It is this day that is the hardest
in a week called Holy.
Not the intimacy of baring feet
or breaking bread
Nor even the stunning violence of the
hill of skulls, the bloody ground beneath too many crosses.
This is the hardest, this in-between day.
Feet are clean
Bread has been shared and eaten
The cries of battered, broken bodies are
stilled.
This Vigil. This Holy Waiting --
this is hardest, if we remember.
If we remember that we do not know what
resurrection will bring.
The One we wait for will not be what we expect.
Not then.
Not now.
Waiting for resurrection is harder
than remembering death.
Running up Mt. Pisgah, embracing the woods - and the world - with joy
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.
I'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.
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 (www.hbofa.org). 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 2nd Birthday, Abigail. I love you, and am grateful beyond words to call you my daughter.
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?).
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.
Abby and our goddaughter, Elisabeth
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.
Possibly 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.
Tonight 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.
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.
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.
