
pillow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It doesn’t get easier to
stumble over the school bus she’s left near the door, causing me to smile at
her remarkable imagination while tears run into an empty room so full of her presence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is harder now than ever.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I went to church early on Easter Sunday, a tradition my
parents began long ago with Easter sunrise service when I was growing up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Grieving because there was no small
hand holding mine, no pulpit waiting for me -- but showing up because I knew
that I needed to.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Grateful for the
inner push that got me into the pew, and for my girlfriend sitting beside me
who weathers all my lows and highs and everything in between.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
priest said that believing is sometimes as basic as showing up, time after
time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe as simple as choosing
to get out of bed when you can’t find a reason why getting up matters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> And I wondered, as I was weeping silently and holding out my hand for the Eucharist, if faith and believing and hope could be as messy and</span> as earthy as the blessed bread and wine
becoming part of my sore and bruised and wanting body.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Maybe this is why I cherish the sunset so much.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because it shows up, one of the most
primal of acts that keeps our world turning and surviving – reminding me that
showing up for my life is just as primal an act.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s not the life I was certain I would inhabit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Much of it is far richer than I could
have ever dreamed possible; much of it more difficult than I thought I could survive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am learning to show up
for a life that is chaotic and predictable, painful and exquisitely joyful,
heart-breaking and soul-mending – often all in the same moment.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The sun has set for today on this part of the southern
Appalachians that is becoming my home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>A few more tentative roots have gone into the ground from my heart and
soul, watered by my modern-day tears into the soil made up of my ancestors’
toil and heartache and joy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s
enough for now.</div>
Heather Dillashawhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06439058366850942892noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9038236861834562415.post-77656716699837241042012-11-05T20:36:00.000-05:002012-11-05T20:36:41.801-05:00On Election Eve <style><!--
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Bombarded is not too strong of a word.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Radio spots. E-mails.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Phone calls.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Television commercials.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Facebook ads. Signs stuck in the ground every couple of
inches.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Billboards.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All of them demanding we take sides,
and each side listing dozens of reasons that the other side is evil,
un-American, and against you personally.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For the record, I am a registered Independent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have never voted a straight-party
ticket, though I do tend to vote more for one side than the other.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And yes, I have voted in this current
election, and did not vote straight-party this time either.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know my friends and co-workers may
find that appalling, but it’s true. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLtlcjWZZ3AR4yemjKm-zztEtxRtuk4gm7_VcAEhal1tNdWUHkzppymcbt2JpdpSOsu_Cy7_lA-P05Rk7pktaSwEBD88DosLp2JA98V79dXeToZp85GcKKY0ikl_TBmYpEvLp-tuhB2GTS/s1600/IMG_0144.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="199" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLtlcjWZZ3AR4yemjKm-zztEtxRtuk4gm7_VcAEhal1tNdWUHkzppymcbt2JpdpSOsu_Cy7_lA-P05Rk7pktaSwEBD88DosLp2JA98V79dXeToZp85GcKKY0ikl_TBmYpEvLp-tuhB2GTS/s320/IMG_0144.JPG" width="320" /></a>I could tell you hundreds of reasons why I voted for
President Obama a second time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
am passionate about them all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What
I am more passionate about, though, is what happens next – what happens when we
wake up on Wednesday, after the votes have been counted and the victors and
losers alike have stumbled home after a very long night of celebrating or
not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because regardless of who
wins what, we’ll still all be here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Neighbors.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In-laws.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Co-workers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sisters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Parents.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Citizens of a
country built on a myriad of hopes and mistakes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Human beings who continue to build lives full of all kinds
of hopes and countless mistakes.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mary Oliver said once that the world doesn’t have to be
beautiful to work, yet it is anyway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It’s easy to forget that in an election season, when too many seem
intent on dividing neighbors rather than uniting us all for the common good of
a world that is, indeed, in need of a change.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A world that is, without question, in need of a people that
want to move forward into a future that includes less of taking sides and more
of sitting at the same table.</div>
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Heather Dillashawhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06439058366850942892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9038236861834562415.post-85425617515277469222012-04-06T12:35:00.000-04:002012-04-06T12:35:24.329-04:00Angels and Demons<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7ZxGZCQjm02uUjmmrhLdchu8S_Y0bqgrfqz82pkFSBO0WFvoLJ_B0ShsVtx4DuK45MTPkIRgrnHSikdajzXgFylNc6OSnb0o_tT1xzvSFHWRPvdQKId14x5sEp40aw9WxZTdu7Rm9Ve9T/s1600/chasm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7ZxGZCQjm02uUjmmrhLdchu8S_Y0bqgrfqz82pkFSBO0WFvoLJ_B0ShsVtx4DuK45MTPkIRgrnHSikdajzXgFylNc6OSnb0o_tT1xzvSFHWRPvdQKId14x5sEp40aw9WxZTdu7Rm9Ve9T/s320/chasm.jpg" width="320" /></a></div> <style>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">It’s one of those Good Fridays that lends itself to solemnity. Fog. Rain. Damp chill that follows you, even indoors.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I should be getting in my car to go to Good Friday service, to follow that ancient liturgy, remember the story with others who seek to make sense of all this marked day means year after year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I’m not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am sitting here, unable to shake the words, the face, the anguish of J.P.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A man tormented, relentlessly, by demons he’s been unable to shake. A lifetime of pain that expresses itself in ugly words, aggressive and violent behavior, addiction, literally uncontrollable rage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He prays all the time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Carries a rosary, pleads with Jesus to save him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pounds walls, waves knives, talks about getting a gun to kill those he thinks are against him and what he thinks is the right way to be in the world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Recounts his numerous sins, wonders aloud if God will forgive him, bows his head in shame.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>There’s a clinical diagnosis for him, I am sure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Likely several.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Over the years I’ve known him, he has resisted any kind of medical treatment, certain God will save him, that Jesus is all he needs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Medication is its own kind of demon,” he said to me once, “and I don’t need any more demons.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He talks about angels, too, angels living in the human bodies of those who’ve tried to love him, to be his friends, those who keep opening the door for him time and time again to help him work toward some semblance of stability and safety.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Some versions of the story we remember today say the earth stood still the moment Jesus of Nazareth breathed his last.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>An attentiveness of the highest order to hold vigil with One who would choose death to show that there is no place Love will not go.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And so the earth stood still, centered on that hill of skulls, keeping watch over the broken, battered body of Jesus.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Angels keeping watch, standing between the demons and the lives they seek to devour.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I encounter both, every day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s ugly. Messy. Heart-breaking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We scrabble for any small sign of life, of hope, of a step forward.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It comes, often, in ways we cannot predict or anticipate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All those years ago on a cross studded with nails, soaked in blood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This morning, in J.P. pulling out his calendar and writing down an appointment to see a therapist. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i>“…let the whole world see and know that things which were cast down are being raised up, and things which had grown old are being made new, and that all things are being brought to their perfection by him through whom all things were made…”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>--Good Friday liturgy, <u>The Book of Common Prayer</u></i></div>Heather Dillashawhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06439058366850942892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9038236861834562415.post-64517097635045723422012-02-22T20:56:00.000-05:002012-02-22T20:56:54.483-05:00Marked<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">I went to church at noon today.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Left email unread and a list of things to do mostly still to do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was feeling pretty out of sorts, to be honest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tired, in the bone-deep way that only emotional and spiritual exhaustion bring.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have a good life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>An amazing life, even.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And – and, I have so much baggage that keeps following me around.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some of it can’t be classified as baggage, really, more just the real-life messiness of a divorce involving a shared child.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But some of it is simply baggage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Stuff that needs to be ground into dust, let go of, forgiven.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnIdHRipY8QtfW6Xz39f9T7-GPz3aOjqcwQFglKPCtZqOfUvQQ42_g2ThR2PN_Z9X0LNjfyLIS7vAVxmZWJv-LLcTeP5dYcf4BnTfTfAZqNZ7ZyU1Ngr_8u1qf2ypqYQh-2gjyMgT85YAK/s1600/ash-wednesday-drive-thru.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnIdHRipY8QtfW6Xz39f9T7-GPz3aOjqcwQFglKPCtZqOfUvQQ42_g2ThR2PN_Z9X0LNjfyLIS7vAVxmZWJv-LLcTeP5dYcf4BnTfTfAZqNZ7ZyU1Ngr_8u1qf2ypqYQh-2gjyMgT85YAK/s320/ash-wednesday-drive-thru.jpg" width="320" /></a> So I went to church, in the middle of the day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To be embraced by the liturgy, to acknowledge with others the depth of our need for repentance, to be reminded of our mortality, to be assured of our forgiveness for all that has been done and left undone that turned away from Life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I listened to ancient, prophetic words.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I heard the good news.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I took the torn bread and poured out cup into my own human brokenness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I got marked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Marked with the sign of the cross - smeared in black, oily ashes on my forehead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Somewhere, in the midst of the liturgy, the spoken word, the sung prayers, smeared crosses and broken bread, I became a little more whole.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Let go of a bit more baggage. </div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvSPkRmnuRw57d0o_fyEsMImj3pzBSwNoPfij2LfaBUKXZ1wF9FCslehZnT_-fjaIoF0zqvQpkzVyVJwTuq2bgMCXJP7mTnXnPJOqXxbMULE8Y_mLebVJQu4W-CrfIQbBGgpGjYCoP-R2E/s1600/DSCN0070+-+Version+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvSPkRmnuRw57d0o_fyEsMImj3pzBSwNoPfij2LfaBUKXZ1wF9FCslehZnT_-fjaIoF0zqvQpkzVyVJwTuq2bgMCXJP7mTnXnPJOqXxbMULE8Y_mLebVJQu4W-CrfIQbBGgpGjYCoP-R2E/s200/DSCN0070+-+Version+2.jpg" width="180" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">The cross on my forehead has nearly faded away now, 8 hours later.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sweat, distracted scratching, time…the ashes are barely noticeable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It reminds me some of what is happening with a tattoo on my back, a mark made 15 years ago now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That mark, over time, is also fading.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was – and is – a mark I’ve cherished, both at its most vibrant and now as it fades more and more into my body.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The ashes and that tattoo: both are symbols of the very core of who I am.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Identities that matter, yes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And identities that simply are solid and whole and me: claiming me from the inside out as one who loves, one who is forgiven, one who is marked for Life.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><i>“ Is not this the fast that I choose: to loose the bonds of injustice, to undo the thongs of the yoke, to let the oppressed go free, and to break every yoke? Is it not to share your bread with the hungry, and bring the homeless poor into your house; when you see the naked, to cover them, and not to hide yourself from your own kin?” –Isaiah 58:6-7</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">This season, these weeks of Lent, may I remember the core of why it is I choose to seek this fast.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Heather Dillashawhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06439058366850942892noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9038236861834562415.post-78803473977342442722012-02-09T11:34:00.000-05:002012-02-09T11:34:57.781-05:00The Other Side <style>
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<div class="MsoNormal"> I think Rev. King was right, that the arc of history does bend toward justice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It seems like a long time coming when we’re in the midst of it, but it does happen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There’s been all kinds of evidence of it just in my lifetime, these short 36 years I’ve been around.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just this week, even, significant strides towards marriage equality on the West Coast have happened in both California and Washington.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There will be wonderful celebrations of love as a result, wedding bells will ring for same-gender couples, toasts made to relationships that have been committed for decades and to brand-new ones as marriage licenses are issued with equal regard for citizens of those places.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is no small thing to have the weight of the law’s protection for your health care, your property, your children.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The other side of those celebrations of love is the painful reality of what happens when life doesn’t turn out the way you had hoped and dreamed it would.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I do not know anyone who gets married that plans to also get divorced. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe there are couples who go into it knowing there’s always an “out.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I haven’t met any of those folks, nor officiated at any wedding where there was less than a lifetime commitment made with every intention of going ‘til death do us part.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlWCbjPSeZM68-k4zemkQ5rrm5VQhiQjZAuT6JmrmEWbmiA2-esdJLQoiytA3zN8Igu2JbARikoELWli60YExPG84lymfMBh1VZr-YNCJhxyo2IAAAuoI0I2ZgGk4IBPxdzi2ycCbEHvUC/s1600/0209120925.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlWCbjPSeZM68-k4zemkQ5rrm5VQhiQjZAuT6JmrmEWbmiA2-esdJLQoiytA3zN8Igu2JbARikoELWli60YExPG84lymfMBh1VZr-YNCJhxyo2IAAAuoI0I2ZgGk4IBPxdzi2ycCbEHvUC/s320/0209120925.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The most painful experience of my life was the realization that the promises I had made with another were not going to be lived out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That all the therapy and hard work in the world was not going to make it possible for the two of us to continue to keep those promises.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are no words for the depth of heartbreak incurred in that process.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The family I had helped create, the configuration that had shaped my daily life and every future I could envision, fell apart - crumbling into pieces around us all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is a loss greater than any I have known.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is also no small thing to NOT have the weight of the law’s protection for health care, property, children.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I live in a state that does not recognize legal marriage for same-gender couples.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>North Carolina completely disregards the marriage license that exists with my name on it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was not allowed to have my name on the birth certificate for my daughter, nor even permitted to adopt this child I have loved and cared for since before she came into the world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No family court in our state recognizes that I am now, and have always been, her other parent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am fortunate that my daughter’s legal parent does see me as important, and that I do have regular contact with and care for my child.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are many other parents and children in similar situations to mine that do not have that option.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Everyone loses – parents lose children, and children lose parents.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is true that everyone loses in a divorce, regardless of legal rights or not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are also some preventable losses, protections afforded to heterosexual, legal marriages in North Carolina that were not granted to mine.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Much more can be said about marriage, and certainly there’s more to the story of my marriage and divorce than will fit into a blog post.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What I want every U.S. citizen to understand is that legal marriage matters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is about justice and equality in our country, for all of us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Do not feel sorry for me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>God’s imagination, thankfully, is far bigger than mine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have a blessed life, with an incredible daughter, and days full of all kinds of love and joy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Feel sad, as I do, that divorce became the only decision to make for me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then get angry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Angry at the injustice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Angry enough to tell your co-workers to vote against the amendment in May that would write inequality into our state’s constitution.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Angry enough to rally even a handful of people to call legislators, write letters, protest at your town square.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Care enough about children losing loving and caring parents to make sure we as a state move toward equality for all families.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>Heather Dillashawhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06439058366850942892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9038236861834562415.post-28198106620679262002012-01-06T08:45:00.000-05:002012-01-06T08:45:58.878-05:00Epiphany<div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS',sans-serif;">Three years ago I parked my car in a gravel lot on a cold winter morning, walked a short downtown block, and knocked loudly on a battered door. The door opened onto a narrow hallway lined with dilapidated chairs filled with men and women dressed in layers, backpacks at their feet, Styrofoam cups of steaming coffee in their hands. Dozens of others were coming in and out of bathrooms, carrying worn towels, small pieces of soap, tiny packets of shampoo, a clean and dry pair of socks. The phone was ringing, voices shouting out names for mail to be picked up, a ring of people at the front desk waiting to ask a question, find an answer, hands out for vitamins, cough drops, ibuprofen. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS',sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS',sans-serif;">It was not lost on me then, nor is it today, that it was Epiphany. The day of appearing, of revealing on the church calendar that over the years has also become my internal calendar: wise people traveling in search of one they believed could change things in their world, so long ago. For me, that day, that cold winter day in the very first days of 2009, I began a job I did not understand and was not even sure I wanted. It would be a “good experience,” I was sure. I believed wholly in the vision and mission of the agency, and knew it would serve me well as a stopping place, a transition place while I waited for the next pulpit to appear.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS',sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-lCXnAhnFrdo/TwZqVFPYuVI/AAAAAAAAAGc/MP0Y7TaL_m4/s1600/266604_128736460544820_100002254005625_229844_2977163_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS',sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="297" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-lCXnAhnFrdo/TwZqVFPYuVI/AAAAAAAAAGc/MP0Y7TaL_m4/s400/266604_128736460544820_100002254005625_229844_2977163_o.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div><div style="line-height: 12.0pt;"><i><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS',sans-serif;"> <span style="color: #333333;">If you could see<br />
the journey whole<br />
you might never<br />
undertake it;<br />
might never dare<br />
the first step<br />
that propels you<br />
from the place<br />
you have known<br />
toward the place<br />
you know not.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></i></div><div style="line-height: 12.0pt;"><i><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="color: #333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS',sans-serif;"><br />
</span></span></span></i></div><div style="line-height: 12pt;"><i><span style="color: #333333; font-size: 11pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS',sans-serif;">Call it<br />
one of the mercies<br />
of the road:<br />
that we see it<br />
only by stages<br />
as it opens<br />
before us,<br />
as it comes into<br />
our keeping<br />
step by<br />
single step… --Jan Richardson, from For Those Who Have Far to Travel: An Epiphany Blessing<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div><div style="line-height: 12pt;"><i><span style="color: #333333; font-size: 11pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS',sans-serif;"><br />
</span></span></i></div><div style="line-height: 12.0pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS',sans-serif;">Much has appeared in the last three years, even more has been revealed. I have seen Jesus, again and again, revealed in the lost and the least, appearing in the unending compassion of my co-workers day after day. It’s messy and hard and stunning and beautiful. That steady pulpit has not appeared, my robes and stoles and boxes of commentaries are packed away. Not one thing in my life looks the way I had believed and trusted it would when I first walked that downtown block and opened that battered door. If I could have seen the breadth of the journey of these last three years, I might have run the other way. Step by step, though, I have lived these three years in the only ways I knew how. Some days I get it right, at work and beyond. Other days I don’t. I’m not waiting for that steady pulpit anymore. I have found the sanctuary where I am supposed to be.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="line-height: 12.0pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS',sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="line-height: 12.0pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS',sans-serif;">I am overwhelmingly grateful. Grateful that I walked through that door three years ago, grateful that I still get to walk through that door each day, grateful for the Jesus who keeps appearing, again and again and again to me. In that building, through so many people, in a thousand ways.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="line-height: 12.0pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS',sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="line-height: 12.0pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS',sans-serif;">It’s Epiphany. Light comes.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Calibri,sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>Heather Dillashawhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06439058366850942892noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9038236861834562415.post-14799617602328838172011-11-20T07:40:00.000-05:002011-11-20T07:40:13.869-05:00Playing for Keeps<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhIcN2GRn8bRY-JYlQtbCAPFScyrydf8OTOwhyoGxSJPx4JCe4FRLK9iVjzu2J6vKlR0-FqOHQ4PPo21vLGNhZKyqTro7cxQGxfc1-Goir6R7E3ibq8lDNrafYcGm93DFajxYO55RztH2S/s1600/DSC01492.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhIcN2GRn8bRY-JYlQtbCAPFScyrydf8OTOwhyoGxSJPx4JCe4FRLK9iVjzu2J6vKlR0-FqOHQ4PPo21vLGNhZKyqTro7cxQGxfc1-Goir6R7E3ibq8lDNrafYcGm93DFajxYO55RztH2S/s320/DSC01492.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Running through my neighborhood is a study in contrasts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s where you’ll find some of the priciest homes in Asheville.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Half a mile from my small 2-room apartment is a public housing complex.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Across the street from the house I live in – a house that is now 4 small apartments – are two bed and breakfasts, one on each corner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(makes it easy to find my house, direction-wise)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One of them has rooms that go for up to $700/night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not kidding.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are houses beautifully restored and/or renovated to show their former glory.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sagging porches and peeling window frames exist a mere block away from the star of the parade of homes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“…as you get older, you begin to find things that are worth holding onto, forever.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All of sudden you’re playing for keeps, as children say, and it changes the very fabric of you.” (T. French, from <u>The Likeness</u>)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">As I navigated brick sidewalks, parents pushing strollers and tackled the hills of the cemetery in the neighborhood yesterday afternoon, I found myself thinking about just what it is that is worth holding onto forever.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For this diverse neighborhood I live in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For my tiny life that exists in such a vast universe of beauty and need.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are some obvious things for me, of course.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ll keep holding onto the firm belief that the gaps that are evident in this wonderful place I get to live can be closed, bit by bit – that it’s possible for our community to take better care of one another.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ll continue to work toward that reality I know can happen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In some ways, that’s the easy part for me, professionally anyway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m lucky enough to get to work toward that through my job everyday.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">But as the insanity of the cultural “holiday” season ramps up, and the first world scrambles to buy itself happiness, I realize that we really are playing for keeps on a soul level.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For the soul of our communities, our neighborhoods, our families.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My daughter has piles and piles and piles of toys.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most of them are what I would term “good” ones – creative, learning-focused, etc.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And she doesn’t need 80% of what she has.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have piles and piles of stuff, too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s probably not too far off the mark to say that I don’t need 80% of what I have either.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Time for me to tread more lightly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To give more, and get less.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">For the soul of my community.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For the soul of my neighborhood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For my daughter’s soul.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For mine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We’re playing for keeps.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nothing we can buy is going to get us there, to that world where bridges are built and crossed, differences honored and celebrated.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s that world I want for Abigail, it’s that world I want her to help create.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No Black Friday deal will make it happen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">But what we share just might.</div>Heather Dillashawhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06439058366850942892noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9038236861834562415.post-13512025519561046182011-10-30T20:45:00.000-04:002011-10-30T20:45:39.092-04:00Beyond the Gate<style>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZybESNHSDQCoBIvTb0b19DrWpuvQUSJa0CMULwXM-Dl_tyXu6pgUJSwTgwpGPcWAe97pYTdaQRaLG8AISSvSebwSvEdzkZDhX0086gObHr3_YDUUJ1O_uNZg7716yskrVdscLrutILW5R/s1600/DSCN0129.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZybESNHSDQCoBIvTb0b19DrWpuvQUSJa0CMULwXM-Dl_tyXu6pgUJSwTgwpGPcWAe97pYTdaQRaLG8AISSvSebwSvEdzkZDhX0086gObHr3_YDUUJ1O_uNZg7716yskrVdscLrutILW5R/s320/DSCN0129.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><h6><span class="messagebodytranslationeligibleusermessage"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">"Why must the gate be narrow? / Because you cannot pass beyond it burdened. / To come in among these trees you must leave behind / the six days' world, all of it, all of its plans and hopes. / You must come without weapon or tool, alone, / expecting nothing, remembering nothing, / into the ease of sight, the brotherhood of eye and leaf." --Wendell Berry, from <i><u>A Timbered Choir</u></i></span></span><span class="messagebodytranslationeligibleusermessage"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"></span></span></h6><h6><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;">Berry is talking about Sabbath – true Sabbath.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A concept I don’t know that I’ve ever managed to wholly understand or experience.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There have been moments, days, that I’ve had glimpses.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Overall, though, I resist it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Struggle to stay still even for the length of a movie because I think I should be ‘doing’ something.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I haven’t done much research about Sabbath, though many of my clergy friends have.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Seems to me that it’s about balance, the ever-elusive carrot I have been sprinting after for most of my life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There have been brief periods of time where I have come closer than others to some balance, some measure of rest, play and work that was healthy and good.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But those periods are the exception.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></h6><h6><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3YPyKniIfnVUgIR-w7aJBxNXq2P4EefAXeBrx3mH3_b0NGGGxVjMymagt6yDACYT0ppE9gOe5nceMOtuVFtB0iaDT6WX6dT4JCxckHGBHA-m46vNaCr0cfolpf6bdMOFrAAf8TYTSI9mB/s1600/DSCN0164.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3YPyKniIfnVUgIR-w7aJBxNXq2P4EefAXeBrx3mH3_b0NGGGxVjMymagt6yDACYT0ppE9gOe5nceMOtuVFtB0iaDT6WX6dT4JCxckHGBHA-m46vNaCr0cfolpf6bdMOFrAAf8TYTSI9mB/s320/DSCN0164.JPG" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;">I know I am doing the work I was made to do, the work I am continually being created to do with increased insight and skill as I stumble my way through it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I also know that I am meant to be Abigail’s Mama, even if it must be in a far more limited capacity than I had hoped and dreamed it would be.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am a loyal and loving friend to some of the most remarkable people I could imagine knowing (though I could do with at least a couple of my many-years-friends being in ‘let’s have dinner range’ – the consequence of pursuing the next best thing for my entire adult life, never staying anywhere longer than 4 years).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And now I’m an aunt to beautiful little Zoe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s an incredible life, wonder-filled beyond anything I could have ever scripted in all the years I spent wanting to be someone, anyone else.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the last couple of years it’s been a gift to discover that I no longer want to be anyone else, that I haven’t for a long time, and that I actually like me, just the way I am.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></h6><h6><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;">Which is not to say that I no longer have any issues.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Quite the opposite.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The difference may be that I’m aware of most them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Aware enough to know, anyway, that there are probably more.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I want to learn how to get beyond the gate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To let go of whatever burdens I may be carrying so I can become even more myself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I suspect if I can learn to do that, even a little at a time, that I will see more fully than I do now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The world will be even more remarkable, more painful, more beautiful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know the world can be different than it is, that this little corner of the world I live in can be different – more whole and holy for every person who lives here, housed or not, sober or not, mentally well or not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But it also means the non-profit world, the advocacy world must also shift.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Shift to a place where we do not run ourselves into the ground before we can finish the job.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We’re really good at what we do, we’re smart, we’re compassionate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And we’re human, we need space to play, to rest and to work.</span></h6><h6><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, I think I might stay put for awhile.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Put down my own roots in these mountains, mingling with the old and tenacious blood of my ancestors.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Search – and find – a new and healthier way to do advocacy work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Have some fun. Try and change the world a little.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Find the path that passes through the narrow gate.</span></h6>Heather Dillashawhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06439058366850942892noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9038236861834562415.post-51981823119089346912011-10-26T18:35:00.000-04:002011-10-26T18:35:36.675-04:00Nickels, Dimes and Social Change<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP0yiPQj1J3p1hgux8xvwmJcN4LZLRPetQ5B4dXPmpgO_TGiwBx5_r6g7MAHl9V1SAfnZKNEnKzIN8bbcTYbGhRjblgrsfGG49r3pLnZ8l4aGKs7EB4Xo1qHRuQv7WOw02lA9WotCTgEiP/s1600/View+from+Sam%2527s+Knob.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP0yiPQj1J3p1hgux8xvwmJcN4LZLRPetQ5B4dXPmpgO_TGiwBx5_r6g7MAHl9V1SAfnZKNEnKzIN8bbcTYbGhRjblgrsfGG49r3pLnZ8l4aGKs7EB4Xo1qHRuQv7WOw02lA9WotCTgEiP/s320/View+from+Sam%2527s+Knob.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">I spent part of my evening last night sitting in the overflow room used for Asheville City Council meetings when the chambers fill up.<span> </span>The meeting is projected onto a screen, just like watching live TV.<span> </span>Truth be told, I mostly wanted to be elsewhere.<span> </span>I was tired.<span> </span>Kind of hungry.<span> </span>Bored with the minutiae of how leaf collection happens in the city.<span> </span>I also know how important it is to show up when something’s at stake, and enjoy the ‘showing up’ part of my job.<span> </span>So I sat there, learning about the budget, equipment and personnel it takes to collect leaves every fall.<span> </span>I was glad I had a smart phone (though wishing for the 100<sup>th</sup> time I had downloaded a game onto it – Facebook doesn’t generally entertain me for every long) and waited for a seat to open up in the Council chambers so I could be on hand to speak to the agenda item I showed up for.<span> </span>Item: “What to do with Occupy Asheville.” (okay, that’s my language, not the official agenda line item)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Like many communities, we have folks connected to the Occupy movement.<span> </span>I’ve been interested in reading and watching how this has played out all over the country, heartened by diverse groups of people talking to each other and speaking out against systems that divide and oppress and take away from those who have little or nothing already.<span> </span>I have to also admit that I’ve been cynical.<span> </span>Thought and intention behind action is vital for me.<span> </span>Memorable moments in my life are those that include conversation with loved ones and strangers about justice, philosophy, politics, theology – I was a preacher, after all, so I can talk all day and into the wee morning hours without hesitation.<span> </span>At the same time, when it comes to needed social change, I want to get to the solution, and get it done. <span> </span>The Occupy movement is a struggle for me, as I have not found enough direction to satisfy my need for focus and a plan of action.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Once we finally made it to the long-awaited agenda item, there were lots of comments from those who identified with the Occupy Asheville movement.<span> </span>It seemed to me that every one of those speeches and statements was based in a “my way or the highway” mentality.<span> </span>Either you allow us to camp somewhere 24/7 or you don’t support us.<span> </span>There were a few comments from individual members of the community and a group representing some independent businesses calling the whole movement irresponsible and ridiculous.<span> </span>Again, “my way or the highway.”<span> </span>A chasm that neither side was willing to bridge.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Our radical individualism is killing us.<span> </span>Our radical liberalism, conservatism – it’s all killing us.<span> </span>Separating us, dividing us into right camps and left camps, leaving no room for the mess and beauty of what humanity actually is.<span> </span>Diversity is not at all about everyone agreeing with one another.<span> </span>Living in true community means diversity is accepted and respected, that disagreement is okay.<span> </span>Even when it pisses you off.<span> </span>Maybe especially then.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I will work for the social change I believe in for the rest of my days.<span> </span>I need lots of nickels and dimes for it to happen - from government and from those of us responsible for electing that government.<span> </span>What I need just as much is to find the common ground with those who live here with me, however far their belief and action may be from mine.<span> </span>Does everyone sitting on City Council agree with me that housing is a right and not a reward?<span> </span>Probably not.<span> </span>Do we all want people off the street?<span> </span>Absolutely.<span> </span>And that’s where we started.<span> </span>Asheville-Buncombe’s 10-Year Plan to End Homelessness got off the ground in 2005.<span> </span>From that beginning – with the leadership, help and partnership of countless individuals, groups and agencies -- chronic homelessness has decreased by 75% in our community.<span> </span>It’s messy, hard work.<span> </span>I want everyone around the table to believe housing is a right.<span> </span>They don’t.<span> </span>But we’re working together in all the mess.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF6Rh-zJ-_OF57pTfdVllESE7k_JaNPE2dbXotr6_Sx6TY7gKA6RJ42TIXYQ5k26cOBtyrEJWqH9lUkFVQDmPGsuE0bmtZgoNg0Y-U_k5_w_1IMFe3e8TUJWgweeLWBGiPiSfotQOpW6WN/s1600/Keys.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF6Rh-zJ-_OF57pTfdVllESE7k_JaNPE2dbXotr6_Sx6TY7gKA6RJ42TIXYQ5k26cOBtyrEJWqH9lUkFVQDmPGsuE0bmtZgoNg0Y-U_k5_w_1IMFe3e8TUJWgweeLWBGiPiSfotQOpW6WN/s320/Keys.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">That number – a 75% reduction in chronic homelessness – represents a move away from radical individualism and a move toward community. Hundreds of faces crowd into that number.<span> </span>It’s a number that means lasting social change is possible. <span> </span>And happening, right here in Asheville and Buncombe County.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Heather Dillashawhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06439058366850942892noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9038236861834562415.post-67434542384704831962011-10-05T10:35:00.001-04:002011-10-05T13:41:37.469-04:00The Beauty of all the Mess<style>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBalMLJ0vsnIMKZSW15HmuIYOSgrF0TJK7iCr5di2g5Awk0ovqlH6QWUuziUY6D73_cexS2fDEGqvdOo-OUhtVlcdwzqrv9M33EGC4UmnDgundYGYSpextFfgZ8Jo2yIKVwDhgCn7UsIWx/s1600/view+from+Pisgah.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBalMLJ0vsnIMKZSW15HmuIYOSgrF0TJK7iCr5di2g5Awk0ovqlH6QWUuziUY6D73_cexS2fDEGqvdOo-OUhtVlcdwzqrv9M33EGC4UmnDgundYGYSpextFfgZ8Jo2yIKVwDhgCn7UsIWx/s320/view+from+Pisgah.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View from Mt. Pisgah</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">It’s fall, my favorite time of the year. Temperature, the shift to crispness in the air, leaves doing their magical color-changing that leads to an explosion of color in the mountains I get to look at everyday. Perfect weather for weekend hiking, playing outside with my 3-year-old, satisfying jogs through the neighborhood. Early morning walks to work give me the first glimpses of a pink-orange sky becoming visible just above the Blue Ridge. I am beyond fortunate to wake up, every morning, into the stunning beauty of this place.</div><div class="MsoNormal"> I walk into work, embraced by the sunrise, and enter a world that does not notice the sunrise for the same reasons I do. As I weave my way through the men and women huddled together for warmth on the porch, I realize they wait for the sunrise not because of its beauty, but for its signal of the temperature rising. The cool, brisk evenings that bring me such joy mean a need for more blankets and sleeping bags in the campsites many of these folks sleep in at night. Holding together beauty and brokenness, in the same place, in one moment makes it difficult to open the door.</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-q2C2yftWvg_bzVBgLwfZVyy_rmEFuAYjH-pfpSxvaEaSQtqOKVIVj9TcCgP7ROnfisgXw4Yb0YSMpq2hwY2LJu0fqUQwK5PCF9XSO2AAtNK0wgXcfmlndrgoc78zmr1xuhTWy0hQnefW/s1600/DSCN0088.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-q2C2yftWvg_bzVBgLwfZVyy_rmEFuAYjH-pfpSxvaEaSQtqOKVIVj9TcCgP7ROnfisgXw4Yb0YSMpq2hwY2LJu0fqUQwK5PCF9XSO2AAtNK0wgXcfmlndrgoc78zmr1xuhTWy0hQnefW/s320/DSCN0088.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A HOPE Day Center front steps</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"> There’s a lot going on. In my life. At work. Around the world. My patience with systems that create and then perpetuate the brokenness I walk through everyday is gone, if I ever had any to begin with. I watch my daughter get showered with gifts for her 3<sup>rd</sup> birthday, am happy she is loved and adored by so many. And I watch her pile of stuff grow, things she doesn’t need and would not miss if they were not there. An abundance of toys and clothes for one small child. My toys look a little different, but I have an abundance of them all the same. Clothes, too.</div><div class="MsoNormal"> I get up every morning, to give what I can to the task of moving this little corner of the world to a different place, most of the time hopeful that it’s possible. And, most days, making more mistakes than not. I’ve got a lot to learn about integrating my own life in a way that moves me closer to the folks I see everyday, and not farther away. It’s all messier than I could have imagined as I drove across the country to land in Asheville in the summer of 2008. Nothing in my life looks like I expected it to. Brokenness and healing. Despair and beauty. All in one moment. </div><div class="MsoNormal"> Above and through it all, so much gratitude for the life I get to experience everyday.</div><div class="MsoNormal"> </div>Heather Dillashawhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06439058366850942892noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9038236861834562415.post-80458383269165988922011-07-21T20:38:00.000-04:002011-07-21T20:38:10.955-04:00Death and Resurrection<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOtHkwJS3WmgaZ32NWYVqKr4V4H62z4OOrw4LqqbrXgxcj5Dt4jCarglK8E406_V5dTVozMqTy6N25DDHIc4ChhX3sm-pLzTPbBy5Ih662TZ9kAFKpGABRq31WxSwXqyOiXxGDnnbTbTiq/s1600/DSC01465.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOtHkwJS3WmgaZ32NWYVqKr4V4H62z4OOrw4LqqbrXgxcj5Dt4jCarglK8E406_V5dTVozMqTy6N25DDHIc4ChhX3sm-pLzTPbBy5Ih662TZ9kAFKpGABRq31WxSwXqyOiXxGDnnbTbTiq/s320/DSC01465.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>I'm often far enough removed from the chaos of operations in the day shelter where I spend lots of hours each week that I am largely protected from the brokenness that walks through the door each day. I face it at a distance most of the time, with only a couple of days a week consumed with the daily details. The incredible staff I work with, however, stand face to face with that brokenness for 40 hours, each one of them, every week. Some days are better than others. <br />
Today, on my way to yet another meeting, I called my assistant director to check-in, to see how the morning was going. I could tell she was stressed, and had had better days. And part of the reason, I discovered, was grief. Raw and painful sorrow, laced with frustration. Word had come that a woman we'd all known well, for quite some time, had died the day before. She'd been in and out of the shelter system, lived outside, camped in places not meant for human habitation, struggled with physical and mental disabilities, addictions. It seemed to many of us that her most destructive addiction was to her husband, in a vicious and demeaning cycle of long-term domestic violence. With all of that, we'd also managed to help her (with her husband) finally get off the street and into an apartment. And then, today, word comes that just a year later - only a year after decades of no permanent housing - she's gone. Rumors abound, of course, about how she died. Reality is, it doesn't matter. Death is death.<br />
<br />
This afternoon, wading through emails and phone messages, trying to catch up or at least hold my head above water in the midst of pages of to-do lists, I hear a car pull up in the driveway that's just below my window. I pause to take a look, more out of wanting to stall or procrastinate that to-do list than out of any real curiosity. But the tall, white man with a little bit of extra weight on him looks familiar. I look again. No, he's too heavy to be J. J. is tall and white, but thin due to too many years of drug abuse. And he doesn't have a car. A few minutes later, there's a knock on the staff entrance door. I look up from my computer screen. It is J. And he's grinning from ear to ear. He looks healthy and well. He looks happy. He looks free. I tell him how great he looks, he gives me a big hug. I ask him what he's up to. He's come to volunteer his time, to help our director of community engagement with a big mailing she's doing. "Time for me to give to you," J. says.<br />
<br />
One day. A few short hours. From death to resurrection. Heather Dillashawhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06439058366850942892noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9038236861834562415.post-67287875439256746612011-04-23T20:03:00.000-04:002011-04-23T20:03:23.755-04:00Holy Saturday<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0rtt2KHmtxGu7FMAS1_2ZXlpG2QdnkNKLIbEB6CFFNF84LaMKb1GiobliuU6o9SWGaO-YerP9lq8beqx_NSMGNibYxkGIBQCSeLiig_7KDiGaCmO3qTHWHNuzwNTGH3kAItOGvZ995590/s1600/2011-01-03+08.12.05.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0rtt2KHmtxGu7FMAS1_2ZXlpG2QdnkNKLIbEB6CFFNF84LaMKb1GiobliuU6o9SWGaO-YerP9lq8beqx_NSMGNibYxkGIBQCSeLiig_7KDiGaCmO3qTHWHNuzwNTGH3kAItOGvZ995590/s200/2011-01-03+08.12.05.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>It is this day that is the hardest<br />
in a week called Holy.<br />
Not the intimacy of baring feet<br />
or breaking bread<br />
Nor even the stunning violence of the<br />
hill of skulls, the bloody ground beneath too many crosses.<br />
<br />
This is the hardest, this in-between day.<br />
Feet are clean<br />
Bread has been shared and eaten<br />
The cries of battered, broken bodies are<br />
stilled.<br />
<br />
This Vigil. This Holy Waiting --<br />
this is hardest, if we remember.<br />
If we remember that we do not know what<br />
resurrection will bring.<br />
The One we wait for will not be what we expect.<br />
Not then.<br />
Not now.<br />
<br />
Waiting for resurrection is harder<br />
than remembering death.Heather Dillashawhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06439058366850942892noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9038236861834562415.post-22295802002011997342010-10-19T20:09:00.002-04:002010-10-19T20:29:30.233-04:00A Walk in the Woods<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBYEb9u6vAi-lnqArAUtkQPCFNO_ZkEUZ6c8gJB9Ff0f14krScz5DtNAbt5BthtRSgHohwvFYxypeHuAjmpIbi7VqN8PmCC34fxMp8e2a_LbDpWs9AbsXPXIETmr81If8kouvbSQnd9zon/s320/IMG_2583.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="320" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fall in the Blue Ridge</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBYEb9u6vAi-lnqArAUtkQPCFNO_ZkEUZ6c8gJB9Ff0f14krScz5DtNAbt5BthtRSgHohwvFYxypeHuAjmpIbi7VqN8PmCC34fxMp8e2a_LbDpWs9AbsXPXIETmr81If8kouvbSQnd9zon/s1600/IMG_2583.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjANWU4z_vozRWz52PzC7TE-s_irvYBB7GsOcOqEfWG2JLgSmhithg3XPCPByjcq6ku3OWoYE8SslQI4c8CZ7ik5jtdmJhPWoOW7tO69LwGioXFPEA0ct1Xkfe6RGsDuvx-rqanrNvbcgU-/s320/IMG_2588.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="320" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Colors, colors, colors</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjANWU4z_vozRWz52PzC7TE-s_irvYBB7GsOcOqEfWG2JLgSmhithg3XPCPByjcq6ku3OWoYE8SslQI4c8CZ7ik5jtdmJhPWoOW7tO69LwGioXFPEA0ct1Xkfe6RGsDuvx-rqanrNvbcgU-/s1600/IMG_2588.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX6H0YNwH3tIRe5lPbYOh5yA36pw_7Oke-22mELVmPmTV6TUHzOhmVJABHaLo11f-d6hdlci5fh26iln4JkpUTWLQbUltUu8zQYLBGHYmmezvQ34PDJ7X-3JXnKKGIJWumuXv50tz0orBV/s320/IMG_2592.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="320" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hiking on her own two feet</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX6H0YNwH3tIRe5lPbYOh5yA36pw_7Oke-22mELVmPmTV6TUHzOhmVJABHaLo11f-d6hdlci5fh26iln4JkpUTWLQbUltUu8zQYLBGHYmmezvQ34PDJ7X-3JXnKKGIJWumuXv50tz0orBV/s1600/IMG_2592.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a></div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipDADBYNRbwCpKH4O0IV1otOOAiqN5AJ9FBdGiUjZ3TQ2hOT-YAYv5mU9fNxg5y09JTzpQMvIj_LOLXMYBG-3qYfuiqkHjev_NjWOHRA9V4arKcnDgE9jAaCdzcm_mvkd9y30o91pf9N39/s320/IMG_2597.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="320" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">LOVES the woods</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipDADBYNRbwCpKH4O0IV1otOOAiqN5AJ9FBdGiUjZ3TQ2hOT-YAYv5mU9fNxg5y09JTzpQMvIj_LOLXMYBG-3qYfuiqkHjev_NjWOHRA9V4arKcnDgE9jAaCdzcm_mvkd9y30o91pf9N39/s1600/IMG_2597.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWdDqZirGwzETpLJhItkReHPX6-qzvP1zcFeR7Kz8lulwmohmnbrLlDxudYYuY4SNuVpNfz6BcSVMC7XdovjN5znt6mzfigyaETRGeLNXkA2P9mkE8vXVpu0YM726cKH31zGksQiDtTgVO/s320/IMG_2601.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="320" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A perfect moment</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWdDqZirGwzETpLJhItkReHPX6-qzvP1zcFeR7Kz8lulwmohmnbrLlDxudYYuY4SNuVpNfz6BcSVMC7XdovjN5znt6mzfigyaETRGeLNXkA2P9mkE8vXVpu0YM726cKH31zGksQiDtTgVO/s1600/IMG_2601.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAlRz4vHKyh20O7Mux5MTRXUWWDSh1a8-kxFhbQqCHa6pZlrRBkRmAoq-e_MCzp0OiVMlvQ0yM8NgyQXjuuIsxE1VCfSHbT8zqUyHcViJ-JoERb08jRK2jv4QNWTvoE3t1bCa_zr-IJf89/s320/IMG_2603.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="320" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Concentrating</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAlRz4vHKyh20O7Mux5MTRXUWWDSh1a8-kxFhbQqCHa6pZlrRBkRmAoq-e_MCzp0OiVMlvQ0yM8NgyQXjuuIsxE1VCfSHbT8zqUyHcViJ-JoERb08jRK2jv4QNWTvoE3t1bCa_zr-IJf89/s1600/IMG_2603.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLQbZfCBWIK-5P3M79dk3eDVUhUxhFHDTkvODzew-Ppq3DIGxVbkmeJnwQojwRmWPebRm8T3J9DcZgHioz2CSQ_fWpilbXkj-0FI0t3Lo1HFvl-WYUFaoZOc2zcTS2GvlKnOI_PbG2BHp6/s320/IMG_2594.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="320" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Running up Mt. Pisgah, embracing the woods - and the world - with joy</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLQbZfCBWIK-5P3M79dk3eDVUhUxhFHDTkvODzew-Ppq3DIGxVbkmeJnwQojwRmWPebRm8T3J9DcZgHioz2CSQ_fWpilbXkj-0FI0t3Lo1HFvl-WYUFaoZOc2zcTS2GvlKnOI_PbG2BHp6/s1600/IMG_2594.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZETT7tJjoMWTtmA3xGEvQfPFZnxamdxZZrp2IXo1lSJGK8r0b1QWjWsOgZKSNKCOWYZ4gfQundnxKGR3LRznp_tpPBLeeEeqeD4yYVgOdQsTZnsOvjmZ_nmFYYdipult3VOF4byKeDAhI/s1600/IMG_2594.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Some days, gratitude wins. Not nearly as often as it should, but sometimes, thanksgiving wins the the day. Like on a day I get to go on a walk in the beautiful Blue Ridge that surround us, with the two remarkable girls who are - always - the very best part of each of my days.</div>Heather Dillashawhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06439058366850942892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9038236861834562415.post-31666328771987489022010-10-13T04:48:00.000-04:002010-10-13T04:48:35.304-04:00Keeping WatchI'm spending the night in a church building, for the first time in a long time. Having a hard time remembering exactly when the last time was, to be honest. Likely, it was a youth lock-in in Santa Cruz -- and even then, I suspect I didn't stay all night, but 'let' the wonderful youth leaders do so and joined them again for breakfast after sleeping in my own bed for a few hours.<br />
<br />
This time, it's different. This time, I'm awake - intentionally - for my share of the night. We're hosting a mobile women's shelter this week at our church, a shelter called Room in the Inn that operates in Asheville every night of the year. It happens to also be a program of the agency I work for (<a href="http://www.hbofa.org">www.hbofa.org</a>). So I have some insider knowledge in some ways. The women who are sleeping the rooms off the hallway where I am keeping watch are women I know, at least a little. I see them most days when I go to work, I know a little of their stories, of the circumstances that have led them to need an emergency shelter bed. I'm not here, though, because I supervise the program they're in. I'm here because this is my church. I'm here because it's necessary to put my feet where my words so often go. I talk with faith communities all over town about how we all must engage with our entire community, including those experiencing homelessness. And, so, tonight I am here in my church building, keeping watch.<br />
<br />
It's not a particularly exciting position, sitting here in the hallway with bad lighting, finding ways to keep myself awake that don't involve a crying child or other reasons I'm accustomed to having for being alert from 1:00 a.m. onward. I'm reminded that I still want God to appear to me in spectacular ways, to make it all loud and clear - everyday - just which steps I should be taking to find Jesus in the shape of my days. And, truth to be told, I do get some pretty spectacular opportunities in the forms of my loving spouse, in our precocious and beautiful daughter, in the surrounding mountains and trees being touched with fall colors, in the faces of friends, in the support of gifted co-workers...the list is long, when I take time to think about it. I simply don't often take time to keep watch for all the ways the Holy pervades even the most mundane parts of my day.<br />
<br />
This week has turned out to be a more-than-full one, as most do. Balance among work and family life and personal time struggles to find its place. Leaving my girls to come to this hallway post was hard, and I didn't want to do it. But these very early morning hours have reminded me that this overnight task is actually all about that balance. Keeping watch here reminds me why I'm called, in this moment in time, to the work I'm given to do each day through Homeward Bound. Keeping watch here is about my family life, and the community we want Abby to know, to value, to work for - a community where we take care of one another, in all circumstances. Keeping watch is about the quiet and personal time I crave to discover God's presence over and over. <br />
<br />
It's just before 5 a.m. Soon the night sounds will turn to early morning waking noises. I'm turning off the computer, putting down my coffee cup, and giving thanks. Thanksgiving for the night, for the quiet, for the strength of spirit permeating the walls where these remarkable women sleep, for the holy that is in it all.Heather Dillashawhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06439058366850942892noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9038236861834562415.post-54917683196807933232010-09-29T21:13:00.000-04:002010-09-29T21:13:30.786-04:00To Our Two-Year-Old<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYJYv4v8hPupXOH5sadq-wXwUlIE9EQXgxKZGHsBmHL-H003eNR3P-HuaajrJostsbgzkq2BVczWCS-C3-gW6Mq9cYcviMtrADT0kLTI0ptIVrx56RM5E5YxS34-Gg4q2tVkizPAPFfU8L/s1600/IMG_2460.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYJYv4v8hPupXOH5sadq-wXwUlIE9EQXgxKZGHsBmHL-H003eNR3P-HuaajrJostsbgzkq2BVczWCS-C3-gW6Mq9cYcviMtrADT0kLTI0ptIVrx56RM5E5YxS34-Gg4q2tVkizPAPFfU8L/s320/IMG_2460.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><meta content="" name="Title"></meta> <meta content="" name="Keywords"></meta> <meta content="text/html; charset=utf-8" http-equiv="Content-Type"></meta> <meta content="Word.Document" name="ProgId"></meta> <meta content="Microsoft Word 11" name="Generator"></meta> <meta content="Microsoft Word 11" name="Originator"></meta> <link href="file://localhost/Users/Heather/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip1/01/clip_filelist.xml" rel="File-List"></link> <style>
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<div class="MsoNormal">Dear Abigail,</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">You’re sleeping right now, in your room, on the floor – because you refuse to get back in your bed these days after we will not let you keep running out of your room after bedtime. So, you’re sleeping right up against your door. I can see your blanket peeking out in the crack of space between the door and floor, as well as tiny glimpses of the stuffed animals and ‘babies’ who always accompany you during the night. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Two years ago on this day, I was still waiting to meet you. You were being pretty stubborn about coming out into the big, wide world, and had made yourself nice and comfortable in your Mommy’s womb. We were ready for you to hurry it up – Mommy especially was more than ready for you show yourself to us. And, finally, at 4:55 a.m. on September 30, 2008, you did. My life has never been the same; from the moment I saw your immediately inquisitive and beautiful blue eyes.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>You’re officially two years old tomorrow, a fact I almost can’t believe. You are both so grown-up and so very young – sometimes in the very same moment. Your vocabulary increases daily, as does your independence and your tendency to push every boundary you find. Watching you discover the world is like discovering the world all over again for me too, through your amazing eyes, your open-wide heart and your incredibly adventurous spirit.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">You remind me, every day, to open my eyes in a new way every time I walk out the door. You show me, every day, that my heart closes too quickly, that I judge too harshly, that loving our neighbors (literally and figuratively) is not as hard as I’ve convinced myself that it is. You push me, every day, to let go of my self-doubt, my insecurities and the demons that plague me to welcome the world and all of its chaos, to embrace myself and all God continues to create me to be.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’ll admit that there are moments when I wonder why we thought we could be parents. Particularly when you decide not to sleep – which was true mostly when you were a baby, and refused to nap at all and still woke up every 3 hours all night long to be fed. I’m not so good at losing sleep, turns out. Your mommy is better at adjusting to that than I am. I wouldn’t trade those moments, though, even the middle-of-the-night moments trying to get you back to sleep while wondering if you were going to permanently damage my hearing. You were then – and are now – worth every difficult moment, every 5 a.m. morning I don’t want to get up. Because as soon as I see you, as soon as you look at me, lift your arms to me and lay your head on my shoulder, I remember how much I love you. And I remember that the gift of loving you is a part of what saves my life everyday.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">You make me a better person, the love I have for you creates new life in me all the time – new life that, in turn, helps me do the work God asks me to do. New life that teaches me compassion and patience; new life that demands me to not be content with the world the way it is; new life that gives me what I need to stumble toward Jesus, to find Christ’s dwelling places here in this time and place.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Your Mommy says that your laugh, all by itself, could really go a long way in bringing about world peace. She’s right about that (she’s right about a whole lot – almost all the time, but don’t tell her I said that). You are so much like her, more like her everyday, seems like. And I marvel at the blessedness of my life – that I go to sleep each night with a person as incredible as your Mommy, and a beautiful daughter, inside and out, just down the hall. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Thank you, Abby, for the honor and gift of being your Mama. It’s been an incredible two years, and I look forward to the many ahead of us with all kinds of joy. Happy 2<sup>nd</sup> Birthday, Abigail. I love you, and am grateful beyond words to call you my daughter.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFzJ4L0jyxzASn4aorpf0Ffp0kZoDYTpOWvBEtubS0RjT0o3T4uGNNMoFLBm0m_QjHiFy19YME2PSCiIrX0IApywZzOMGxG7o5rOn3nzb__xGhpvVoDoddsfBCzWSSRhsDPyIGpg6Ud9Ax/s1600/IMG_2494.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFzJ4L0jyxzASn4aorpf0Ffp0kZoDYTpOWvBEtubS0RjT0o3T4uGNNMoFLBm0m_QjHiFy19YME2PSCiIrX0IApywZzOMGxG7o5rOn3nzb__xGhpvVoDoddsfBCzWSSRhsDPyIGpg6Ud9Ax/s320/IMG_2494.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"> Love,</div><div class="MsoNormal"> Mama</div>Heather Dillashawhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06439058366850942892noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9038236861834562415.post-67302402040552747852010-07-30T21:07:00.000-04:002010-07-30T21:07:42.648-04:00Slow Time<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpa9xh_U_GLUUdTMzkI5RPAYFmBVxeA0aTX9essOaBrG8s7QeZhWrZ3MkX0A1_ap9PPMhj3uYCwyWA49lf0l1lr6a_cae-jfZRJywrZCFTjx-j8f-6A6dYUQmlBoGoDjXAhl3FcwwcRjfM/s1600/IMG_2393.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpa9xh_U_GLUUdTMzkI5RPAYFmBVxeA0aTX9essOaBrG8s7QeZhWrZ3MkX0A1_ap9PPMhj3uYCwyWA49lf0l1lr6a_cae-jfZRJywrZCFTjx-j8f-6A6dYUQmlBoGoDjXAhl3FcwwcRjfM/s320/IMG_2393.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My girls w/ first fruits from the garden</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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It's been an upside-down summer, a summer that has not gone at all as I had planned, as we had planned as a family. Lots to be grateful for, particularly for health and health insurance. I started trying, a few weeks ago, to be intentional everyday about the gratitude piece of all of this - because it's really easy for me to get stuck in the frustration, the plans gone awry, the maddening pace of recovery from major abdominal surgery, the inability to parent Abby in the ways I need to (did I mention she hurt her foot last week making it impossible for her to be very mobile, thereby doubling my uselessness and Shannon's way-over-loaded household of people to have to take care of?). <br />
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Today, on my morning walk - the only exercise I'm allowed, but exercise I'm encouraged to do and so have been doing religiously - I realized that I'm beginning to see the value of the slow time I've been forced into. Yes, yes, I know - should be obvious. But I'm pretty thick-headed when it comes to myself sometimes. I can be good at telling others, like lots of preachers, that balance is incredibly important. I tend to be horrible at it myself. I thrive in jobs where the demand is constant and the challenge bar is set higher everyday. I create long lists of expectations in my head about what I should be accomplishing at home every second that I am there. My teaching, you see, both by example and word, was very centered in being productive at all costs -- and being productive means endlessly moving. There's no slowing down, no relaxing. If you do, then you're failing somehow, not good enough, not doing whatever it is you're supposed to be doing.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjReLoDnUPuM57RU88_T487sMpeKgFiJMfIA3IEfJsUZ0-dYyCI00yPiSCPqR-5Pr2ESr3w3drVO65MGV6MOxMkpUuEppvLNhmEZDX_Uk4uPHmhofXI9262ffcBhhU3RxTZwiz46xyi1Ifw/s1600/IMG_2429.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjReLoDnUPuM57RU88_T487sMpeKgFiJMfIA3IEfJsUZ0-dYyCI00yPiSCPqR-5Pr2ESr3w3drVO65MGV6MOxMkpUuEppvLNhmEZDX_Uk4uPHmhofXI9262ffcBhhU3RxTZwiz46xyi1Ifw/s320/IMG_2429.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Abby and our goddaughter, Elisabeth</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</tbody></table>And so I can admit, out loud now, that there's an enormous lesson for me in all of this - that there is much for me to be attentive to in the slow time that has been forced upon me. I have friends and colleagues who have traveled the world and the United States this summer, in all kinds of incredible ways. It took awhile to discover that this small corner of the world is all I needed to see for now. I can also admit that there are moments I even like it, that I enjoy the not rushing around that I am not physically capable of just yet. Because all kinds of things happen in the slow time: gardens grow, toddlers discover the world beyond themselves, family comes, dear friends visit from the West Coast, loving spouse simply loves and cares. And, as I write this on a small, screened-in deck in the mountains of western North Carolina, fireflies come out to play - to wink their light, to display their mystery held in brief, spectacular lives. There's nothing more to say other than a prayer of thanks to the One who creates, and holds, the winking, shining fireflies - and who creates and holds me.Heather Dillashawhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06439058366850942892noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9038236861834562415.post-92199047809478299872010-07-15T07:43:00.000-04:002010-07-15T07:43:13.002-04:00A Right, Not a RewardPossibly a further sign of healing - a post not about me. I'm linking to an article written by a friend of mine, and published yesterday in Asheville's weekly free alternative press. My faith tells me that all people are born equal, all people worthy of what is needed to live in freedom and in health. Housing is one of those things needed - it's not a reward for a life well lived. Being housed means many different things, but every person should have a roof over his or her head that is safe and dry. Creating housing to truly meet the needs of a diverse community is contentious anywhere. My friend Robin Merrell has done an excellent job of elucidating the situation here in our community. I'm fortunate to call her both colleague and friend as we work toward a community that truly welcomes everyone - including having housing for all.<br />
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<a href="http://www.mountainx.com/opinion/2010/071410priced_out">http://www.mountainx.com/opinion/2010/071410priced_out</a>Heather Dillashawhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06439058366850942892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9038236861834562415.post-39182919784418908222010-07-14T21:26:00.000-04:002010-07-14T21:26:34.636-04:00HealingTonight I'm able to simply feel gratitude, something I have struggled to uncover these last couple of weeks. And uncover really is the right word - I've been thankful, deeply deeply deeply thankful for so much from the moment we entered the emergency room two weeks ago. But I haven't been able to really feel it, it's been covered up with frustration and fatigue and the overwhelming feeling of uselessness.<br />
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Tonight, though, tonight I feel gratitude: for my exceedingly patient and loving wife; for our daughter whose unabashed joy at everyday things like running through the backyard and hugging her animals makes everything better; for co-workers who love me and care about me beyond what I can do for them in my job; for caring folks from the church who pray and bring food; for my parents who worry because they love me so much; for health insurance that made surgery possible...so many things, so many people, so many moments for which to be thankful.<br />
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I'm realizing that this healing is all about uncovering, removing what has made my body unwell for many years. The bad stuff is out now, physically. And what remains is new, raw, finding its way to wholeness and health through my resting, eating good food, laughing with my girls, sleeping deeply and often. And I'm grateful to have been given the opportunity to heal, literally from the inside out. My prayer tonight, tomorrow, and onward is to hold onto this gratitude in some measure each day, to hold it with an open hand and welcome what the healing brings.Heather Dillashawhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06439058366850942892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9038236861834562415.post-46186330972301654712010-07-09T20:13:00.000-04:002010-07-09T20:13:48.299-04:00FatigueSo there's mention, over and over, about fatigue in my instructions for recovery. I'm supposed to avoid it by alternating periods of rest with those periods of activity I mentioned yesterday. Except the only way to avoid the fatigue is to sleep, all the time. To not go outside my bedroom, not have a conversation, certainly not think about anything more taxing than whether I want water or, well, more water to drink next. <br />
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It's not just physically frustrating to be incapacitated by this -- though I'd just begun to make strides back toward better physical health when I landed in the ER last week. I'll get through the physical recovery, I'll start running again in a month or so and will do some very smart eating to make up for the weeks of so little activity. I know that it'll be slow, but I can do that.<br />
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The hardest, most painful part of this is the weeks between now and then, trying desperately to slog through the fatigue that is permeating my brain. On my very best days - pre-surgery - I need some help managing the chemicals that bounce around up there. Adding this debilitating fatigue on top of my already not-so-stellar chemical make-up has made for some really long days. Mentally, I have a very hard time imagining how to get through the stretch of days that are still ahead. I feel empty, useless and in the way. Not to mention the added financial burden of the cost of a major surgery that's my fault. I know, I know -- it's not rational. I'm very aware of that. But it's my reality right now, and there's no how-to for this on my recovery instructions.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCByNgujeihL1krDNEyG54RLxYKS3FgkctQwjCSMTjW8PsR2cHiFKXZPA_9ZYkmpd75338luXD-seeSudrWB89gcpXCxGQQUcmShltk2WDkISut2S2yZFw7gCyeDhfsqmWOGiQlQgFTfpl/s1600/IMG_2364.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCByNgujeihL1krDNEyG54RLxYKS3FgkctQwjCSMTjW8PsR2cHiFKXZPA_9ZYkmpd75338luXD-seeSudrWB89gcpXCxGQQUcmShltk2WDkISut2S2yZFw7gCyeDhfsqmWOGiQlQgFTfpl/s1600/IMG_2364.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCByNgujeihL1krDNEyG54RLxYKS3FgkctQwjCSMTjW8PsR2cHiFKXZPA_9ZYkmpd75338luXD-seeSudrWB89gcpXCxGQQUcmShltk2WDkISut2S2yZFw7gCyeDhfsqmWOGiQlQgFTfpl/s320/IMG_2364.jpg" /></a></div>Heather Dillashawhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06439058366850942892noreply@blogger.com1