The Story of an Easy Life

In thinking about presence,
about being present,
I can't help but think about story,
our stories.
And how sometimes those stories
make us into people who would rather not be present
in the day where we live.

There are times,
moments,
when I remember...
I think even of just recent times,
days, weeks, months...a year ago,
and I want to push it all down.
Forget.
Rush past the pain
and confusion
that memory remembers.

And honestly,
this just makes me angry.
My husband says it makes him bitter.
And soon the heart grows hard.
Dark.
Resentful.

And I miss so much
of living.
And the pressure often makes me break,
as bitter, brittle things do.
Sharp edges hitting others,
mostly the ones I love.

I think of Ty.
I'm certain he walked through much
that could make him hard.
Instead,
somehow,
he stayed tender.
He remained present.
And he cried often.
He said he was called Pastor Cry in the 'hood.

The last time I heard him preach,
he cried.
Many times.
And I know
it's because he was in the moment.
Fully present.
Fully alive.
And I can't believe that had he been holding on to what can make you hard
he would have been able to weep as he did.
Live like he did.

He used to say: God loves me more than anyone else. Not really, but sort of.

That love
transformed his life.
Transformed his story.

And so,
this life we've been living,
our story together,
my husband and I,
has not been easy.
In such a short time
there have been so many changes.
And the dark presses in.
One day I prayed: God...why can't anything be easy?
(I'm aware of how entitled I sound)
And He, in His great love responded: cry out to me...that is easy.

So, we cry.
And His love,
it steps in
and reminds us He is not silent.

Our edges are softened, then,
made translucent even,
so light seeps in.

And we weep.
Because He loves us.
In the midst of our story,
despite our story,
and even,
because of our story.

Here.
We are present.
In Love.
Because of Love.

And our tears are our gratitude.
A humble offering of thanksgiving.

And maybe,
living a life of presence, then,
is the easiest life of all.

An Easy Life

I've not posted anything for a couple weeks...

Mostly, I've not been emotionally capable of it.

Even writing that sentence makes me want to cry.

Old friends from my youth were tragically killed in a car accident.

These are the scenarios no one wants to think about...
they exist in some other alternate universe.

Ty and Terri were their names and they lived in Omaha.
But I knew them when I was 14 as youth leaders here in California.
And, just two weeks before their death,
I saw them in Omaha when we were visiting our family.

I've spent some time thinking about why this death has in so many ways immobilized me.

Is it the memory of innocent youth?
Or that time when I loved Jesus with a whole and infatuated heart?
Maybe it's just remembering how much they loved me...and all of us.
How they took time.
How when they were with you, they were all with you.

And, while I think the missing of these dear people is all of this,
I think mostly it's that last piece...their presence.
I learned once that if you don't have words or advice or anything like that to give someone,
just give them yourself, your presence.
BE with them.
And I think that for the last 30 years of my life,
even though so much distance in so many ways existed between us,
I still knew their presence in my life.

I think the same is true for the thousands of people who watched their funeral.
And the handful of us who were together a couple weeks ago here in California to remember them.
We feel their death so deeply because they were with us so completely.

It couldn't have been easy on them,
but they made it look that way.
It was their gift...this gift of presence.
The gift of being.

We live in a day when to live in a present way is challenging,
not because we carry any different pressures than any other time,
but because it is so easy  to escape.
I can slip away from my children with a simple swipe of my smartphone.
I can enter the lives of those I haven't seen in decades
Or shop
Or read
Or listen
and not BE.

Even now as I write my children have woken from their nap
and I find I must come to a place in this post where I stop
so I can be with them.
Not just because they have physical needs,
but because they need their mom to BE.

This is not easy...
and I find myself craving an easy life.
I don't want to do the hard work of being present,
I don't want to have to give up my life,
myself in order to be with them
or anyone.

And.
I want more for my children
my marriage
my friendships.

I'll be blogging about these things over the next few weeks...
please join me.

Still

I've noticed
Over the last several years
how insecure I've become.

At first,
I couldn't tell you why.
If you know me,
insecure is not how you would describe me.

And then,
Sitting at my table
on a sunny Sunday afternoon,
While kids are napping,
I emailed a friend
and suddenly I felt it all.

All the newness
over the last 5 years.

New countries.
New languages.
New friends.
New boyfriend.
New fiance.
New husband.
New family.
New international move.
New friends.
New job.
New baby.
New church.
New friends.
New baby.
New job.
New move.
New home.
New church.
Making new friends.

It all hit me.
Really hit me.

I didn't marry until I was 37.
And so,
I was settled with myself for a long time.

Until I wasn't.
And I'm not sure what I'm good at anymore.

And I'm hoping that in the throes of all that is new
I can find that part of peace
in my soul
that whispers: I know who you are. Still.
And again the whisper: Be still. And know. I am.

We've got tonight

I woke this morning
much too early,
to an eager little boy
wanting to eat.
And like I do most mornings,
I stumbled back to bed with him
to nurse.
As he finished,
I hoped he fall back to sleep,
but he didn't.

Through sleep slanted eyes,
I put him in his high chair,
and scattered cheerios on the tray.
When the Planter Guy said:
I had bad news this morning.

An email from Romania,
and a boy we'd worked with was dead.

(His name was George (george-ay).)

Swimming in the Danube with his brother and uncle,
He'd come to a point where he just couldn't tread water anymore,
and called for help.
His brother went to rescue him,
grabbed him,
but couldn't hold on.
And so the current of the Danube did.

They still haven't found George's body.

(His brother's name is Elvis.)

We didn't see George and Elvis when we visited in May.
Neither of them attend the drop-in center where we worked anymore.
We heard Elvis was stealing to make a living.
George was living with his girlfriend; married, the Roma call it.

In May, when I heard this news about how the brothers were living, my heart sank.
These boys had come to the center for years and years,
and my response,
in my sunken, broken heart,
my cry,
was: what the hell, God?

Knowing that the culture of a family and a people
can be stronger than any amount of years
spent at a drop-in center.
And that the culture and cycle and pull and fear of poverty
can be stronger than the years of meals and tutoring and showers and friendship.
The brokenness of poverty exchanged for the brokenness of stealing.
One brokenness for another brokenness.

There is much to say about brokenness at the end of this week,
when we've learned the fate of a man who killed a child.

(The child's name was Trayvon Martin).

I'm not attempting to make any political statements,
and I don't pretend to understand the justice system in the United States,
all I know is
a child is dead,
a mother lost her son.
to a system of fear and prejudice and violence called brokenness
that no court can ever replace.

And this week, too,
the sad passing of a young, talented addict.

(His name was Cory Monteith).

I saw him sing
'We've got tonight',
and my heart...
oh my heart
was swept into a deadly current of ache.

The brokenness of life exchanged for the brokenness of addiction.
All that torments and haunts and skirts around the edges of our aching bulging hearts that can hardly hold anymore that this world has to offer,
trying to fix fear and pain and poverty and prejudice and racial profiling and death with just more brokenness. .

And I've been singing that song all. day. long,
We've got Tonight,
While holding that ache of all that's broken,
and holding my Sophie-girl,
trying to reconcile that oh-so-sweet-tender-ache of her little life with this enormous ache of brokenness.

The girl who just looked at me,
pulled her pacifier out of her mouth,
covered her mouth to cough,
and then put the pacifier back in to resume playing.

She likes to lay in the grass and gaze at the sky.
seriously, she does.
It's almost unreal how she knows to put her arms behind her back and cross her legs and just look at the deep blue.
Once in awhile she points and says: sun!

She likes playing with her shadow.
Really, she does.
she talks to it, doesn't hear me come into the room she's so engrossed in conversation with it.
When I say I'm sorry to her, she puts her hand on my shoulder and says: it's okay, mama.

She's only two.
I'm telling you this girl is good...
she puts trash in the trash
and dirty clothes in the dirty clothes hamper
without being asked.

And.
She's broken.

I'm whirling in all of this today,
thinking about how we'd
rather exchange one brokenness for another brokenness
rather than just ache with what makes us broken...
because what if we're swept up in an ache that takes hold
and never lets go
and our bodies are never found?

Today i'm wondering
if the ache
is part of our glory.
And to sit in it
is a glory,
a privilege,
of living.
I think someone once wrote: The Weight of Glory.

(His name was C.S. Lewis).

I'm not going to quote him.
Instead, I'm going to quote (stay with me) Bob Seger:

I know it's late, I know you're weary 
I know your plans don't include me 
Still here we are, both of us lonely 
Longing for shelter from all that we see 
Why should we worry, no one will care, girl 
Look at the stars so far away 
We've got tonight, who needs tomorrow? 
We've got tonight babe 
Why don' you stay? 

Deep in my soul, I've been so lonely 
All of my hopes, fading away 
I've longed for love, like everyone else does 
I know I'll keep searching, even after today 
So there it is girl, I've said it all now 
And here we are babe, what do you say? 
We've got tonight, who needs tomorrow? 
We've got tonight babe 
Why don't you stay? 

I know it's late, I know you're weary 
I know your plans don't include me 
Still here we are, both of us lonely 
Both of us lonely 

We've got tonight, who needs tomorrow? 
Let's make it last, let's find a way 
Turn out the light, come take my hand now 
We've got tonight babe 
Why don't you stay? 
Why don't you stay?

I'm sure what I'm about to say,
could be dissected a thousand ways,
and all kinds of wrong could be found in it.

And.

What if,
we gave into the ache,
for one night?
What if He,
(His name is Jesus),
Said:

I know it's late, I know you're weary 
I know your plans don't include me 
Still here we are...We've got tonight,
Why don't you stay? 

And. What if He said:

Deep in (your) soul, (you've) been so lonely 
All of (your) hopes, fading away 
(You've) longed for love, like everyone else does...
We've got tonight,
Why don't you stay? 

If you're still reading,
maybe you're rolling your eyes...
All I'm saying is:
if for one night,
or day
or hour
or week
or month
or year
we were present to our ache,
to our brokenness,
we might know the weight of our glory,
of living,
of laying in the grass and gazing at the sky 
and we'd point and say:
Sun!
Because for the first time
we would truly see
and be seen
and the Light would expose 
everything
and we'd be fragile and need to be held carefully.
But instead of being swept into a current of only more brokenness,
we'd be held solid in peace.
Shalom.
Wholeness.

And poverty wouldn't end in theivery.
And prujuidice wouldn't end in murder.
And pain wouldn't end in addiction.
And death? Oh death, where is your sting?

It's coming
that night
that day
that life.

But this night,
this day,
I stay
in this
ache,
and hold my girl,
and all the good this Life has brought.
(His name is Jesus).
And grieve George,
who I knew,
and those others,
who I didn't know
and hope that as I'm present in the pain
I also become more present to the glory,
Laying back in the grass,
pointing to the Light.

This post is dedicated to Emily Wierenga, who was present in brokenness.

And, I lie: 
From The Weight of Glory:

“At present we are on the outside of the world, the wrong side of the door. We discern the freshness and purity of morning, but they do not make us fresh and pure. We cannot mingle with the splendours we see. But all the leaves of the New Testament are rustling with the rumour that it will not always be so. Some day, God willing, we shall get in.” 

Hello Old Friends

...There's really nothing new to say,
but the old old Story bears repeating,
and the same old Truth grows dearer everyday...
~Rich Mullins

It's been months and months since I've written.
I had a baby.
I went back to work.
And a lot of other stuff just had to wait.

And today,
writing should have to wait.
But as a brightening day hovers on the edge of gray,
I sit with my laptop
while my kids nap,
and I write.

When I began this blog
it was with the intention of processing my way through
what it means to plant the trees of our lives,
lives with roots that grow deep and offer shade and rest and protection for generations.
And now, those trees are being uprooted.

Again.

My husband, the one I plant with,
took a job with Word Made Flesh,
and with them we are moving to Portland, Oregon.

Just when we were feeling settled.
Just when we'd adjusted from our international move.
Just when it seemed everything was coming together...
the unpredictable happened.

In some ways the decision was a no-brainer.
I'd dreamed of what it would mean to one day bring our children to Kolkata
and introduce them to a place that had made Jesus more real to me.
We knew returning to Romania would always be part of our lives,
and so would the Center where we had served.
Working with Word Made Flesh would be not only a vocation for my planter guy,
but for our entire family.
Serving Jesus among the most vulnerable.

And.
This means leaving our home.
The one we made here...
friends and family and children and church and work and parks and restaurants and coffee and mountains and beaches and desert and neighbors and streets and palm trees and laughter and hugs and knowing and being known and dinners and lunches and errands and worship and community and I'll see you in an hour.

And when my little girl cries to play with a friend who no longer is just around the corner.
And when my heart aches at the little ones who I will watch grow from a distance, and not in the everyday when we almost don't notice how much they are changing because we see one another so much.
And when they say they adore my girl.
And when I don't know who will meet us for Taco Tuesday.
Or the church we will attend.
Or the friends we will make.
Or the Papa and Gammy who are far away.

When we aren't known and the struggle wasn't known and so the joy isn't as sweet.

I wonder if it's worth it.

My living room is littered with boxes.
Testaments of a life of blessing.
My children nap and their rest is full and their peace is deep
and I know that what I hope for them can lie here or there,
but mostly it resides in who we will be.

And the being
leads to the doing.
And the doing
leads to love.
And hope.

Hope that the testaments of a life of blessing are not boxes packed with our stuff,
but the sacrament of our lives...
the broken bread,
the poured out wine,
the Word made flesh.
In order that others may know Love,
that they will drink and never thirst again...
that they will taste and see.

We be and do and love and hope
and pull up our roots and pray
that the transplant takes.
That the new soil we plant in
will only make us grow deeper,
so that our trees grow taller
and our limbs bigger,
offering more shade and rest and protection
to a world deeply weary.

Knowing...so well,
that all we leave behind
strengthens and feeds and forms us,
for what lies ahead.

For this we are grateful.
And humbled.

Filled boxes are not the only testament of a blessed life.

So are our aching hearts.