remember?

When I stepped outside I could see only a bit of the moon. The season is such that only a sliver of it reflects the light. I saw the orange thumb-nail peaking out, contrasted among the rest of the sky. And I looked for the stars but could find any.

It was like that night when my world seemed to be slipping away and you made me look at the stars. Standing on the sidewalk in my pajamas, my socks wet from the pavement, struggling to lift my head enough. And you shook me straight and took my face in your hands and tilted my eyes up.

Above me, I could see the stars burn. I stood transfixed, my head still grounded, refusing to let myself drift from that painful place. And so you led me upstairs and sat me down. And there in your living room we faced each other, cross-legged on the carpet, our knees hardly touching. And you sang me songs. Quietly at first, humming along with chords only to sing a chorus every now and then, softly, forcing me into a place of peace.

And I thought of those stars. Cast up into the heavens with so much care. Held there with so much intention. And I couldn’t help but feel lost among them. I wanted so much to be caught up in them. There was so much hope in that thought, that the stars were suspended above me with so much beauty and grace.

But tonight I couldn’t find any stars. It was too cloudy. There was too much polluting the sky. The only light was that little bit of moon, struggling to make its presence known.

hosanna.

Salvation is a curious thing. In my recent backlash against what I would consider “American pop-Christianity” it seems that I’ve found it hard to come down hard on much of anything, theologically speaking. I want to say that I’m “working out my faith in fear and trembling,” but really I feel like I’m desperately drifting through things trying to find something that will stir up something in my soul.

Anything.

As I was sitting in church today I had a moment where I was fully aware of my depravity. Not in a way that would rend my heart and cause me to seek repentance, but in a way that made me realize how much I was completely complacent and utterly unresponsive.

Being Easter, the Sunday morning service was full of anthems of the “Hosanna” variety. (Which leads me to the subject of salvation.) Hosanna means to save, to rescue. Salvation means quite literally to heal, to intervene in order to rescue. It’s redemptive. It’s healing. It’s completing.

And I think back to every church camp and every Sunday morning altar call and I think about those televangelists who talk so much about “salvation” and imply it means simply to keep us from hell. But really, it’s so much more. To the Jews on that Passion Sunday their cry was that their king would come and rescue them, intervene and be just and make all things right.

And then I look at my life and wonder if it is I’ve been redeemed. If I’ve been restored.

I certainly don’t feel complete. I don’t feel like a person who’s been healed.

And some of this is my complacency, I’m sure. And some of it is my tendency to be guarded and to over-think and feel undeserving of any good thing. To be so humble as to deny myself a gift of mercy is not a virtue; rather it is only keeping me from experiencing what I can only think to describe as a tender heart.

And like it was with the Jews, salvation does not come to me the way I think it should. Or when. Or look like how I think it should look. And sometimes I miss it entirely. Continually.

So I’ve sat here and emphatically rejected it. All of it. And I’ve let things go so far that I don’t even feel that emptiness anymore. I don’t even feel the guilt. I don’t feel the rejection. I don’t wonder. Instead I’ve been unfaithful. I’ve tried to maintain something on the outside that looks like it’s pristine and pure, when in fact what I’ve done is allowed the garden of my inner life to become so over-run with weeds that I’ve forgotten what precious things the soil could produce.

Is there mercy for one like this?
Oh, to breathe again the freshness of peace,
to drink deeply of grace.

Is there hope for a dissonant daughter?
Lord, come quickly to save me.

my heart keeps me broke

Today I got up and it didn't feel like my life.

I wonder if I'm in a re-make of Body Snatchers.

No? I know you don't think it's possible, and even if I WAS a Pod Person, how would I know, right? Look. I know that's what you're thinking, but if you knew me like I knew me, you could tell. Because I can tell. My words aren't as soft. My attention isn't focused. My heart is wandering. I guess this is one of those times people in the Church like to call a "valley." And I guess they're normal. But for someone like me, you know - a "feeler," it's hard to go all day and just feel like I'm on auto-pilot. Or to feel so uninspired. Or remind myself of those emo kids in high school. That can't be good.

I need something to shake things up. Not necessarily reckless, as I've tried that and it's not had the expected outcome. But something that makes me feel like myself again. Because Lord knows I would HATE to get home and find myself making dinner, although finding a Pod Person in my kitchen would be quickly over-shadowed by the fact that I don't have to worry about dinner tonight... But I'm not entirely convinced it isn't possible. (The Pod Person, not worrying about dinner.)

The Poppies

If you feel sorry for yourself
this Valentine's Day, think of
the dozens of little paper poppies
left in the box when the last
of the candy is gone, how they
must feel, dried out and brown
in their sad old heart-shaped box,
without so much as a single finger
to scrabble around in their
crinkled petals, not even
one pimpled nose to root and snort
through their delicate pot pourri.
So before you make too much
of being neglected, I want you
to think how they feel.

(Ted Kosser, If You Feel Sorry)



It's true, that maybe this should have been posted yesterday morning - the crux of people's romantic sentiment. But it seemd more appropriate to me that it be this morning - the day after. I'm a fan of telling people you love them when you end a phone conversation. When you haven't seen them in weeks. When they're having a bad day. Or a good day. I'd rather send cards on a cloudy Saturday morning. My day is made by every-day gifts for no reason. Can't we share laughs over dinner more often? Do we need an occasion for a movie in? For poetry and cards? At the end of every day it should be about how well you loved others simply. Hallmark should look into designing more "Just Because" cards and stop making us feel like we need a day sanctioned for us. Then maybe come this time next year we won't feel neglected. Like we've been cheated or wronged. Maybe next year we'll get it.


In a light late-winter wind
the oak trees are scattering valentines
over the snow—dark red
like the deep-running, veinous blood
of the married, returning
again and again to the steady heart.

This leaf is yours, friend,
picked from the heart-shaped hoofprint
of a deer. She stood here
under the apple tree during the night,
kicking up sweetness, her great eyes
watching the sleeping house.
(Ted Kosser, In a Light Late-Winter Wind)

perfect unity

"Live in each season as it passes—breath
the air, drink the drink, taste the fruit,
& resign yourself to the influences of
each. Let them be your only diet
drink & botanical medicines. In August
live on berries, not dried meats as if
you were on shipboard making your
way through a waste ocean, or in
a northern desert. Be blown on by
all the winds. Open all your pores
& bathe in all the tides of nature
in all her streams & oceans at all
seasons."

Henry D. Thoreau



So to be faithful to St. John of the Cross, I’ve been sitting here for about an hour in the dark and listened to the rain through an open window in an attempt to focus myself long enough to be in a place that would even closely resemble contemplative prayer, though poorly. And I realize that this must be what it is to be taking in each season. This is what it means to breathe the air and resign myself to things and recognize they are what they are. To listen to the sounds of creation and feel the breeze and smell the rain only to be jarred out thought by a few of the loudest dogs I’ve ever heard.

But I’ve always been a “by the book” type of gal. I’ve planned my days to the minute. I’ve got things mapped out for weeks to come. My soul longs to throw it all to the wind and to make my way through this season feasting on what’s available. To allow myself to be directed by the wind and the streams. Not to neglect structure, for I’m sure I would breakdown and collapse in on myself, but to bask in all of the goodness that is this season – right now. To allow myself to be spiritually, emotionally and physically adrift. Not in a way that is flighty, but intentional, as not to fly through my day like so many calculated minutes, so much ignoring of moments.

And so I’ll listen to the rain. I’ll wait in the dark until that moment where I feel like my soul is in perfect union and rest there.

Ashes to ashes

Last night marked the beginning of Lent. I marked my Lenten Journey quite literally with ash. There's something about the Imposition of Ashes that's humbling and reflective. We're called to live a life of penitence, regretting our trangressions and recognizing our fatality. And yet Christ calls us out of ashes and invites us to live in freedom and grace. Do not walk around mourning and rending your garments, he says. Instead, rend your hearts to the Lord. cover yourself in oils and let your spirit be lifted up. I'm anticipating this Lenten season moreso than previous ones. I hope that this journey would be a time for reflection and preparation, that I may come to understand more fully the death and ressurection of Christ. From dust I was made, and to dust I will return.

Holy Father, you are near.
We tremble at your swift coming.
The day comes when you cause the sky to darken,
when you make the Earth empty and barren,
you dull the stars.
Our spirits tremble, like the Heavens.
We offer our hearts to you, torn.
We cry out for your mercy,
to find us without fault.
Lord, be slow to anger.
Relent!
We do not know whether this cup will pass;
we only hope that blessing is left,
and not curses.
And so we lift up our hearts to the Lord,
our weeping,
our transgressions,
our attempts at holiness.
We offer up these things to you,
our filthy rags.
Spare us, O God.
Have pity.
When the nations say,
"Where is their God?"
may we respond with joy,
He is among us.
He has restored us with the oil of gladness.
We are satisfied in him.
Amen.


(Litany based on Joel 2:1-2,12-18)

mornings with him.

It’s not yet light outside. The room is quiet, save the occasional sound the trees as they brush up against the window and the soft, rhythmic breathing of someone fast asleep. I need this moment, before the day starts. I’m still. I pretend not to be awake. I don’t want to rush anything along. On cue, I hear his voice. Usually he wakes me with the weather. “It’s going to be warm today,” “You’ll need a jacket this afternoon, it’ll be cold,” “Don’t forget your umbrella…” There’s something comforting in that familiar voice. I stay in bed for a few minutes, taking it all in. “It’s Tuesday. Ready for the New Hampshire primaries?” I groan a little. I can’t handle political discussion until I’ve had coffee. You should know this by now. He changes the subject. Something about a refrigerator that doubles as an iPod dock. I’m barely listening. I roll over and try to go back to sleep. “It’s 7:15.” I know. I need to get up. I’ll never make it to work on time if I stay here, but I’d rather stay in this moment. I know he’ll be there when I get out of the shower, but I don’t want to miss anything. I hang on his every word. But the promise of coffee finally pulls me from the bed. As I make my way to the kitchen I hear him call after me, “I’m Steve Inskeep, and you’re listening to NPR…” What I wouldn’t give for just five more minutes with him…