God's Beautiful Design

Today was a long, hard, but in many ways good day. I am exhausted this evening and know this will be short, but I did feel like writing.

I spent the day downtown: first, visiting with my dear friend Erin, who went through surgery yesterday where she had a number of cancerous tumors removed; second, getting my second of three brain radiation treatments; and third, having an appointment with an ENT about the terrible pain, pressure, and fluid in my ear.

All of that put together, with a lunch in there somewhere with my precious husband, was wonderful in some ways, sad in others, and just plain tiring overall to this very tired body. I spent most of our way into town this morning crying because the bright sunlight, so beautiful on the autumn trees, was triggering headaches (which can happen sometimes right now). I spent other parts of the day smiling: over Erin's sweet grogginess and the chance we had to hug each other and the opportunity I had to pray for her; over my radiologist Anthony's kind chuckle and pleasant spirit; over the kindness of my husband every time I melted into tears after this hard week in my own cancer journey; over the compassion and care of various doctors and nurses and restaurant workers along the way; over the beauty of red leaves on bushes; and yes, over the beautiful photograph of a butterfly in the exam room at my ENT's office.

I was in the room for quite a while since they were trying to get in touch with my neurosurgeon, and I spent that time looking at the photo and contemplating the beauty of the butterfly. I'm not sure what kind if was, but it was mostly black with teal spots on its wings. As I meditated on this lovely creature, I found myself looking back and forth between the two wings and noticing the symmetry between the patterns on each side of its body. I found myself realizing how much they looked like a painter's carefully composed strokes. And I found myself wondering, not for the first time in my life, "How can someone look at a creature like this and not see grand design?"

Even in the midst of the worst pain and suffering of my life this year, I am grateful to find moments where I am reminded of the beauty and grace of God's loving design. I felt it today in notes from friends, in the butterfly's wings, in the words God sent to me on the radiation table when I was praying for protection from the radiation (asking him to help it do all it needed to do but not to harm me in any way) -- that last was kind of comical, because Anthony had spent a while needing to tip my head up to get the mask set right around my chin, and when I asked the Lord for words to meditate on as I prayed for protection, what did he send me? "Thou oh Lord, art a shield about me, you're my glory and the lifter of my head!" (Psalm 3:3) I saw his design in the craft tables set out in the hospital cafe space, where I ran across a craftswoman who had created a beautiful card and key chain with the EXACT verse that the Lord gave me when I first discovered I had cancer last February: "The Lord will fight for you -- you need only to be still" (Exodus 14:14). I needed that word again today; I truly needed it.

There are times, I will confess, when right now I feel like my life is filled with chaos. I do not understand why I am so sick, or why others I love are so sick, and why our nation and world are in such pain. I do not understand why all these things are allowed by the God I love. I do not understand everything he is teaching me through it.

But I know he is keeping me upright. And I know his design is beautiful, loving, and true, even if right now all I see are the tangled threads on the back side of the tapestry. One day it will be flipped over for me, and I will see it in the light of his countenance, the whole beautiful, glowing, golden design. Until then, I will just keep trusting him and holding his hand. And I will keep looking for grace notes.

"With Nothing on My Tongue But Hallelujah"

I haven't posted anything here on my blog for almost a month. That's because it's been a very difficult month.

The cancer I have been battling since my diagnosis in February took an unexpected turn we had not ever foreseen. It decided to move to my brain. The terrible headaches I was experiencing for a few weeks, along with the memory issues, were a result of that. They discovered it in an MRI on October 17 (just  a couple of days after my last post). I was immediately checked into the hospital and I had brain surgery on the 20th. The amazing neurosurgeon was able to get it all, and thank the Lord, there were no repercussions affecting my speech or my memory (which was my biggest fear).

This year has been the most exhausting road I've ever walked. It started with my mother's unexpected death last December, and it's moved along since then with every exhausting twist and turn you could imagine. My original symptoms and hospital visits in late January. My initial bladder surgery and my late stage/metastasized cancer diagnosis in February. The pain in my bone (where the cancer first moved) for months and months. My radiation and intensive chemo treatments in February, March, and April. Immunotherapy since May, still ongoing every two to three weeks. The neuropathy that began in my hands and feet in June and has gotten worse since. The good news in August that the cancer in the original site was gone, and that it had decreased -- miraculously -- in the bone by 20-30 percent, and that there was even some unexpected new bone growth (and yes, even good news of this magnitude can be exhausting in a different way...there are just so many emotions one goes through on a journey of this kind). The beginning of the headaches and other issues in the fall. The realization that our building was being sold and that we would need to move from the apartments where we've lived for nearly twenty years. A hunt for a house we could rent and move into that we could actually afford. Fundraising my family has done for us, which has blessed us so much. The diagnosis of the brain cancer and the surgery to remove it in October. The beginning of our packing and moving in the past two weeks. The painful national election and its even more painful aftermath so far.

Even typing the list of what I've gone through makes me tired, but I don't think the words can easily convey how hard this all has been.

But words do help me through it. Words from the Scriptures that speak the Lord's heart to me. Words from friends who send love and encouragement. Words I use to process the pain. Words from poetry, songs, and stories that mean so much to me and help me find some order in the midst of disorder. Words from my old journals (which I've been looking through late in the night when I can't sleep) which show me ways in which God was preparing me for this walk, even years ago.

The song that's been making the rounds on social media this week is "Hallelujah" by Leonard Cohen, the poetic song writer who died last Monday at the age of 82. It's a song I've heard before, of course, but I find myself listening to it with new ears. Today I just spent some time crying my way through it, especially the final verse:

"I did my best, it wasn't much
I couldn't feel, so I tried to touch
I've told the truth, I didn't come to fool ya
And even though
It all went wrong
I'll stand before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah"

I think what gets me about this stanza is the idea that even when it seems as though everything has gone wrong, when we are spent and broken and exhausted, we can still stand before the Lord of Song (what a wonderful name for God) and offer praise.  That's what I hope to do...today, tomorrow, for the rest of my life, however long it may be, and for eternity.

I have scans again tomorrow, on the original areas of the cancer (bladder and bone). These will be the first ones since August. It's been nine months since my diagnosis. Nine months feels significant to me, maybe because I'm a mama who remembers carrying my daughter for nine months as she was knit together. I am praying for signs of healing tomorrow, healing and new life. But no matter what the scans reveal, even if they all go wrong, "I'll stand before the Lord of Song/With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah."

The Closer I Cling to My King (Original Poem)

Yesterday was an exhausting day. I didn't feel well (dealing with headaches still, as well as issues with my neuropathy) and my daughter was sick with a terrible cold and sore throat and fever.  It was just an overwhelming day on all sides, which left me feeling beat up and discouraged.

As I've been sorting through piles of papers and books, I've been gathering up many of my old journals. I even finally found the journal I was writing in this past spring when I was going through chemo. One of the entries I re-read from late April, just a week or so after my last chemo treatment, included some reflections I wrote about trying to stay steady in my heart and in touch with joy when I was so exhausted and ill. It was good for me to read those words yesterday when I was dealing with exhaustion again. It's so hard to deal with illness that hangs on for so long. And one of the lines which particularly caught my attention was "that is what I am holding onto in my heart right now -- that the closer I cling to my King, the more I remember I am his daughter and the less I will fall into despair."

The "closer I cling to my King" line kept playing through my mind. And this is the little poem that came together this morning.

The closer I cling
to my King,
the more songs
he gives me to sing.
With my heart I am
able to bring
all the pain that I
feel I can fling
at his feet. Now
his love forms a ring
round my sapling
hope, and gives
my lame prayers wing.
The closer I cling
to my King,
the more songs
he gives me to sing.

(EMP, 9/29/16)

Perspectacles

I can't remember which blogger coined the word "perspectacles," but I love it.

I have been given new perspectacles on a lot of things this year. Having an aggressive/caught late cancer will do that for you.

As we move into our summer schedules, I am discovering new perspectacles on the most ordinary of activities. Here are a few things I feel completely differently about than I did a few months ago.

Walking. 
It wasn't very long ago that I could barely walk at all, and was having to use a wheel chair whenever I went in for treatments at the cancer center. This week I walked to the post office from our home, which is probably about a quarter mile. Yes, I was very slow, and yes, sometimes my leg and feet hurt, and yes, I stopped and took a half-hour break at the seminary before walking back home. But I did it. And it was lovely to do this walk with my sweet teen girl, who danced ahead of me most of the way but came hurrying back when I needed her. Favorite moment might have been when I took her arm as we stopped at a crosswalk. Years of taking her hand or arm when she was little compelled her to exclaim "Mom! I don't need you to hold onto me while I cross the street!" at which point I just chuckled and said, "I'm not holding on because you need it. I'm holding on because I do."

Showering.
I had months where I couldn't shower easily without help. Getting in and out of the shower was painful. Standing up for more than a couple of minutes was painful. Bending down to pick up the soap I dropped was painful or too hard to bother. You get it. I wouldn't shower unless someone else was home in case I got shaky or nauseated and needed help getting out. And I almost always needed help getting dressed. These days I am fine on my own. Still slow, especially the dressing part, but that's okay.

My hair.
Did I used to get stressed about bad hair days? I suppose so, but I can't remember. Right now I am just so happy that my hair is starting to grow again. It is short and fuzzy...for a while I felt like a peach or a cucumber, and then a hedgehog, and now a teddy bear. Years of mostly long, thick hair did not prepare me for no hair at all, and I don't think I will ever forget the day my dear sister Mary bravely shaved my wispy haired head (while both of us resolutely did not cry). While I stayed philosophical about it (hair seemed like a small price to pay for treatments that could help save my life) I have missed my hair and am so  happy to see it coming in again.

Grocery stores.
When I walked into one a week or so ago, it was the first time I had been in a grocery store since January. I was so blessed that, during these past few months, my faithful husband shopped for us, and my precious sisters. And people sent meals. But oh, it was such a delight to peruse the produce aisles. I am even finding myself enjoying meal planning. And I'm cooking a little bit. Didn't I use to complain about that too?

Web content work.
Writing web content is not the most creative work on the planet. In fact, it is often downright boring. I've done a lot of it in the past couple of years, and I have often referred to it as my floor mopping kind of work. I'm grateful to have it, but it's not really fun. This past week, I wrote web content for my favorite client for the first time in almost five months. And you know what? Weirdly, it was fun. It made me happy that my brain and fingers were working well enough together that I could put sentences and paragraphs together in ways that made sense. And cents. Because I haven't been paid regularly in many months either, and earning even a little bit again made me feel very grateful.

Journaling and sketching.
My hands are somewhat numb from neuropathy, and I don't hold a pen or a pencil terribly well, but I *can* hold a pen or pencil, and thank God, I can also type. And I'm awake and energetic enough to spend time both sketching and journaling again. Thank you, God.

School portfolio.
It's June, which means I have to pull together the sweet girl's school portfolio. I dreaded it this year, because the second half of the year was such a difficult and challenging time, and I didn't feel enough work had been done. But you know what? Even though this learning year did not look "normal" (by any stretch of the imagination) a lot of learning happened. A lot. More academic work than I realized (including a whole slew of things I'd forgotten we'd done first semester, before everything hit the fan) but also plenty of life learning.

Lesson planning.
That I am even well enough to contemplate the fall and to begin planning lessons just feels like a blessing. Still not sure how we're going to pay for all we need, but you know what, that's a perennial concern, not a dire one, and even ordinary commonplace worries feel good right now. Weirdly so. This week I worked through a semester's worth of English plans for S' 9th grade year.

Things I've misplaced.
I've misplaced so many things in the past several months it's not funny, but I am starting to find them again, a little at a time. Some of them are things I didn't even know I was missing (a couple of gift cards wonderful people sent when I first got sick, which are actually coming in very handy now) and some of them are things I really hope to find (my blue writing bag and my notebook with all my timeline/background work for my novel, which I hope will soon be my novel-in-progress again). But you know what? The more I clean and organize, the more I keep finding things, and it's such a joy. And I don't find that I am getting overly irritated at myself for misplacing things, the way I used to, because really, who wouldn't have misplaced stuff during all the blurry, crazy weeks of pain and sleep and stress? I am actually amazed I didn't lose more stuff!

Loved ones.
Family and friends have been incredible during this time. The prayers that have been prayed on my behalf and behalf of my family, the meals that have been cooked or bought for my family, the times people have taken care of my dear daughter, the lovely things sent my way -- cards and notes and letters and prayer shawls and checks and gift cards and weekly communion and lovely artwork and Facebook pictures and videos -- all of this has just sustained me (and us) and made me feel so loved. For months, our place had one or more vases of fresh flowers in it almost all the time (I tossed the last dried flowers yesterday).  In the midst of everything, I have had time to contemplate a lot going on in the lives of some friends, and I am really in awe over the compassion and courage and calling of many of the people I know. I feel so blessed by our network of community. Thank you for the church, Lord. Thank you for people who care. 



 

Life Goes On

It's been a long time since I have managed a blog post. The past several weeks have been a long, exhausting blur. If I had to pick one word to describe them, it would probably be slog.

Having cancer is a terrible thing. Lots of well meaning people will tell you, when you have it, not to let it rob you of the things that matter, and it's true that attitude matters. But the plain fact is, being bludgeoned by serious illness and intensive chemotherapy just takes a lot out of you. It changes everything  - your body, your face, your daily routine, your relationships, your faith journey. It wears you out and wears you down. It makes you feel like a stranger to yourself sometimes.

I am tired on all sorts of levels today, and I am simply here to say sometimes it is okay to rage and okay to grieve. It's not giving too much power over to the reality; it's simply acknowledging that sometimes reality is just hard. Really, really hard. And while I am thankful for prayers, peace, love, and people who care - all part of this journey- I have days where I just need to say I am weary, and that is the truth. I have days where I need to say enough is enough, and I want healing, and "how long, Lord?" And to know it is okay to say those things and okay to cry and okay to want my life back.

A Feather on the Breath of God

It's been well over a month since I've posted anything here. During that time, I've undergone a round of radiation and two rounds of chemotherapy. I have experienced a good deal of pain and a lot of fatigue. And I am still deep in the midst of a long, hard road, the road I am calling my healing journey.

I am just now beginning to feel as though I can write a little about how I am feeling. Both reading and writing -- my go-to pleasures and habits of a lifetime -- felt too exhausting during the initial days and weeks after diagnosis. Sometimes literally too exhausting -- I would try to read and fall asleep before I reached the end of a page, or I just found it too tiring to sit at a keyboard or pick up a pen. I'm still incredibly tired, but I'm in the midst of an extra week "off" between chemo rounds, to try to build my strength before the next one. And I am thankful that I am beginning to be able to read and write again and find solace and comfort in that.

Re-reading is such a gift in times of illness. For me right now, I am needing the comfort of familiar and beloved stories. I re-read The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society (a favorite novel I tend to read annually) and am in the middle of re-reading the Harry Potter books. I am thinking I make take a dive into some old Agatha Christie novels soon too, and I've read bits of some favorite Austen books.

While I'm not feeling like tackling anything new and large, I am finding I can read new reflections, articles, and poems, so I've spent some time online doing that, especially some pertinent things for Lent and Holy Week.

Mostly I am trying to rest...not just outwardly, but inwardly. I am resting in God's goodness. I am resting in his loving care for me and in the knowledge that he is the great and gentle healer. I am trying to abide in Jesus and "stay on the mat," as a friend advised me (the image comes from the gospel story where friends brought their parlyzed friend lying on a mat to the feet of Jesus -- so thankful I am that so many people are bringing me to his feet right now)! I am spending time in the Word and meditating on the words God gives me, through the Scriptures and through others.

My friend Erin sent me a FB video the other day that showed a bunch of swirling flower petals on a street. It was lovely -- just a group of beautiful pink petals all caught up in a vortex of wind, swirling this way and that (almost looking like a flock of birds). I loved the image of those petals caught up in the unseen wind, blown about in such an intricate dance. It made me think of Hildegard's "feather on the breath of God" and how I long to let myself be steered by the Holy Spirit.

So Much Goodness, So Much Grace

"Why is God so good to us?" may have been just about the most beautiful thing I've heard said in a long time. Those were the words spoken to me by the sweet girl last night as we hugged each other before bedtime. They sort of burst from her spontaneously and left me standing there almost limp with joy. (Okay, yes, I was very tired, but the joy was real too!)

My dear thirteen year old daughter has struggled a lot over the goodness of God in the past couple of years, especially with the big questions like "how is God good when there's so much suffering?" To hear her so joyfully affirm her sense of his goodness at the end of what has undoubtedly been the hardest week and a half of her life makes me so grateful.

These days really have been hard....very hard. My sudden swoop into serious illness, the uncertainty and anxiety we're all living under as we await more news on my diagnosis, the way the world felt like it turned upside down as I had doctor appointments, surgery, and have been having to put the brakes on almost everything "normal" in our life routine so that I can rest and heal -- all of this has been hard. It would be hard for any family and any thirteen year old. The fact that many of the challenges tap the sweet girl's most challenging places of anxiety has sometimes felt like another rushing and scary part of this whole tsunami.

And yet....

She is feeling and sensing and KNOWING the goodness of God. As I am. As are we all.

And she is feeling and sensing and knowing God's goodness through God's people. Her question last night: "why is God so good to us?" came on the heels of other exclamations: "I love people. I love God!"  And I knew exactly what she meant. I do too, and I especially love how God loves us THROUGH his people. It's astounding.

Why is God so good to us? Because he loves us, and because that's who he is.

In other good news today...
I had a very broken night's sleep, and finally got some good, healing sleep in the later part of the morning, after taking more pain medication.

When I woke up around 8, I reached for my water (doing a good job of staying hydrated) and my groggy mind started the phrase "this is the day...." I think what my brain was going for was "this is the day you might hear from the oncologist."

But the long engrained habit of Scripture reading and memorization took over. My heart and mind interrupted with the words "....that the Lord has made, we will rejoice and be glad in it."

Can I just say how deeply, deeply thankful I am for all the words of God that I've tucked away over the years? Beginning at the kitchen table with my own dear Mama and dancing through these last years when I've sung and repeated and taught and rehearsed so many words from the Scriptures with the sweet girl. They are there now, like a treasure house, ready to draw on. Or like a spring welling up inside me and bursting out when I don't even expect it.

Holding onto lots of truth today: that God is good, that he loves us so, that he made this day, that we can rejoice in it. No matter what. 

Different Kinds of Questions

Life has changed a lot since my last post. I spent most of Wednesday in the ER, most of Friday at another hospital for testing, and will go back to the hospital for surgery on Tuesday. I am currently feeling rather like an invalid, living with a catheter at home and still struggling with pain and stiffness on my right side, which is making everything more challenging. The biggest challenge right now, beyond sheer physical tiredness, is living under the weight of "what if." Surgery on Tuesday should hopefully show me a little more of what I might be facing.

At the moment, everything feels different than it did just a few short days ago when my body, though not without its aches and pains, still felt like it worked as it should.

I find myself waking up with entirely different questions than I did before facing serious illness. I think my daily (perhaps sometimes unconscious) questions used to be "what" and "how much" -- as in "what do I need to do today?" and "how much can I get done?" Right now the question is more "how" -- as in "how can I get through this day one step at a time?" and "how can I live today in such a way that I am not giving into stress and fear?" and "how can I bring God glory and myself and my family peace through the way I respond to what is happening right now?" I keep reminding myself this is not a bad way to live, though I surely hope to soon be functioning better physically.

My dad reminded me a couple of days ago, when he called to check on me, that it had been 40 days since Mama passed away. Such a biblical number. Surely this has been one of the biggest wilderness periods I've ever known.

My View, God's View

My involvement in social media, especially Facebook, has both widened my world and made it feel smaller. It's widened my world in that I am able to more readily connect with many more people as well as learn things about them and about the world that I never knew before. It's made my world feel smaller in that I begin to realize how deeply connected we all are, how much we share in common, even those of us who don't really know each other.

I've been thinking about that this week as I'm a little bit on overload with life. Still grieving my mom's loss at the same time I am celebrating her homecoming to glory -- an unexpected month ago today. Time marching relentlessly on and there's so much to do: homeschooling, ministry, household tasks, writing work. Still hurting and aching and dealing with broken sleep patterns. Deadlines that were graciously extended for me in early January are upon me now, and I am writing, writing, writing to get things done, still not sure I can possibly make them. Our difficult fourth quarter financially has pushed us into a hard one again in this first quarter of the new year, and I am needing to pick up extra web content writing at a time when I don't have the mental space or the physical stamina to do it, but I'm doing it anyway because the bills have to be paid. Hours at the computer, even with stretching and moving breaks, are exacerbating my back and hip issues. I am worn out on almost every level, but I am being very careful to keep taking one small step at a time and to keep holding onto Jesus.

In the midst of all this, I am checking in daily at FB, as I usually do, and finding my news feed so full of things to celebrate and mourn that it can almost be overwhelming. I'm not sure there's really any difference in what I'm seeing in my feed right now and what's usually there -- I'm just noticing more, feeling extra sensitive to what I'm reading. My rejoicing feels deeper and my sadness more intense. It's not a bad thing really, and it's not something that I feel I need to stop doing (I'm trying to be careful not to spend too much time on the trivial stuff, but I do love the ways the things I read there can inform my prayers). But it strikes me, not for the first time, how deeply glad I am that God is God and I am not. I cannot even keep straight the interconnections of my own one life, and yet God, in his vastness and majesty and wisdom is able to keep ALL the web of connections straight, not just in my life but in every life. He not only sees them and knows them and loves us through them, he helps us to untangle the threads and see the pattern. He hears the cries and rejoices with the rejoicing and nudges the reluctant and encourages the weary and gently corrects the ones who are wandering and calls out to those who don't yet know him. It is an amazing thing to contemplate from my own tired and sometimes overwhelmed vantage point. He does not grow weary. He does not faint. He does not stop loving us no matter how gorgeously or sadly tangled and complex our lives grow -- and sometimes the beauty and the sadness are so interwoven we can't see where one stops and another starts.

Just this week I have marveled over the first flower grown in space, contemplated incredible art, looked at auroras viewed from the International Space Station, and watched video footage of waves washing up on the shores of Galilee (taken by friends on sabbatical). I have mourned with a family whose baby died, rejoiced with a friend for whom God miraculously provided all the funds they needed to bring home their fifth adopted child, rejoiced with that same friend in the news that she is ten years cancer free, and marveled over the fact that she is not resting on the joys of being able to bring home her little girl, but beginning to raise funds for wheelchairs for other children in the same orphanage. I have smiled over  the stories told my an acquaintance who remembers praying for a certain country when she was a little girl: a country she is currently visiting so she can get to know her newly adopted teenage daughter, a country where it has been difficult for the gospel to gain a hearing and yet where she saw fifteen baptisms of new Christians this week. I have smiled over the excitement felt by some families, children, and yes, teachers, over approaching snowstorms.

This is just a tiny slice of some of the connections that happen to be passing before my eyes over the past few days. It's amazing to ponder the wonders, moments, and stories that God contemplates each and every day from the vantage point of his almighty view. That he doesn't just contemplate them but act within them and through them for our good and his glory is incredibly beautiful and humbling. I am so thankful to be his daughter.

Grief Feels Like...

I feel like I could start a series of post called "what no one ever tells you about grief." It's strange, because I have lost people I've loved before, and grieved other losses and other hard things, but I have never before felt the giant, absorbing nature of grief the way I have in the past two weeks since my mother passed.

My dad and siblings and I all keeping checking in on each other. We're a family that loves words and stories and we process things by talking them out (always have) and I find we're all fumbling for words to describe how we feel and then laughing or crying or both when those words come up inadequate.

My sister said it best for me today when she said she feels like she's moving through molasses. Yes. My brain is slow; I am having to think and then think and think again about what I need to do next, or what I'm in the process of doing. I would be panicking over work deadlines (there are so many) but I honestly don't have room in my tired, achey state for panic. Maybe that's a good thing.

My body feels like it's been slammed by a truck. I am hoping to be able to see a chiropractor soon. All the usual remedies I use for flare-ups of aches and pains during stressful times are not working. I keep thinking I might be coming down with something, but I think it's just being worn out. Prayers for my low back, right hip, knee, and ankle are much appreciated. Right now it often feels like I have constant discomfort and sometimes downright pain all the way down the right (my right side is always the side that flares-up when I'm sick or stressed, and always has been).

Listening to "Still, Still, Still..." and feeling so grateful, once again, that it's still Christmas. I wish it could last even longer this year. I'm not ready to turn the corner into cold and dark. I love Epiphany...but we need more Epiphany songs and carols, yes? 

The Creativity Angel Come to Visit

I had to laugh when I walked into the living room this morning and discovered the creativity angel on the floor.

Twenty-eight years ago I spent a year in Connecticut, living with my older sister. We spent a lot of time reading, cooking, and creating together. One of her gifts to me that year a set of tiny "angel cards." Each card has a picture of a small angel on it, right next to a gift word. "Responsibility," "Surrender," "Love," "Creativity," etc.

I honestly am not sure where the whole set is anymore, but occasionally the angels turn up in unexpected places, as angels tend to do.

Today's angel was, I'm pretty sure, tucked inside a basket of photographs and cards that I keep on the white shelf between my dining room and living room. The basket overturned late last night when I was hunting for a hole punch so that Jedi Teen could finish up her Stars Wars Christmas ornaments (speaking of creativity). I scooped everything up willy-nilly and shoved it all back in the basket, too tired to organize it in any way. Apparently the creativity angel escaped my clean-up efforts. Seems fitting somehow!

And this morning, I think I finally finished this year's advent poem. 

May the creativity angel visit your house soon too.

Confessions of a Bake Off Watcher

It's been a very busy November with mountains of writing deadlines and plenty of other work and ministry. I feel I've been going at quite a galloping pace! It's not always been easy, especially since I'm continuing to work through some health issues (and just recently finished a round of antibiotics).

In the midst of all this busyness, I've found myself working a lot of very late nights and early mornings. Sometimes those are the best hours right now for writing and thinking, when the house is quiet and I can push through larger sections of work than I can when I'm working in the cracks and crevices of the day. I have discovered that I am becoming more of a morning person all the time -- which just makes me laugh. All those years I dragged out of bed for early commitments, and now I am often awake early and can't get back to sleep. I find my mind is fresher and usually more creative in the morning.

All this work has meant very little down time, especially for reading or any sort of creative writing that isn't immediately work related. When I've needed brain breaks, I've been indulging in bits of episodes of the Great British and Great Irish Bake Offs.

If you haven't caught these shows, they're great fun, especially if you enjoy watching other people bake. I love both the actual baking and the goofiness of the competition. These shows are terrific little opportunities for character studies: it's fun to notice which contestants take themselves and their baking as serious art, which ones bake like it's relaxed therapy, which ones cheerfully deal with mistakes and try to incorporate them into something creative or at least presentable, and which ones completely melt down (like chocolate?) when in crisis. The editing of the shows is intended, of course, to make these bake offs look as competitive and tense as possible, but I find it sort of goofily endearing, especially since they are a lot less over the top about this stuff in the UK than they are on American television.

It's also so much fun to contemplate creativity as you watch them approach their ideas. Some of them have these incredibly cool and creative ideas and can't carry them out at all while others are cautious in their ideas and meticulous in the execution. Some of them are so confident that it borders on cocky and can't get overly deflated even when their stuff falls apart, and some of them are so incredibly insecure that the cameraman tends to focus on their anxious eyes as they work. It's the insecure folks, I'm discovering, who often turn out the best things...and then look delighted and surprised.

The shows are really as much about people and personalities as they are baking, but I'm still learning new baking terms and concepts. I doubt I will ever try many of these things in my own kitchen, but I have found myself thinking a little more creatively about my own baking lately because of it, and I have a feeling I may end up working some of my newfound baking terminology into a story at some point! In fact, I was thinking a murder mystery in a bake off tent just might prove to be an intriguing plot.

An Open Letter to the Story Idea That is Fast Slipping Away

Dear Story Idea,

Please come back.

I know it has been about 36 hours since you first came to me in my Thursday morning shower. I know you really, really wanted to be written down right after that, when you were fresh and when all the creative connections were still firing in my brain.

I know it's not your fault that you chose to come on one of the busiest days of my week. During a season of huge amounts of work deadlines that I am struggling to meet. During a time of real financial stress. In the midst of ongoing weirdness with my health.

I planned to get back to you later yesterday. And again last night. And again this morning. And after I got some of my work done. And housework. And school time. And helped my daughter through a really hard day. And cried for a while.

I didn't know how my tiredness and discouragement would send you into hiding.

I've been feeling pretty lonely, and having you drop in yesterday in the midst of everything that feels so fragile and tiring felt really great. I'm sorry you couldn't stay longer.

It sure would be nice if you'd come back to visit. I promise I will try to be ready with a pen this time.

Love.

Limitations and Confidence

I had one of those conversations today that got me thinking about limitations and confidence. As I contemplate my ongoing work as a teacher (in the midst of parenting, ministry, and writing) I often struggle to find the distinctions between knowing and acknowledging my real limitations and simply lacking confidence.

Does anyone else have anything in their life that they feel this way about?

I got into teaching very much through the back door. I’ve never been trained as a teacher; everything I’ve learned as a teacher I’ve learned from experience. I rarely get opportunities for ongoing conversations or professional development that help me grow as a teacher, except in the cracks and crevices of an ongoing learning life of my own.

And these days, I seem to be teaching everywhere: as a homeschooling parent, as a children’s ministry worker, as a graduate school adjunct, as a teacher for an online diocesan lay institute, as a curriculum developer and writer. There’s almost no part of my life that isn’t suffused with teaching of one sort or another, and this past year I literally worked with students as young as three on up through retirement age. The fact that the door keeps opening for me to teach leads me to believe…I hope, I pray….that it’s a calling I’m supposed to be embracing.

I love teaching. There are parts of it I know I do well. There are other parts I know I don’t do so well, sometimes due to lack of time – time to read, think, process, discuss, experiment, grow, pay attention, check out new scholarship. Other lacks that frustrate me at times are lacks in financial resources and decent technology. There are other parts I know I don’t do so well because I just don’t do them well. I don’t know if I could ever develop certain skills as a teacher because I’m not sure I am gifted in certain areas. Like most teachers (I guess?) I try to build on my strengths.

But there are times when I am called upon for a teaching project when I find myself standing in front of it, feeling so unsure if I am adequate to the task, and not always knowing if it’s just me being tired and overwhelmed and lacking confidence, or me coming up against a real wall because I just don’t have the brain and the gifts needed to go any further. This is not intended to be some sort of false humility, by the way. I’m serious about the fact that I sometimes feel very limited as a scholar and teacher, especially when it comes to my work in formal academia.

I don’t mean to be navel gazing. It might sound like that’s what I’m doing, but I honestly wrestle with this question, which becomes a question of practical import when I’m trying to decide which projects to take on and how to approach them. It may not be popular to talk about limitations, but I sometimes need to face the fact that I have them – both tangible and intangible ones. I don’t like the fact that lack of confidence is sometimes part and parcel of the limitations I face, but I suspect it often is. Trying to detangle all that is difficult. Sometimes I retreat and sometimes I take the plunge; sometimes I serve my students better than others. 

Grateful for opportunities, but I do confess sometimes I wish I could put my energies into one or two places, at most, and really dig in wholeheartedly and deepen in those places. Given the current season of our lives and our family's needs, I don't think that's going to happen any time soon, which means I need to keep on learning to do as well as I can putting together the myriad small pieces that make up the mosaic of my working and creative life.  And being as faithful as I can to do them well, even when I can't give some of them the attention they deserve.

Typing, Naming, and Praying

Once a month I type up revisions to my parish's prayer sheet. This is a sheet that gets distributed to the congregation each month with updated lists of people to pray for: people in need of healing, people we work with in church outreaches, local and national community leaders, missionaries and ministry workers connected to our church in some way, people being persecuted for their faith. It's a long list. Included in it are also diocesan and international prayer cycles: we pray for various bishops, priests, deacons, and lay people at work in our diocese, in our national church body, and in the wider Anglican communion.

I long ago discovered that it's easier for me to type in the rotating lists of names than to try to lift them from online sources and paste them in. That's particularly true for the communion-wide list, which is printed online in such a way that moving names via copy/paste would wreak formatting havoc with my document, leaving me with lots to clean up and reformat. Despite the fact that it may seem a little tedious to have to type all names in one at a time, especially when some of the names are unusual to this English speaker and not easy to spell, it's still faster and tidier than doing it any other way, in my humble opinion. But more than that, it gives me time to think, ponder, and pray my way through the list as I type.

There's something wonderfully grounding and connecting about typing in a person's name (and making sure you've spelled it accurately). Even though you may never have seen or even heard of this person, typing their name somehow gives you a tangible link with who they are. Since all of the names I'm working with are names of leaders, mostly bishops and archbishops, I know that each one of them has a challenging role and a lot on their hearts, no matter where they serve. Some of the names I type in with ease, and some I stumble over, breaking them into unusual syllables and then putting them back together, wondering if my mental pronunciation is anywhere close to how you actually say the name. Some of the bishops are in countries torn by war or where Christians face daily persecution. As I type their names, I find myself lifting each of them to God and praying that the Lord will watch over his servant.

And I love the names. Some of them have three or four names, many of them biblical. Then there are names (first, middle, or last) that evoke a picture: names like Godson, Maker, and Coffin (all fascinating names for bishops, I think). There are African names like Aladekugbe and Asian names like Iso. There are names that bring to mind Irish, Scots, or Welsh saints.

Sometimes  I confess I am tired when prayer-sheet revision time rolls around, and part of me doesn't feel like taking the time to scroll through the lists and type in the letters. But most of me realizes that by the time I'm done, I will feel more in tune and more connected with people of God all around the world, and more gratefully aware of the myriad of stories that are all connected just in this one slim chapter of the story of the communion of the saints. I know my typing in these lists is just a tiny service but it's one that refuels me every month to remember what a privilege is it to be part of the worldwide body of Christ and to pray for my family.

Just as Geeky as my Grandmother

One of things I sometimes miss is being able to afford magazines. While I know there are many cool things that can be seen and read about online, I still love the feel and look of a magazine, especially one with good writing and gorgeous photographs.

When we recently got an offer to subscribe to Smithsonian magazine for less than a dollar an issue for a year, I confess I leaped at the chance. Our first issue came yesterday, and I gave myself some late Saturday evening/Sunday afternoon time to enjoy a few of the articles, including a great cover story about lions and a fascinating look at the current NASA mission due to fly-by Pluto next month.

It dawned on me somewhere along the way that I had a very clear picture in my mind of someone else devouring articles with a Smithsonian magazine in her hands: my grandmother, in the years she lived with us when I was growing up.

Apparently I am just as geeky as my grandmother. Which makes me absurdly happy.

Sorting Papers: Quotes and Poem Scraps from the Daybook

I'm spending part of today sorting through a mountain of papers (a long overdue chore). Most of these have been stuffed into boxes over the past few years, but some of the papers go back much longer. In and among the boxes, I'm finding old student papers, scraps of poems I've written, love notes and drawings from the sweet girl from when she was little, photocopies of articles I saved for teaching or writing purposes, mission newsletters, old sermon notes, and collections of quotes and images. It's a plethora of stuff that looks like spillover from my overactive and far too busy writer-teacher brain.

Every once in a while, when I'm going through mountains like this, I pause to jot down a few of the things I'm finding. I thought I'd share a few quotes from what would be a daybook if I ever had time to make one!

"Don't feel like a failure if you're finding it difficult to pursue God's call or can't discern fruit." (~That's from some very scattered sermon notes from 2004! Eleven years ago...and I still need to hear it. Maybe more now than then.)

"Use what talent you possess. The woods would be very silent if no birds sang except those that sang best." (~Henry Van Dyke, not sure what source)

"The little purple house
with a roof like a cap
perched on the hill
and took a little nap

It shuttered its eyes
and dozed in the sun
and when it woke up
it was almost one

It yawned a big yawn
and its door opened wide.
It invited some friends
to come inside

And into the house
with a roof like a cap
we went right inside
and we too took a nap"

(~EMP, original/undated poem scrap, next to a doodle of a little purple house with a roof like a cap)

Caring for the Vulnerable Among Us

Watching someone you love struggle with dementia is never an easy thing. My mother-in-law's challenges in the past few years -- and prior to that, her challenges as a caregiver for her husband, as he struggled with Alzheimer's -- have made me do a lot of thinking and praying. They've also made me recall the years my grandmother lived with us when I was young. How do we care best for people we love who struggle with memory loss and confusion? How do we show our love and care for them from afar, when we can't be with them all the time? How do we support the people who are their main caregivers if we're not?

There's a very helpful and thoughtful article that deals with those kinds of questions posted at the her:meneutics blog on Christianity Today. One the things I appreciate is the honesty of Benjamin Mast, the author being interviewed, when he talks about the vulnerability of elderly people with dementia and memory loss, and how easy it is for the church to overlook them. They are part of what he terms as an almost invisible demographic.

I've been wrestling with this a lot since our last family visit to Virginia to see my mother-in-law. She has been part of a moderately large non-denominational Bible church for over forty years. Yes, the same church for over forty years. While I was touched at how warmly she was welcomed to her Sunday School class when we took her to the Easter Sunday service, it was apparent that no one had been in touch with her much at all in the intervening months since she'd last been able to make it there. She struggles a great deal with loneliness, and yet from all I can ascertain, it is very rare that she receives calls from anyone at this church, and much more rare for her to receive an actual visit.

I think there are probably lots of reasons for this. Chief among them may be the contemporary, post-modern mindset that assumes that individuals would rather muddle along privately than rely on others for help. I think there is an assumption that family will do the caring, and absent that, that social services and retirement communities (my mother-in-law lives in one) will plug any care deficit. While it's true that there is a chaplain at my mother-in-law's care facility (maybe more than one?) that person is responsible for a great number of people. It also seems odd and painful to me that the local church, which would seem to be the best representative of "family of faith" there is, would so quickly fade out of the picture, even when someone has been a faithful member of that church for decades.

It may call into question how our churches can lack inter-generationality (is that a word? Well, it is now...) By that, I mean generations spending intentional time together. I don't think this has to be all the time. There are certainly times and places where it is appropriate for people to gather with people of their own age and life experience to learn at levels that fit the seasons of their lives. Young children and teenagers aren't the only people who could benefit from that. I think fellowship groups or Sunday School classes for middle aged people could be very beneficial, partly to learn and pray together over the challenges of aging! But when churches are very age-segregated, that can lead to other challenges. I know for many years that my mother-in-law had felt most at home in her own Sunday School class for older people. More and more, she felt out of place at worship, which had grown more casual and contemporary than she felt comfortable with. The people she was most connected to were her age or older, and now when she is struggling, probably many of them are as well.

All of this has made me feel deeply grateful (again, and for yet another reason) to be a part of a historical, liturgical church tradition. Anglicanism, steeped as it is in the threefold ministerial offices of bishops, priests, and deacons, reserves a very important and biblical role for deacons as leaders in pastoral and practical care for the people of God. (I love deacons! And not just because I consider many of them good friends, and have been blessed to teach in the diaconate study program in my diocese for a number of years.)  My dear husband and I have reflected lately on how glad we are to belong to a church tradition that has a long, historically-enriched, biblical practice of pastoral care. It doesn't mean that each and every church we've ever been part of has always practiced it perfectly...that's not possible. But it means that there is a much greater chance of such care being available and humbly and lovingly offered and practiced than in traditions that are shaped more by contemporary values than by historical and biblical ones.

As the body of Christ, we are to rejoice when another member rejoices and suffer when another member suffers. We are also to carry one anothers' burdens and practice loving care amongst the household of saints. And that's true no matter how old and frail the saints may be. Our love for the most vulnerable and "invisible" among us is surely a mark of our love for God. 

We Get To Love One Another

I've been on a long marching road of work, more work, and a little more work recently. I've given up trying to disentangle the thread of the kinds of "work" I do, some of it paid, a lot of it not, some of it fulfilling and satisfying, the kind of work that can almost feel like play, and some of it just one foot in front of the other duty. I've been trying instead to remember some of the many blessings involved in work, such as: I've been given it to do, and as long as I have health and life I get the chance to do it faithfully and lovingly, even the parts of it that can feel like sheer drudgery.

One of the things that blesses my heart no end is that we've been put on this earth not just to breathe and exist, not just to eat and live and love and laugh and worship (though I'm so thankful we get to do all of those things) but so we can love each other. Isn't that amazing? We get to love one another. Some days it's easy, some days it's hard, but it's part of God's call to us, God's gift to us. We get to love one another. Wow.

Patchwork Post (Homesick for Charis, Loving LOTR)

I'm tired. D. is traveling yet again regarding care issues for his mom, something that continues to weigh on our hearts and minds. S. is struggling some in ways she hasn't in a long time. School is taking up more time than I remembered it did, and while that's not a bad thing, I'm having a hard time remembering how to fit everything else I do into the cracks and crevices of our schooling life. I also seem to be coming down with something that is making me feel miserable and draggy.

In the midst of all this, I am missing Charis, the central country of my fictional work-in-progress. D. and I spent a lot of time this summer, sometimes even during our most tired times, working on history and geography. He's marvelous at helping me world-build, and if I wasn't feeling so tired, I think I would be writing a lot right now. Charis and its neighboring kingdoms and their complex history certainly are a big part of my thoughts at the moment. It's finding time and creativity and just plain energy to try to convert those thoughts to paper that's feeling difficult.

Most of my writing time at the moment is taken up with web content, and while I am thankful that writing educational/job profiles and product descriptions (as I can get them) are helping to bring in some necessary income, I am beginning to feel like if I write one more detailed description of a pair of hiking boots or explain one more time how one moves from an RN to BSN degree, I am going to either burst into laughter or tears. My push to accomplish more web content work came in a week when I discovered I wasn't going to be doing teaching assistant work for the seminary this fall (due to low enrollment) and when I had an essay I worked on in the summer turned down by a journal that I had real hopes might want to publish it. So I know some of the frustration level I'm feeling about the "floor mopping" kinds of writing I'm doing (and trying to do with love, since it's part of the way God provides) is part of a larger piece of frustration over a lack of opportunity to do more of the kinds of work that I feel more passionate about.

Mostly I am feeling grumpy and inept. There. That's honest! 

Lots of good things to be thankful for right now, including a good Sunday School kickoff yesterday, plus the ordinary blessings which are never all that ordinary really. Not to mention the fact that we're less than a hundred pages from the end of The Lord of the Rings, our first read-through as a family, and a powerful re-read for me this time through. Thank you, J.R.R. Tolkien, for the fortifying nourishment of your narrative.