Small Graces Easter

It is Easter Sunday.

I was raised in a theatrical Christian faith. Prosperity gospel is founded on large miracles. Big Faith motivates everything. If you don’t have Big Faith, then God can’t work. God seemed to be this Giant Wizard sitting on a throne waiting for me to obey just the right command. Then and ONLY then could he bless me. For years, I strained against this yolk of Christianity. Wondering what was wrong with me. 

Jesus said, “My yolk is easy and my burden is light.”

I felt heavy and constantly failing. 

Then Easter would come. I would be reminded of the BIG miracles all over again. Around and around this faith Merry-go-round I rode.

Much has changed for me over the last 20 odd years.  My disillusionment with the Big Miracles revealed Small Graces.  

God reveals himself to me in fingerprints.

So when it comes to Easter. The biggest holiday of our religious year, it isn’t the rolling stone that excites me anymore. I don’t need the fainting Roman Soldiers or the Magic Jesus appearing in the room. 

The Jesus I’ve come to know and see in my life is the one who:

Came to Mary when she was alone and distraught in the garden. She sat next to the tomb wondering where He was. Agonizing over what she would do next. Jesus met her first. Alone. Before anyone else. In a small intimate, loving moment he says her name. Once Mary is comforted, I imagine Jesus smiles at her lovingly then disappears. In joy she rushes to the upper room to tell the Disciples in hiding that Jesus is alive.

The Jesus who walked along the Road to Emmaus talking with Cleophas and another Disciple. They were very discouraged and confused. Jesus joins them on the path, asks what’s troubling them then explains it all.  By the time they get to their destination the two men understand who Jesus is. All doubts and fears cleared away. In this small moment of walking and talking, Jesus revealed who he was, comforted them. I imagine Jesus just smiles at them lovingly and disappears. They in joy return to Jerusalem to tell the others.

The Jesus who sits patiently on the shore. Peter, wrapped inself-loathing, figured it was all over. Jesus was gone. No more changing theworld. Confused with his What’s Next, he returned to his original job. Fishing.  Peter, sitting on the boat, frustrated after a dark morning of no fish. 

Peter heard a familiar call from shore, “Throw the nets on the other side.:

Suddenly the nets were full of fish. Peter jumps out of the boat and runs to shore. Most people talk about the magic fish, or the usual Feed My Sheep redemption sermon. 

Not me. 

It’s the small miracle of Jesus, just sitting on the shore. With a basket of fish, cooking breakfast for Peter.over a fire.

In all three of these Easter moments, Jesus met them where they were. To me that is the Miracle of Easter. God, the Divine, an Unconditionally Loving Higher Power come to meet me right where I am.

The Small Graces

Mary in a garden. Distraught.

The Divine comes to say my name with reassurance and let me know I am not alone or forgotten at the mouth of death.

Cleophas and another walking, probably home, disillusioned.

The Divine comes to help me understand when I am confused at how life didn’t work out. I am granted guidance when I am lost in what to do next.

Peter back at his day job. Humiliated and confused.

Most of all, the Divine comes to nourish me when I am depleted. When I feel like an absolute and utter failure. The Divine comes to simply sit with me until I am restored.

*The first 10 who subscribe to my YouTube channel and leave a comment here on the blog are eligible to receive a free digital download of the Small Graces Tryptic. * Sunday April 12 only. Giveaway closed.

These works are available on my Etsy today.

Palm Sunday in Social Distance

It’s been a while since I’ve written about Christianity stuff. Honestly, I still struggle.

Tomorrow is Palm Sunday.

For the past few years, I have avoided the falderal. Mainly because I think our American Christianity misses the point.

We are celebrating in the same way the Jews did in Jesus’ day.

Palm leaves and singing.

Children dancing in the aisles.

Choirs singing Hosanna.

We walk out of the service excited about the week to come. It’s a holiday week. Kids home from school, vacation. Time off from work. A Big Easter dinner and egg hunt. Family Gathering. All the trappings and glitter.

Keep in mind, I’m not saying these things are bad. I think they are wonderful.

Just…

Every year, as I listen to sermons about Jesus riding on the donkey colt in the Triumphal entry through the Eastern Gate of Jerusalem. I just never see what everyone else does.

I don’t see we Christians knowing everything now That Jesus WAS entering Jerusalem as a Triumphant King, of an Eternal Heavenly Kingdom. Jesus was Our Christian King. Those poor, simple Jews were blind, looking only for an Earthly king. 

I see something different. To me, Jesus was following protocol.

Go to the East side of Jerusalem.- Check

Get this donkey- “Hey you two Disciples, go to that village up there. Find a donkey with a colt next to her at this house. Untie them and bring them here to us. If anyone says anything, just say… ‘The Lord needs them and whoever they belong to will let you take them.’”

Disciples get the donkeys. No problems. -Check

Ride the donkey- “Hey Disciples, I need to ride this donkey colt.”

Disciples: “Ok, well, let’s put our coats on him.”

Coats on donkey - Check

People start showing up - Check

No clear announcement, other than in the folklore and religious texts. They said someday a man would come and perform miracles. That man would one day show up at a Passover time and ride on a colt with coats on it into Jerusalem through a gate on the East side of the city. The stories suggested that this man would free the Israelites from foreign rule, at this moment Rome. Israel would be a free and independent country again. Easy Peasy!

 They would finally be a Political Superpower, if you will.

This man would come to save their city from evil invaders. Cleanse their home from sinners. No more sickness, or poor, or hungry or suffering. All would be right with God.

These people lining the road, celebrating, waving Palm Branches. Heralding a new age of political, social, emotional, spiritual, physical, economic, and religious freedom.  These people, including the Disciples, thought Jesus was the man who would solve their every problem.

Their man of the hour.

But what does Jesus say when HE gets to the top of the hill? When he overlooks the city of Jerusalem? What does Jesus think of this Triumphal Entry?

Jesus wept.

He wept for all those people. 

The celebrating masses, including the disciples.

Why?

Because they misunderstood who he was. They projected onto him what they wanted him to be. They didn’t take the time to know who he was. They wanted peace in their lives at no cost to themselves. The people just wanted a fancy magic trick and for all the bad things to disappear.

They wanted the easy way out of a difficult situation.

I really don’t understand why we celebrate Palm Sunday.

It was a day that made Jesus cry.

I always feel somber and reflective. Are Christians today so different from the crowds or the disciples of that day? Am I? I wonder what it is that I am missing about Jesus’ message to me? How am I misrepresenting Him in my life? 

I take this week to think about these things. To prepare for Maundy Thursday.

Shards of Words

Waves crashed in the background as the kids and I sat down for a scrumptious barbeque. We chatted about our Made-Up Holiday and our bonfire plan. 

All laughed in unison, “AND NO TRASH!" 

Then came the usual question, “Did you get that scar here? On this beach?” 

I smiled.

I was 20.  Freshly graduated, boxes were piled in an apartment. The new job started Monday. My first night of adult independence. My date and his friends picked me up, stopped at a store to buy libations, then off we went to the beach. They encouraged me to pick something.

“We’ll buy it. You’ll be fine! In a month you’ll be 21. It won’t matter!”

I protested, but their arguments seemed logical. I had followed the rules up to this point.

What havoc would one bottle unleash? I picked a fruity Bartles and James wine cooler. 

The Jaunty Jeep parked near the beach bonfire area. We walked until a recently abandoned one was discovered. The guys gathered trash to quickly pile it on the faintly glowing embers. The guys blew full lungs of air on the smoking pile, suddenly flames roared to life. We crackled with excitement about the summer plans and savored those flavors of adulthood.

Near the fire’s edge, an rim of red peeled a paper bag. There lay a capped beer bottle. 

I queried, “Guys, should we take that bottle out of the fire?”

Date said, “Na… it’s only coals. The fire isn’t hot enough to do anything. It’s fine.”

 His logic seemed wise. Girls don’t play with fire, I thought. Boys do. He probably knows better.

The ocean breeze grew cold. Date gave me his ski jacket and took the thin windbreaker I was wearing. Our conversation lulled like the coals. Friend Guy started to kick the capped bottle around the embers.

The glass cracked a bit and foam eased out.

Jeep Driver said, “We should move it. That doesn’t look right.”

Easy conversation continued about our futures, crazy college stories, and again our voices grew quiet.  

Embers nearly cold now, Friend Guy gingerly pulled the bottle into the center with his foot.

Then rolled it around. 

Not too much. 

Just... 

enough, 

to watch the beer foam from the cracks in the glass. They commented on how cool it was to watch the foam ease out of the fissures. The cool science of pressure relief continued. I tuned them out and listened to the waves wash the shoreline. 

POP!

I saw them jump back and brush their chests. They were all over six feet tall, so I was confused. Why didn’t I feel anything in my chest? 

Then I realized my face was their chest height.

I put my hand to my left jaw.

I didn’t feel anything.

But I felt a knot in my stomach. 

“Um…. Guys… I think I’m bleeding?”

With eyes wide, they raced over. I lifted my chin. 

Date said, “Don’t bleed on my jacket!”

"Oh! I’m sorry.”  I rushed to take it off trying not to get anything on it. “Here.”

I didn’t feel like I was bleeding. But... it was his jacket I was borrowing, it kinda made sense.

I shivered a little, “Um… what can I bleed on?” 

He handed me the windbreaker, his tone softened, “Here, you can use this.”

Jeep Driver said, “We should go.”

“I don’t have any insurance. When I moved out my Parentals told me so. If we go to a hospital, they’ll know I’ve been drinking and arrest me. I can’t afford to pay for the hospital. My job doesn’t start until Monday.” I panicked. 

Someone said, “It will be ok. You have to go to the hospital.”

We piled in.

The Jittery Jeep’s racing engine was the only sound through those dark curvy roads. Loud thoughts lectured me about the mess I was in. This was God’s judgment on me for drinking. Now the Parentals would know. What would they do? What would they say? I was terrified.

Well...maybe now he will listen to me. Maybe my opinion will mean something. This scar on my face will show him that I know what I’m talking about. Maybe it will be worth it. It could be a blessing in disguise.

At the ER and in the care of nurses and doctors, my face was draped. A gentle nurse held my hand and talked to me because I couldn’t see. A compassionate doctor numbed my jaw and gave me 10 stitches.

My retelling of the scar story was interrupted.

“Mom! How could you think like that?” We all laugh at that young, gullible, innocent girl. 

Now, I can laugh at myself about it all.

I know a Loving Higher Power would not throw a glowing hot glass shard at my face, narrowly missing my jugular vein simply to punish me for drinking a wine cooler a month before my 21^st birthday. Of course, an action like that would never be a blessing. 

 My part in this whole tragedy of errors is the bottle was an issue for me. 

I should have taken it out.

I didn’t feel safe with a full, capped, carbonated glass bottle sitting in embers. I didn’t believe in the value of my own words. I held no value in my own opinion. This scar on my face reminds me that I knew what I was talking about. I didn’t see my own worth. I’ve learned the importance of my words. If I’m going to speak, it needs to mean something to me. I practice confidence in my voice.  If I’m not being heard, I stop arguing, evaluate the topic for either a redirect or to simply drop it.

That scar on my face is a gift. It gives character to every word I’ve spoken since.

The Rabbit Hole

Trigger warning: Sexual Abuse, PTSD, Flashbacks

PTSD Flashbacks are ugly little beasties. They grab the softest part of your memories and hop down the nastiest Rabbit Hole. We've taken many such journeys over the years and we've come to peace with one other. I respect their need to process. If I'm patient, when they are done, I am a little more whole. My memories fall into a peaceful order. The fresh terrors find their place in the proper old memory storage and finally find a place to rest. After 35 years in this process I have learned to be grateful.

My first Flashback was December 1, 1985. It began a spiral that ended sometime in September 1987.

December 1985, a friend from grade school committed suicide. Two months later, February 1986, a friend from church committed suicide.  In May, a classmate accidentally drowned while helping a family with their boat. Another friend from church crashed a motorcycle into a parked van in June. He was in critical condition for weeks. The final straw arrived in November 1986, a mentor and brilliant musician from church committed suicide.

Fall of 1986 found me in the first year of college. Struggling through sociology class, I chose to write a paper about suicide for extra credit. As I delved into the whys and wherefores of the choices my friends made, a tragic chain of events loomed.  I met a boy as I researched. The acquaintance turned into harassment that bordered on stalking. I in my own oblivion, did not recognize the danger.

One night under a beautiful December sky, my boyfriend at the time wanted to defend me. I would not allow it. He demanded, “When are you going to stop letting people walk all over you?”

A switch flipped in my head and I crumbled into his lap. A childhood memory flooded my consciousness with overwhelming sensations. An uncle crossed the line of innocence. My body no longer belonged to me. I lived in it, but my uncle owned it. As I relived that moment, my reality was challenged. I did not have the tools to navigate any of it. Home life had its own reality and often my inner self was not my own. Within this Wonderland reality and truth did not always coexist.  Sanity held together by thin threads frayed to reveal a gaping black hole.

To say that I was a mess was an understatement. At 19, attempting to be an adult is challenging enough; introduce life altering incidents with a dash of questionable reality. This perfect recipe of disaster turned me into a mental Chernobyl.

The next thing I remember is February 1987. My boyfriend and I had a fun date planned. We stopped by for a quick lunch and the usual make out session before our adventure.

I remember eating lunch.

The next thing I remember we were in his room and to use baseball metaphor, Home plate was in sight. I froze. I couldn't move. I could barely breath. I whispered, "No."

The Home Run was made.

I experienced my Second Flashback. This time I was younger and the innocence exposed was different and more painful. Like the one my 18 year old body was experiencing. I felt the fabric of my mind shatter into a million pieces. I tried to move. No matter how much I willed it in my mind neither body in the flashback or in the real could move. When he was finished, we dressed and went on with our day.

Neither of us actually sure of what the other experienced. I know we have opposing memories of the day.

In the months that followed my sanity continued to slip away. I remember nothing of my second semester of college or most of that summer.

A confrontation transpired with The Parentals in Wonderland about my boyfriend. They spoke their judgment. I knew how I felt, what I thought was true. Their point of view and mine didn't exactly match, but I knew something was very wrong. The more I fought, the more my grip on reality slipped. I had to survive. I had to live. I would figure out what the truth might be at another time.

I was at the bottom of this rabbit hole. I found a truth I could admit.. I would never be the person he needed. I didn't even know if I would survive. We both wanted to make healthier relationship choices than our parents. In my attempt to recover and heal, I was destroying him. I was destroying myself. An amicable or gracious exit was impossible.   

I had to let him go. I allowed Insanity to reason out the break up. I said some  horrible things about him. My private meltdown became public and there were many casualties.   

Over the years, my thoughts wander to that boy left behind. I wish him all the happiness our loving Creator has for him. I will hang onto this truth: In order for he and I to become the people we wanted to become, we needed to walk different paths.

Travel well my friend, wherever you are.  

Field and Seeds

The Parable of the Sower seems to be that default Bible Story.

Each time I read it or hear it my heart breaks for the Hard, Rocky or Stony Soil. That Good Soil just seems so lucky.

Good Soil, the carefree, open to anything God has field of dirt. No doubts or impediments.

Of course when the inevitable question is asked,

“Are you the Good Soil? Do you accept Jesus’ Good News? Do you know your eternal destination?”

I feel like a fraud saying yes. Of course I agree. I want the seed of Good News to grow within me. Freely and unencumbered. But… sometimes I have doubts, distractions, and discouragements.

Girly and I began working through the Gospels this year using Concordia Press. In the study of Matthew last week we covered the Infamous parable. The second question in the study asked us to first consider the “earthy picture.”

We are surrounded by farmland in the Central Valley. I imagined the labyrinth of warn paths farm workers use to get round, not to disturb the freshly tilled areas. Just off the path are areas of roughly tilled ground, places the plow broke open but not softened. Then the corners of the field where irrigation quenches and weeds grow. Spots often missed by weeding.

And it occurred to me…

What if the Parable of the Sower isn't a destination parable? Did Jesus really tell this story as a onetime opportunity? We've all known of people who “Come to Faith,” then walk away. Instead of asking why, it is chalked up to:

They must have been Rocky Soil. Their heart was too hard to accept the Good News. Poor them.

They must have been the Thorny Soil. Serving two masters got in their way of growing in Christ.

Or, my favorite:

Their heart was hard like the seed thrown on the path. You know God hardens hearts sometimes. Too bad for them.

The whole thing reminds me of Puddy and Elaine in Seinfeld.

That aside, I imagined myself walking alongside the farmer in his field. It wasn't the first time it was tilled and planted. Places which were Hard Path last year could be Good Soil this year. Places which grew well before might be littered with weeds now. Last year's Good Soil could be this year’s rock pile. The field would change parameters based upon the season. Yet each year, the farmer would throw the seed. That seed would grow for him to harvest.

Instead of feeling guilty or overwhelmed when I struggled with faith, maybe I simply need to have that part of my heart cleared. Especially when I am wrestling to understand something of the Kingdom of God.

Because, the Creator knows my heart better than I. Where I feel parched and struggling I can ask for understanding. Where am I being stubborn or willful I can for the stones to shift. When I am overwhelmed I can pray to see where the entanglements are. I can seek the grace to have the thorns removed. Being Good Soil is a process, just like the farmer and his field is a process of seasons. 

An Era of Threads Part 6

On January 16th, Grandma Edna passed away. According to Dad, over the last few weeks she communicated her readiness to go Home. Without much fanfare her soul left this mortal coil in the middle of January. At peace with those close to her. Dad said it was beautiful.

I went to the funeral.

It was the end of an era.

A season of family and fallout. Wounds and healings. A permanent parting of ways for the two branches of this family.

The sky was a thick gray as I stood on the outskirts of the grave side ceremony. The tule fog simply waiting to be unfurled and blanket the little town once the sun set.  I watched her family and friends laugh, wipe tears and shared knowing looks. Grandma was a woman well loved by those around her and I was glad. I felt for my Dad who shared stories and scripture verses. Caught between a family that was and a family that is cannot be easy for him. Grief is just different in that situation.

\

The service ended and I walked to the quiet end of her casket. I thanked her for the example of strength-the way she defended her own ethic without compromise. I admired how she could communicate what she thought of people. I loved how she liked everyone she met, then decided whether to dislike them later. Her sense of style was impeccable. With a steely grace she would walk into a room. Her daily crossword puzzles and Yahtzee kept her mind sharp until the end.  I honored her as my Grandmother. 

Then I said goodbye for the last time.

Turning around I met Aunt2 and Uncle2. They live out of state now. With a warm hug we caught up on their new life. The task at hand and the gloomy cold that is Central Valley fog.

Then I set my gaze to the other side of Grandma’s casket. The family she loved deeply stood together. It would be the last time I would ever see them. I walked over and waited for conversations to ebb. Uncle looked at me with no hint of recognition. I reminded him of who I was and in surprise he said hello. It was good to see him again. I gave him a quick hug and he turned to address those standing behind me.

Aunt was next. My heart brimming with love for her, I hugged her. We looked into each other’s eyes for a moment and I said,

“Sorry for your loss.”

Her soft reply was, “Sorry for yours.”

My heart broke for Aunt. Grandma was her best friend. They had a very close Mother/Daughter relationship. I waited for the right words, “But you two had something special.”

Aunt’s eyes welled up. Her arms reached and I melted into them. For a moment I was a little unscathed girl being held by an aunt who loved deeply. We savored that moment then parted.

“Goodbye.” I simply said. She nodded.

The quiet ride home I watched groves of orange trees blur for acres. My eye followed the power line as it seamlessly flowed alongside the road. Never again would I have to travel there again. I could leave the pain and take the lessons with me. Let the bad leave its’ scar and walk forward in strength.

It was finished. 

An Era of Threads Part 5

Grandma Edna married again. In a new house with a new husband she thrived. A wedding reception at her house contained everyone. All within a safe distance of each other. After she again voiced displeasure to Dad about the boundary that existed.

She wanted her family around her on her terms.

Months later she turned her plea to a Sister. During her usual brag about Aunt and Uncle’s accomplishments. Her pride in their kids overflowed. She turned to Sister3 and asked again:

“Why can’t you just get over it?”

Upon hearing that, my resolve was set. I would not go up to visit her. I could not trust myself if Grandma ever asked me that question. My response would not be an honoring one. Grandma taught me well of independence and fierceness.

After a few years on their own, it was time for Grandma Edna and her husband to move into an Assisted Living situation. It worked for them well. Game nights, dining halls, and constantly surrounded by people to talk to made her happy. Still the person in the middle of a party.

Dad helped in her process of downsizing. He asked if I would like to go. After much thought I went. It was time not only to forgive, but reclaim a bit of myself. To move beyond the fear and begin to bravely exist.

We spent the day with her. My mind ready for the uncomfortable topic. I prayed for grace in my answers. Grandma Edna gave me the usual updates about Uncle, Aunt, Cousins and their kids. Accomplishments and accolades liberally described. I, my usual quiet self, listened. The anxiety ever present about the situation, I felt at peace with her. My heart resolved that this would be our Goodbye. It was a good day.

The curve all came when Grandma Edna then suggested go to Uncle and Aunt’s house to collect things meant for my sisters and their kids. 

My heart braced.

I began to think about it.

Not only did I come to her town and know that I existed in peace. Not only did I need to have a day where our strength met dignity and respect.

 I needed to allow my brain to heal as well.

 I sat in Uncle’s house still on the outside while my PTSD rattled brain ran through scenarios.   My breath measured but shallow. The knot in the pit of stomach settled. I listened as Uncle and Aunt talked about life and their transitions. Dad shared a few stories and laughter happened. I talked about my kids a bit. While I carefully controlled my exterior, my interior continued its’ inventory.

Uncle wasn’t a very big man.

Aunt looked just like Grandma.

I was an adult just like them.

Then a blanket of security wrapped around my heart. He will never be able to hurt me again. I am safe. I can leave all of the memories, feelings and hurt right there on the couch. It didn’t need to come home with me. I had permission to be done with all.

My thoughts calmed. The ball in my stomach relaxed. I was able to breathe deep.

The drive home with Dad was pleasant. We discussed the miracles of the day. What our family was like before the Big Thing. How much we laughed then. I told him about my boundaries. I felt at peace with all of them. It would be my last trip there. My gratitude expressed, we spoke our goodnights as he dropped me off.

An Era of Threads Part 4

As the case against Uncle dragged on, laws changed within the molestation epidemic. By the time it came to trial, the cousins’ and my testimony was no longer admissible. Statute of limitations had passed. Two Sisters would face the trial. The case continued to drag until the last moment when Uncle plead No Contest. His sentence was Community Service.

Legalities settled, Grandma Edna renewed her vigilant pressure of bringing the family together. Birthdays. Holidays. Anniversaries. All of us in different places of healing.

I found myself not caring about what she thought. Her discomfort did not bother me.

This resolve was something I learned from her.

What I did dread however were the funerals. Only three important ones remained. My Great-Grandmother.

Grandpa Johnny

And Grandma Edna’s.

Each I would need to attend and pay my last respects. Honor their lives and support my Dad as he grieved the loss.

Great-Grandmother went first. She was an immigrant from Switzerland. I spent a few nights with her when I was little. Within her was a sweet resolve. A similar fierceness to Grandma Edna, but a gentleness and grace. I greatly admired that quiet dignity. With only a few years of, I attended her service and wake. It was the first time I had seen Uncle. I felt a little sick, but not falling apart. He stayed on one side of the room and we the other.

By the time Grandpa Johnny passed away, I understood a little about forgiveness. Giving up my right to get even, be vindicated or even see justice was a start. The longer I wished him ill. I understood the verse, “Vengeance is mine, says the LORD.”

It was God’s job to judge. I don’t know what wounds Uncle carried which influenced his choices. Who knows, maybe Uncle simply paid forward a violation he received.

I needed to stop being afraid.

I needed to get out of God’s way as judge.

For my own healing, I needed to forgive

So, at Grandpa Johnny’s graveside, I approached Uncle.

With shaking hands and a trembling heart, I looked into his eyes. I said, “I forgive you.” Then hugged him. A peace flooded my soul. The words, “It is finished” breathed within me. Then I walked away.

Forgiveness doesn’t mean a Do Over. It doesn’t mean access to my life. It simply means I accept the same God that judges me, will judge him. The same sun that warms me, warms him. The same air I breathe, he breathes.

That’s all.

That Thing in the Room

They are very timid animals you know.

They are quiet, lumbering and often awkward. Out in the wide open world, they are easy to manage. Fresh air, weather or even a simple distraction make them seem manageable.

But in a room of people.

With a mountain of food.

And a holiday.

This beautiful, great big creature cannot function well. THEN we who bring the lumbering beastie with us, make it sit in a corner and be quiet.

The poor elephant.

Photo by David Blackwell.

Not able to talk to anyone, the pachyderm is in a precarious position. It must pretend to not exist. With a trunk, four legs the size of tables and a broom tail. The unfortunate thing is thinks itself invisible.

However, toes are stepped on.
Words are misunderstood.
Feelings well up into knots of yuck.

The pitiable delicate beasty can do nothing right.

Truth is, as we gather together for holidays, these gentle creatures join us. We need to be gentle. If it isn’t possible to talk to the elephant, just a nod will do. A small recognition of grace is what they deserve.

If we are gentle with them, possibly a few toes will be saved.
Words might be heard clearly if spoken with a sprinkle of love.
Feelings could unravel and begin to heal.

I say we should dress that elephant in a pink tutu. Adorn it’s head with a crown. Pull out a chair and offer it a seat.

Pretending like they are not there is not working. So,  remember this holiday season:

Please be kind to elephants.

Little Orphan Anne

From my earliest memory, flawless perfection was my goal. If I made a mistake, shame engulfed me. The God of my childhood loved me in spite of Them. I held a perception, IF a mistake was never made, then God’s ability to love me would be easier. My emotions, opinions and even my body were beyond my control. No matter how hard I tried to be good, obedient and flawless I would end up the same result: failure.

I would pray until sleep came, begging God to deliver me. I cried out:
Be my refuge.
Make me feel safe.
Save me.

Fear and chaos ruled my mind.

At 14 I stepped on a scale. It condemned me to 100 POUNDS.

100 marbles rolling across the floor.
100 people in a room.
100 pounds was heavy to pick up.
100 things was a lot of things

I looked in the mirror and elementary boy words from the many schools I'd transferred through, the pool, neighborhood, etc boys spoke in a Greek Chorus: You’re fat.

I pinched an inch and in the mirror I saw Lulu from HeeHaw.

The way I felt about myself and life up to that moment perceptively became true:
I was fat.
Fat was out of control.
Gluttony was a sin.

I couldn’t admit my chaos within. They told me the Bible said, to be anxious was worry. Worry was a sin. Therefore how I felt was a lack of faith.  If I could control fat, then I could control everything. I wouldn't have to be afraid anymore. I could be safe. I would have enough Faith.

Since Prayer hadn't fixed it, then Fasting would.

Jesus said so. If I could control what I put into my mouth, then Jesus could deliver me. Jesus would heal me. My sin wouldn't keep him away anymore. I spent the next 7 years controlling every thing I put in my mouth to keep my safe number of 98 lbs. When life became too chaotic, a blissful peace of a Fast would bring me peaceful sanity. I lived a lie of control and contrition: a false submission to God.

For me, truth of this dis-ease is Fear.

Fear of losing control
Fear of mistakes.
Fear of all the things that could go wrong.
Fear of what action to take when they do go wrong.
Fear of not being perfect.
Fear of….

I found abstinence by working the 12 Steps in Overeater's Anonymous. In recovery I work at letting go of  the god of my childhood. I learn to be available to a Higher Power who unconditionally loves me. He equips me with what I need to get through each day. I recognize what is within my control and what isn't. Higher Power gives me the wisdom to know the difference. I am led to people who counsel me in true grace. Mistakes and shortcomings are ways of redemption, not prisons.

I call that little voice’s name is Little Orphan Anne. When life gets stressful, Anne has ideas about control. I stop, remind myself that I am powerless over the situation and ask my Higher Power for Its will for me and the power to carry that out. I go to yoga to connect with my body and care for it. I meditate to learn how to be safe in the stillness.

When my clothes don’t fit right and Annie suggests how out of control I am. Higher Power reminds me how perfectly I am loved. The choice to believe the loving voice quiets my fear.

I often remind myself that thinking I was fat was only a symptom. It never was about being fat. For me, it was always about Fear. Anorexia was my medication for anxiety. In learning to face fears, deal with Life on Life's terms and accepting love from a Higher Power, One Day at a Time I find Serenity.

What Is In A Name?

My hands dripped with flour paste for the paper mache sculpture as I listened to Jayson Bradley's sermon What Is Your Name And Why Does It Matter. It is odd to think of one’s own name as a nemesis, but that is how I saw mine.


After my Dad left the Air Force, our transition into civilian life was challenging. Jobs were scarece and we had to move from Utah to California.  In third grade I went to three schools.  I saw myself as a burden. I knew my birth kept my Mom from attaining her degree. The moving and uncertainty was hardest on my Mom. She was pregnant and struggled to keep up with my three year old sister. I often felt in the way.

Once settled, civilian culture in a small town was very different than military life. Everyone was nice, but many found me odd. The friendships that were formed didn't last very long.

In fifth grade I came to a warped conclusion. The big thing in Sunday School the meaning of your name. The Bible said that what your name meant was who you were. Kids with biblical names were the coolest. It was easy to find an encouraging life verse to tack onto a Biblical hero.

My name fell into a gray area. Rebecca was the English spelling of Rebekah, so the coolness factor was minimal. Imagine my disappointment when I looked it up:

Bound

In my frailty it made sense:

Prisoners are bound.
Captives and kidnapped victims are bound.
An anchor is bound to a ship.
Bound was a prison.

My greatest fear confirmed; I was a burden. I was an entanglement. I was an impediment. Tearful cries began. Begging God to show me my secret name written on that white stone. I didn't want to be a burden. I wanted to be a blessing. As I grew up in Wonderland, that flawed reality only solidified.

Still praying that prayer and waiting patiently for an answer into adulthood. Then one day,  reading  the account of Isaac meeting Rebekah my point of view shifted
Isaac was walking in the field, still mourning the loss of his mother. He saw the camels…

Que sappy romantic music


Rebekah covered her face, dismounted the camel and met him. Isaac then took her into his home and he loved her, she comforted him. His grief and loneliness were bound up. She was not a burden to him. She was a gift. She captivated him.

The shift from a negative:bound to a positive: captivating began.

I am interesting.
People are curious about me.
I can help ease a burden.
I can comfort those in difficulty.
I am good at organizing in a crisis.

In reading Fearless Daughters of the Bible, J. Lee Grady points out when God changed Abram and Sari’s name to Abraham and Sarah, he wove in the Hebrew H “breath” sound: the same sound that is part of his own name.

I felt Holy Spirit’s breath seal my name. Rebekah has that same breath sound. How it is spelled is irrelevant. I am identified with Divine Love. That Holy Breath renews my soul. It frees me to grow. It redeems what I thought about myself and grants me vision of how God sees me.

Escape From Wonderland: Punk Grace

Friend knew a little about my life in Wonderland. Her intent was for me to simply have fun. One February holiday I spent the night at her house then she revealed her plan.

Her boyfriend had a friend who had horses. Friend knew how much I loved horses and arranged for us to go horseback riding. Friend assured me this was NOT a date. I didn’t even know the guy and he defiantly didn’t like me. Anyway; she had a plan to keep me safe from trouble in Wonderland.

So, not wanting to disappoint my friend or having to explain why I was home early to Wonderland; I went along.

Her boyfriend and friend picked us up after breakfast.

We were simply friends.
Riding horses.
Then having lunch.

My heart found bliss with the horses. The morning adventure complete, we stopped for a simple lunch of pizza was seasoned with laughter. All piled into her boyfriend’s car they decided to drive me home.

That is when everything fell apart.

The Parentals were in the front yard. I ran into the house to keep them all safe. Before my mouth even opened, the verdict:

It was a date.
I was in rebellion.
It was as bad to God as the sin of witchcraft.

The yelling and screaming became phone calls to validate their verdict. I was put into the car and driven over to Friend’s house to “confront” her Mom. I felt ashamed. My poor friend who tried to create a safe place for me to have fun watched it blow up in her face. I sat in her living room with a bruised cheek as a Parental’s voice railed on about lies, rebellion and inappropriate behavior.

My eyes barely lifted from the carpet.

Then the real discipline happened. I was grounded until the end of the school year-four months. No phone, friends, television and only church activities they approved of.

Within the church’s youth group-The Garden-were subgroups called Seeds Groups. For two years I participated in West Seeds. The group filled with upper middle class popular kids. Part of my punishment was to be sent to the newly formed South Seeds.

With a broken will, I moved to that group. Richard-the Seeds Pastor-led the small rag tag group on the furthest corner of the church campus, away from the youth building.

Then I saw grace.

Richard welcomed everyone. Most of the people in the group were high school dropouts, or at least in the continuation high school. Those Punks-with army surplus combat boots, mohawks, safety pins pierced through parts of their bodies-talked about the Dead Boys, Sex Pistols, Agent Orange and others. I sat and listened as they explained what the music meant to them. Richard simply loved them. He never asked them to wear something different to church. He laughed with them and through his example I saw Jesus.

We all gathered and sang worship songs. Paul, still to this day my favorite guitar player, led worship. He taught me to sing, listening between the notes to find the harmony. It didn't matter if the not was not perfect; dissonance could always be resolved.

We studied the Word and struggled to figure out how to apply it in our lives. In that Seeds group of Misfits I began to feel normal. I wasn't the only one living in a Wonderland.

There was a way of hope.
A way of peace.
A way of escape.

In our own CBGB we found hope and purpose. Our own Hilly opened a way of purpose and redemption. Those Punks taught me what grace looks like.

The Ancestral Dimension: Freedom or Bondage

Growing up, family gatherings were filled with tales of blazing a trail within a land of opportunity.

On my Father’s side, my Great Grandma Pfiester came to America from Switzerland at the age of 11. She married my Great Grandfather Dooley a second generation Irish immigrant- originally it was O’Dooley, but they dropped the O’ because it sounded too Irish.  They were Pastors, inventors and rebel rousers. If you thing Italians are passionate, wait till you spend time with the descendants of a Swiss German/ Irishman.

On my Mother’s side, tales of Great Great Grandparents traveling the Mormon trail to a land of hope and religious freedom. Names like Gould, Pearmain and Coombs followed the call of Brigham Young to fill the promised land of Deseret. One of the Grandmothers died within weeks of reaching Fountain Green. Another, my Grandmother remembers speaking in a Cockney accent.

Other immigrants within my family tree I am not so close to. Those trace back to the Mayflower, Revolutionary war and some mystery as to if we are related to Mary Todd Lincoln.

What all these people have in common is this: they wanted to be here. They all came hoping for a better life. Fighting, blending in, and sometimes separating themselves from a world they saw as evil for the right to Life, Liberty and Pursue Happiness/property. 

But what if…

What if at those family gatherings, the stories had been different. What if they were filled with disillusionment and injustice? What if those Great Greats didn’t have a choice to come to this country? What if my Grandparent’s stories were filled with denied opportunity.

All my Great Grandfather had to do was drop the O’ from his name in order to avoid discrimination. To be able to get a job. A name like Dooley would have been accepted freely, promoted and granted liberties. A person cannot change the color of their skin.

For them, this was not a land of opportunity. It was a land of bondage. During the Revolutionary war, those who fought were promised freedom, only to be denied it in the end. The Astonishing Life of OctavianNothing is a brilliant series dealing with this very subject. My Revolutionary war ancestors' stories now have a deeper dimension. 

Around the tables of color, family stories of triumph in the face of adversity instead of hope and promise. They talk about how to love an enemy in the face of violence. The value of hard work is flavored with tales of injustice, being passed over and sometimes hopelessness.

Drew Hart wrote about his own experience as a black man. In a town where discrimination is still prevalent I often frustrated with those who say:

Slavery was long ago.

Why does it matter now?

Can’t they just move on?

Racism does not exist anymore. 

But just as I am a product of my lineage, so is my fellow man. My privilege of having immigrants who journeyed because they chose to, can be named. The ability to know exactly where they came from blinds me to those whose only point of origin is the name of a continent. The slave trade decimated cultures in Africa. They don’t have the luxury of a cultural diversity as I do within: Irish, Swiss German, English.

My story would be much different if all I had to say was: my immigrants were from Europe.

It is my responsibility to remember the persecution my own Irish heritage felt. To keep in perspective the isolation my Mother felt as a non-Mormon growing up within a Mormon culture in the 1950s. It is for these reasons my parents marched with Martin Luther King for equality and I endeavor to teach my kids to live these same values- Love your neighbor, no matter the color of the skin. Share the hope of opportunity. Build those up around the corner because the cause of equality starts with me. Living within White Privilege. 

Finding Good Enough

I am a perfectionist.

Not the kind that does everything perfectly, but the kind that gets anxiety when things aren't perfect. 

When I see a flaw I feel shame. I feel the need to repent. I want to crawl into a hole and lament.

It is the perfect first ingredient in making an anorexic. When I was eating only one meal a day, I felt in control. The little mistakes didn’t hurt as much because my body was in perfect discipline. The best days were when I never even felt hungry. I took Jesus’ words, “Deny yourself and follow me” a little too literally.

Then I found recovery.

First on the agenda was acceptance. I was not perfect. I would make mistakes. I had flaws. The point was to grow from mistakes and strengthen my weaknesses. Jesus knew I was filled with shortcomings. That is why God sent him.

To fulfill the Law.

To make me free.

He was perfect so I didn’t have to be.

The most important application of this new flaw filled life was the need to accept “good enough.” Often I wouldn’t start a project because I knew mistakes would be made. I would measure once and then cut twice. In painting, the outside of my hand would pick up a dollop of wet color and smear it outside the lines. I would panic. Wanting to throw it all away and try again I would hear Holy Spirit’s sweet words:

“It’s an opportunity.”

The blob of paint became a flower.

See, the point was not a perfect project. The point was showing up. Starting, working through the middle and then finishing.

So armed with this new discipline, I began to manage life.

Housework- good enough.

Cooking-good enough.

Relationships…

Now, marriage is not perfect. In fact, it is the opposite of perfect. Marriage is exasperating, refining, puzzling and laughter filled. One of my major snags with Counting Mutant is this:

He’s an accountant.

 An auditor to be precise. He loves to look at a pattern and find the flaw, then point it out so it can be fixed. Then… perfection. With his wisdom and logic, short comings can easily be rectified. Mistakes can be fixed. All of the columns add up.

Earlier this week I talked about my new found freedom of falling. He lovingly messaged me a few errors I might like to rectify. Of course I immediately felt hurt. Vulnerable.  Then I walked through the mantras:

I need to take criticism well.

It is for my own good.

It’s not personal.

He loves me, that’s why he points out my flaws.

Then Holy Spirit turned on that light of understanding:

A Perfectionist married an Auditor.

I realized it wasn’t personal. It was simply a clash of perfectionism. I looked at the critique again. Fixed what I thought was important. Not every mistake needs to be fixed. Sometimes they are left to remind us of grace.

To teach us about Good Enough.