Quiet Your Heart: Breathe

Who knew standing in a steamy bathroom post-shower and listening to a lullaby in the mid-morning could be a spiritual experience? In the natural light filtered through the shower curtain the Divine met me where I was. . . Tired. 

Tired of signing paperwork and making phone calls; of learning, learning, learning all I can about loans, escrow, and house-buying; of shopping for flooring, appliances, and furniture; of learning about blood types, figuring out lists of all natural nursery items, what foods to eat and avoid; and of turning in my hours and thinking of all the to-do lists from work, the bank, the birth centre, our new house, and our current cabin. 

My brain and body are fatigued from all the stimuli. And I feel like I've been shortchanging the little person growing inside my womb, totally unprepared for their arrival, as we try to buy a house for them to grow up in. 

Enter a cosy bathroom, after a much-needed shower spent listening to part of a book about pregnancy and natural birth. Stopping after the most recent chapter, I turned on a playlist of lullabies by JJ Heller. A couple of weekends ago I pulled up the list, remembering enjoying it some months ago. I found myself crying over shredded zucchini and raisins while making muffins. Today I found myself tearing up and taking some deep, needed breaths to ground my body and connect with the little body inside. . . And the One who made them both. 

We pray together every evening, and often there are things I'm bringing to the Lord during the day. . . But today I badly needed to whisper out my fears. What if I'm not there for long to be a hand for our child to hold? What if something happens to me or Nick? How will the other spouse keep up the mortgage and parent? What if there's something wrong with baby or they develop some horrible disease?  

Normally I'm not a 'catastrophiser', but sometimes all the stress builds and builds and I finally realise it's there in the form of unspoken, unnamed fears. To-do lists I can check off, e-mails I can reply to, and I can always learn new things. But I can't always keep those nagging fears at bay. Oftentimes I don't even realise they've taken up residence in my heart or the back of my mind. They're what wake me up when I'm tired and want to still be sleeping under the cover of darkness. Somehow at that moment, though I start praying, I can't stop tossing and turning.

Yet when I pause in a moment of reconnecting with myself, my Creator, and the little person He has created in me, I can name those fears. I can hand them to the Lord, asking Him to direct the course of my life, of my marriage, of our parenting journey, and of our little one's story. My next breath isn't guaranteed, nor am I sure of a long life ahead. I never have been sure of those things—I simply expect the breaths and the days to go on and on. There's no way for me to know the number of either. Rather, I know that God will care for me, for my husband, and for my baby in the way we each need.  

When I first listened to the lullaby playlist, tears welled up as I thought of singing them over baby, wanting to root them in trust and my love for them.  But as I breathed out my fears, I began to hear the songs from my Heavenly Father to His tired, weak, fearful child who needed to be reminded that I can trust in His love for me and those I love.

Quiet your heart
It's just a dream
Go back to sleep

I'll be right here
I'll stay awake as long as you need me
To slay all the dragons
And keep out the monsters
I'm watching over you

My love is a light
Driving away all of your fear
So don't be afraid
Remember I made a promise to keep you safe

You'll have your own battles to fight
When you are older
You'll find yourself frozen inside

But always remember

If you feel alone
Facing the giants
And you don't know
What to do

My love is a light
Driving away all of your fear
So don't be afraid
Remember I made a promise to keep you safe

~ JJ Heller, I'll Keep You Safe

Glory Be to God for Dappled Things (Photo Update)

Typed words have been slow in coming this summer. Conversations have been far more prevalent this summer. My typed thoughts sit in a nice pile of drafts, unfinished. My conversations seem to simply go on and grow as the summer progresses. Poems have given way to painting. I have been thinking about life and Godliness through the lens of Harry Potter and a couple of thought-provoking films; through lots of conversations and the reading of a few CS Lewis pieces.

As it has been a while since I've actually published something here, I thought I would post a few photos from the summer to mark its progress.

Gog and MaGog with Tosha, Michael, and Ben (early June) 6mi

Some painting inspired by hard conversations, sad things happening to friends, and by the moon

Ditto

4th of July with my family!

Some reflections whilst listening to Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows

Shrine Ridge wildflower hike with Tosha (late July) 6mi

Butler Gulch hike with Tosha (early August) 4?mi

Hiking Mt Sherman (14,036ft) 5.25mi

With these fellows (Aaron and Ben)

The end of the Mt Sherman hike, back by the truck. . .

Somewhere along the way I spent time with a couple of Oxford friends (Kasey June and both Kevin J and Kevin B); hyperventilated with laughter with Lyndi and Katie; watched Harry Potter 1-4 (so far) with the neighbours; watched Cinderella Man with a few other neighbours; had long phone calls or chats on the stairs by my house with various folks; got to see sweet AnnaClaire and talk (over dinner and cheese); sat on my porch and read Lewis while my sweet Brooke-friend journalled; have had a few interesting conversations with our bookstore intern; sat and listened to a local bluegrass band downtown; went to a lecture on Harry Potter and the Way of Power by Kyle Strobel; have had the opportunity to listen to Kevin Bywater speak; and have enjoyed hearing a lot of rain on the roof and the crickets—because maintenance replaced the pool motor with one that is much quieter!

All in all, it has been a very good summer and a growing summer. I am learning to lay down expectations and receive life as God hands it to me. I am learning to put up wiser boundaries with people and work (very much a practise and a process). I am learning to be faithful where I am. I am striving to not violate my conscience in the small matters that add up. I am more alive to Beauty and Hope. The Holy Spirit is breathing His life-giving breath on and in me—turning me from cold stone into living flesh and rippling hair. There is light and high Beauty beyond the shadow—weakness that is power that the darkness cannot fathom. There is life in sacrificial death. Loyalty and friendship have been embodied in stories, in the people I get the priviledge of knowing. Life is full—full of the glory of God.

All shall be well, and all manner of things shall be made well.

Edges

Five years ago, I walked the grey streets of Oxford, my mind gnawing on something that one of my tutors had said to me over coffee. Being away from home and all you know will make you feel the edges of yourself. He meant that I need not cling to my conservative moral beliefs while I was out from under the eyes of people who knew me. I think he was worried that I was naive and easily led, rather than a tenacious soul who poked at ideas to make sure I knew what they really were before—or even after—believing them. Thankfully, I had spent many months and years thinking over the things I believed and why. I may have appeared fresh-faced and over-trusting, but underneath, I had at least a bit of perspicacity.

My tutor was right about something, however—Oxford did make me feel the edges of myself. I knew where I stopped and the ancient stones began. I knew—perhaps more intimately than ever before—how small I was. I knew I was nothing special, yet simultaneously unique and necessary, because God had chosen to form me and bring me to life at a given point in His story. 

Since my term in the City of Dreaming Spires, various events and seasons in life have made me feel the edges of myself. In Oxford, it was both the unfamiliarity of the city and the suddenness of the adventure given to me. The city was established and bold, ever busy and meandering like the Thames. It made me feel young and small, but adventurous and curious—much like a child who is afraid of the dark, but unafraid to ask 'embarrassing' questions or play make-believe as if it were real. I felt solid, at home, present in Oxford.

Other experiences have made my edges known in precisely the opposite way. I have felt like the proverbial fish out of water, disoriented and unable to think clearly, let alone ponder slowly and deeply. Sensory overload and all-things-new have made me cling to God, knowing my best defence was to take a deep breath. Inhale. Lord have mercy. Exhale. Christ have mercy. 

In the midst of feeling uprooted I pray frantically, I don't know anything, I have nothing solid under me... Jesus, anchor my soul, keep me from drifting. I don't know, but I trust You. His steadying hand isn't always tangible. Sometimes I flail while He holds me, until I tire out enough to hear His whispered, Peace. Be still. It's His call to stop thrashing and know that I am held. I am loved more than I can understand with my questioning mind. When I don't know, I feel that my edges are dull—yet discernible. The Father's lithe hands grasp my slippery self and He holds me secure, bringing me to a place of quiet rest in the middle of uncertainty. 

When I feel most like myself, when I feel at home, my edges are distinct and crisp. When I feel least like myself, adrift in the scary ocean, my edges are still known, but blunted or warped. In both cases I am being shaped by the Maker. He helps me to grow deeper, healthier, and more like Himself. He shaves off my warty tendencies and calloused feelings to reveal that He is pruning me—from the edges inward—into His image. Christ have mercy.

Joy, joy, joy!

Somehow it is December, week three. Does it ever seem like you are waiting for it to feel like Christmas? Do you feel wrapped up in work or events or gift-buying, rather than reflective stillness? Do you go through the motions, sing the songs, yet feel far away from the Christ-child? Are you expecting your favourite Christmas records, films, or traditions to make things feel normal or happy?

Traditions—be they family originals or many-centuries long—sometimes lose the breath of life. Liturgy becomes legalism when the Spirit's spark is extinguished and sanctification depends on human effort. So it is with Christmas. The very celebration of Jesus coming near makes Him seem far away. The very events and customs that result from the gladness of Christ's arrival are hollow on their own. Sometimes we must lay aside every tradition and expectation. We must come to Jesus alone.

Expectations kill. If human relationships have taught me anything this last year, it is this. Expectations kill enjoyment when things don't go as planned, even though they go well. Expectations kill relationships when they go unspoken, and so unmet. Expectations rob us of the delight of unexpected gifts. Expectations set us up for disappointment—even in excellent things—when they are not fulfilled.

So, if you were expecting it to feel like Christmas this third week of December and it doesn't, stop. Stop expecting Christmas to feel a certain way. Stop playing that Bing Crosby record hoping to make yourself feel in the mood for Christmas. Stop stressing about gifts you haven't purchased, the packing you have yet to do, the mound of work waiting on your desk before Christmas break. Stop.

Stop, because it is still Advent, the season of waiting. Stop and breathe. Exhale thanks, inhale joy. This third week of Advent churches and families around the world light the joy candle. Joy. In this season of stress and rushing when do we have time for joy? In this world of uncertainties, arguments, abandonment, and terror that pushes people from their homeland, where is joy? In this bleak blackness of night's final watch, it is colder and darker than ever.

The first week of Advent, sunset hour, we may have had the hope associated with those first seven days. There was still a rosy glow on the Western horizon. We may have had refreshing moments of the peace of week two, like nightly repose. But week three is that fitful, wakeful hour when all is darkness, no streak of dawn appears to relieve us. And this—this is when we are supposed to have joy? Yes, joy in the dark. Joy is not happiness or painting a smile over sorrow. Joy, chara, rests itself in the middle of thanksgiving, eucharisteo. In the bleakness we give thanks. In the blackness we take joy that the waiting is not endless.

When we lay aside our expectations, we begin to see the gifts God wants to give. Israel wanted a warrior-king. God gave them a baby. Even when the babe grew into a man, He was not a rebel, though He was revolutionary. He was fierce and gentle. He was just and meek. And He was killed, not freeing Israel from their oppression one bit. What kind of “gift” was that? 

If the Jews had had eyes to see, had laid their expectations on the altar, they would have found that their freedom did not need to be external. They needed internal freedom from a law that had become legalism. They needed hearts of flesh in place of stone. When God became man, He set before every human being the gift of freedom from the curse. This gift was world-wide and history-long—much bigger than the Jews had ever dreamed.

We, too, find our unmet expectations so exceeded by God's gifts that we often fail to recognise that they are gifts. How can we see something vast with eyes so small? We must learn to see. That is what we learn in this third week of Advent, we learn to see joy lurking—leaping—in and out of corners of our lives.

We learn to see both the small and the obvious good things—and our response is thanks to God. It is in those moments that our eyes are able to see the big picture a little better. Our expectations crumble, our feelings are changed, made new. When we ask God to help us know joy and receive His gifts, whatever form they take, we are made new. When we give thanks we know joy as an intimate friend. This gift of God we’ll cherish well, that ever joy our hearts shall fill. Joy, joy, joy! Praise we the Lord in heav’n on high!

Thirty

It is getting late, as I tuck in a full day, the wind wrestling its way 'round my cabin. Snuggled under the blankets, I think back on the day... I awoke in the golden arms of the sunrise, a day older. A year older. A decade older. It is not often that these round milestones are placed in our palms, slipped into the pockets of our lives. They are a gift, marking a still moment to pause and reflect on the many hours and days that have built the last ten-year span. 

I wonder if I have used my first day in my thirties well. I question if I invested the days of my twenties wisely. Things did not go according to my plans this day, but they rarely do. Still, there were sweet gifts, surprise phone calls, dinner and ice cream with friends... There were cards, full of life-giving words, penned by some of my dearest friends. Words of hope and kindness. Inspiration to live worthy of my calling to display the Beauty of the Lord and His holiness. One note, with bold, black ink-words proclaimed—approximately—"Don’t be impatient. Wait for the Lord, and he will come and save you! Be brave, stouthearted, and courageous. Yes, wait and he will help you."*

Brave. I taste this word on my palate as if it has never escaped my lips before. As one who comes knowing that God is my Light and Salvation, I need not fear, I have only to be brave in His strength. Stouthearted. This reminds me of wholehearted, a word I have been meditating upon in the last few weeks. Yet stouthearted is nuanced differently. It implies one who will not falter in battle, who will bear up under trials. Yes, this is something I desire.

The last triplet-word rises before me: Courageous. I think of the many persons I know who have the courage to get up every morning, to live a life they did not—would not—choose. They bear the marks, the cost, of another's choices. It must take whole oceans of courage in their veins to to stand firm each day, I think. My life is not shaped by such trials. Do I, too, need courage? New Covenant words flit into my mind: For we do not wrestle against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the cosmic powers over this present darkness, against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly places.* Yes, I need courage! Though I live under this present darkness, I take courage in the words, The LORD is my light and my Salvation; whom shall I fear? The LORD is the Stronghold of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?*

Who knows what the upcoming days of my thirties will hold? I do not know the mile-marking joys and sorrows to come, and I am glad. I would become impatient or burdened knowing that such things were ahead still. What I do know, as I listen to the wind howl and pull my quilt closer, is that every day will bring its 'dailyness'. There will be dishes to wash, laundry to fold, books to mail at work, food to be made and enjoyed, friends to hug, smiles to give and receive, and prayers shot like arrows toward Heaven throughout the day. There will be songs to sing, children to hold, hands to hold, sorrows to bear. There will be sharp words when I lose sight of Kindness. There will be life-giving words from the Spirit of God to breathe into souls. There will be the daily, walking hand-in-hand with the Eternal. In short, there will be the every day I already know, and the every day life that comes with ageing bones and bodies.

Daily dishes, rote words of liturgy, or our own stale thoughts can seem dull, mindless, and lifeless. But when Christ, Who is our life, breathes daily into us, we surge with liquid life. Much like Aslan in the Narnia stories breathes upon creatures turned to stone, restoring their life, Christ restores meaning and joy in our quotidian moments. Folding laundry becomes built-in prayer time. Liturgy becomes the rhythm of life, keeping us in step in the Great Dance. God infuses our listless, rutted thoughts with new perspective—gained from friends, new-to-us books, a song, or by simply opening our eyes to Scriptures we have seen a thousand times, but have not known until now.

Annie Dillard once penned, "How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives."* If I am aware of God in the midst of soapsuds and repeatedly sliding discs into plastic sleeves, in the writing of words and the sharing a smile; if I breathe out "Lord have mercy" and inhale His mercy, then I am learning life-rich liturgy rooted in Christ. That seems a good way to live a day, a year, a decade...and a life.


_____________

* Psalm 27.14 (TLB)
* Ephesians 6:12 (ESVUK)
* Psalm 27:1 (NKJV)
* Dillard, Annie, The Writing Life (New York: Harper Collins, 2009)