all this heavy happening now

On the door, injustice beats,
beats

I open to let it in—it’s thick, dirty cloud gusts, unavoidably angry through the room,
this ugly

it uncoils my peace, unsettles my scene, blows out my warm

upsets, knocks me down,
down

My heart disturbed

all this pain in one world, all this heavy happening now,
now

this rape, this war, this human selling human,
this ugly

this twelve year old girl, this tear glistening on precious cold cheeks

on the door now she beats,
beats

an unavoidably beautiful face,
 this ugly

all this heavy happening now,
now

all this heavy happening now, to her

stories before me

It seemed like my parents were alive for a hundred years before I was born. Then, all my siblings came along and lived what seems like decades before I finally joined them. But, the advantage to that is that there are a thousand tales that have been passed around about all the things that happened before me.

So as the story goes, when my mom was young, her mom and her were home alone one hot summer day. Grandma was outside and found a pack of cigarettes in their front lawn and so grandma did what any sensible mom would do, she smoked a cigarette with her young, innocent daughter, my mom.

That's really all there is to the story. But, I find the mental image immensely amusing.

My grandma died of cancer a year before I was born. No need for worry, it wasn't lung cancer, and from what I understand, the shared cigarette from that summer day was the only cigarette that my mom or grandma ever smoked. But I have taken the pictures I've seen of her and the stories I've heard about her and have created quite an image of this woman--my Grandma--in her Ohio home.
And I smile every time I think of this mysterious grandma of mine smoking a cigarette with my little formidable mom.

crossing into awe

It’s not a bad thing, this numbness. It’s slightly exhilarating, a little terrifying, mostly unreal. I am stepping into something profoundly new. I am doing something I’ve hoped for, wished for. I’m sitting back and watching me get blessed.

I am prone to bitterness. It’s one of my countless flaws, but one that shows its ugly personality at inopportune moments that call for me to be happy for those who are happy when I just don't feel like smiling. But when I haven’t gotten what I’ve prayed for and when I watch others repetitively get the very thing I felt certain I deserved, I am bitter. I am very human and very weak.

So, the fact that I’m getting something so tangible, so real, so exactly what I asked for is a little overwhelming. I’m used to getting all the little things I want but never the big things. Never that. Never this. I’m realizing that this numbness is in fact awe. I’m realizing that I’ve been answered.

she.

She sat alone. Blue sweater, blue eyes, blonde hair. She was focused on the screen, on her work, on whatever distraction was pulling her away from her work in that moment. Her left hand wrapped a coffee mug, her right hand rested lightly on the computer’s keys. Her knees bounced gently to the music that poured in through ear buds. She was alone in a crowd of loners. Working on solo projects, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder, screen-to-screen, all utterly separate in purpose and task. She offered the occasional polite smile when her eyes accidentally wondered into the line of vision of another café loner. But, it was obvious to others, whether she meant it or not, that she was to be left alone.

But in truth, she wasn’t here for the coffee. That’s merely the price one pays for afternoon companionship. Her work was quiet, individual, self-governed and stay-at-home but, sometimes she missed the rush of a morning commute, the buzz of office conversation, the bonding over silly, petty, nothingness that exists in every work place. So, on those days, when the freedom of working at home felt oppressive, she came out to sit beside the co-workers she’d never met and settled into a tiny café desk to feel a part of something human.

everything i do, i do for me

I crave self-dignity. Everything I do, I do for me. Even the spiritual acts, the kind words. Even the selflessness is twisted selfishness. I am deceitful and deceptive and utterly dishonest.

I spend my life in front of a mirror. I’ve perfected the self-serving angles and facial expressions. I’ve determined the lighting that will bring me the most self worth and self glory. I’ve realized that I can be beautiful in the eyes of everyone if I master just the right posture.
I self promote and self proclaim my own battle cries for self provision.
And I am good at it: Look at me! I am an amazing person! Praise me! Esteem me! Promote my glory!

Except that the mirror is lying to me and I am lying to you.
I am not good nor lovely nor perfect nor beautiful.
I have bloody scabs and rough wounds that clutter my soul. I walk around in a safety net, shadowing me from everyone else. I try my best to be impressive and polite but, in full honesty, I am concerned more with being well loved then by loving well.

If only there was another way. If only it were possible to rip that self-promoting mirror off the wall, point that heavy reflector away from me and at something truer. If only I could angle my mirror at someone fully selfless so that I reflected him instead of my own self worth. If only it were possible to locate such perfection of love and truth and honesty and echo it. If only...

again and again and again

I’m training for a half marathon this winter. I could stop right there, let you chew on that impressive sentence. Let you tell me I am hardcore. I’ve done one before, nearly nine years ago (so it barely counts) but the thing I didn’t forget about nine years ago and the thing I remember every time I head out for a run now is that it is hard. Running is hard. I’m not hardcore at all because my knees and hips and feet feel like I’m 95 years old as I run in boring, repetitive circles.
Everything in life goes in circles, in cycles too: weeks, seasons, menstrual cycles, love, life. That's not profound, but the repetitiveness calms me. The familiarity of my running shoes beats down rhythmically, poetically, predictably in each step, even though it’s boring and even though my 95 year old legs feel each repetitive step.
Left to right to left to right to left.
Spring is summer is fall is winter is spring.
Predictable contentedness is promised joy is poetic struggle is I’m-going-to-be-okay is rhythmic contentedness is joy again.
and again.
and again.
and again.

grace received, grace given

Mere minutes ago I was in the movie theater, watching “The Impossible”, the remarkable true story of a family that was caught in the devastating 2004 Tsunami while visiting Thailand for Christmas vacation. The story is emphatically wrenching but beautiful and highly recommended. Because I want you all to see it, I don’t want to give anything away. But, we all remember the terrifying images of that day, so it’s no secret that it would have been a terrible thing to experience firsthand.

After watching the recounting of this story, I feel wretched and battered. I am reminded at how completely we can lose everything: our lives, families, health, wealth. We walk on this tightrope of grace all our lives. We either receive it, or we don’t. But, it’s never deservedly so. Without just explanation, the reasoning, the rhythm and the luck of each of us wanes and rises, whether we seem to deserve it or not. Life floods each of us with opportunities for failure, for regret, for pain. Yet, so often we are spared. Not so that we go forth with bubbled, safe, sweet-tasting lives and avoid all pain, but that we have less agony than could have been.

As depressing as that sounds, I mean it as hope.

Something as abstract as grace is hard to appreciate with our noses pressed up hard against the glass. We are pressed so close to our struggle and pain that we miss how blatant and continuous we are spared from gross suffering. Not that we are spared always. But, we are spared often.

And with grace being offered to all of us so consistently, certainly we can do better to offer it more consistently as well. For, at the least, those people in our life deserve grace from us as little as we deserve it from anyone else.

snow

It truly is the best thing.

Flakes falling, painting the streets white, hushing the buzz of a hectic city, forcing cars and people to slow down, punishing those who don’t. Liberating school children and making children of us all. Snow is the best thing.

This past Saturday night was one of those lucky nights. I happily walked block after block as snowflakes fell against my face. The only thing stopping me from holding my permanent toothy smile as I walked through the night was that the cold wind hurt my exposed smiley teeth. So, I closed my lips. But inside, the grin stood firm, happy, full. I’ve always been that way. I’ve always held snow as my favorite thing.

Some people go to mountains or beaches or waterfalls to see the hand of God, to feel closer to him, to feel in his presence. For me, it is snow. I watch the winter forecasts hoping always for more snow. I’m greedy because I always want more. I’m angry when spring comes with perky flowers and intolerable warmth. And I’m furious when people complain about more snow.

But, in the perfect snowy moment, like this past Saturday night, I’m not fixed on the evil spring or awful snow haters. I’m fixed on the present miracle at hand: Flakes falling from the sky. I pull on my warm socks, my boots, my hat, my gloves, my coat, my scarf, my toothy grin and I’m off. The quiet is remarkable. I live in the city yet in the midst of the snow, I turn corner after corner to encounter a perfect dark hushed night. I hear the swoosh of my arms gliding back and forth. I hear the crunch underneath each boot step. I hear muffled breath from behind my scarf. I hear muddled thumps of flakes rhythmically hitting my hood and hat. I’m not even headed anywhere specific. I’m just headed. And, in this place, like nothing else, I feel ridiculously happy. And in those snowy moments, I feel like I’m headed directly into the arms of God.

words

I am jumping back in the saddle, pressing my rusty fingers to the keys again and attempting to make something of these words that bounce around in my brain and fight for my attention. These words that attempt to jump out, to elbow their way out of the shadows of my brain and onto paper. But I’ve rejected the echoes of my mind. I’ve avoided thinking beyond the necessary and the clean and the in-a-box. And I’ve pushed these words back into this cob-webby brain of mine and duct taped their mouths shut. It’s safer to not let me think full thoughts or risky thoughts or thoughts at all.

I have been a drama queen lately. Lamenting and dragging my feet about anything inconvenient. I’ve mastered the art of apathy. Doing just what is necessary to brush by. Not being a bad person, but not being all that good either. Blaming my electronic devices for my inability to focus, pointing fingers at everything but me. It’s not an original struggle. I’ve frequented this spot. I am the billboard for just getting by.

But here’s the thing: I need these words to spill out of me. Otherwise I remain mute. I need them to fall out of my head so that I can understand my spiritual innards. Otherwise I am spiritually dead. I need to pull back the quilts and the sheets to see what is in bed with me. Otherwise, before long I’ll forget who I am.