If you’re anything like me, days, weeks, months, and sometimes even years go by without much self-reflective thought. And sometimes the same time-periods pass in which I’m doing so much self-reflection that I can’t see the forest for the trees. I ask existential questions. I demand answers. And I lose faith.
Last week my daughter Emma wrote a poem for her Language Arts class. I nearly wept when I read it. First, because of its beauty. Second, because of how poignantly, achingly, and honestly it depicts her. She is aware of her story. And it’s filled with faith.
Where I’m From
I’m from Facebook,
Twitter and YouTube.
From Dr. Pepper,
and junk food on the weekends.
I’m from choir at church on Sundays
with Rachel and daddy.
I’m from every kind of music,
except for rap.
I’m from Glee on Tuesday,
and American Idol right before.I’m from straightening irons,
and black Cover Girl mascara.
I’m from the tear stained pillow
that’s been with me through everything.
I’m from divorce,
and pushing through it all.
I’m from friends who stick with me
and make me laugh when I need to cheer up.
I’m from inside jokes,
and gasping in surprise.I’m from photography,
and a well-loved camera
that broke at a birthday party.
I’m from reading the last page first,
and watching the movie last.
I’m from “Epic fail”
and “Giant Galapagos Tortoise”
I’m from nieces and nephews,
two sisters and a brother.
I’m from “Bieber Fever”
and avoiding the epidemic.
I’m from texting
and going over my minutes
gabbing for hours about nonsense.
Pinned to my wall are photographs.
Some taken by me,
some by others.
That tell the story of me,
my life,
and
where I’m from.
I wouldn’t, at 14, have had the courage or the perspective to write as she has. I’m not even certain I have that courage today; to name and acknowledge what is true about my life; to be aware of my story and allow oft’ conflicting realities. Painful locales (both past and present) for sure, but others that invite me to deep breaths of gratitude. It’s the unwillingness to look at the former that keeps me oblivious, and sometimes even in unhealthy denial. It’s here that I lose faith.
It is through truth-telling that we find faith.
Faith is not a result. It is not a consequence. It is not the reaction that results from an equal and opposite action. If that were true, we would only find and know faith when our lives feel together, providential, and satisfying (the message of way too many televangelists).
Faith is a choice.
Faith that is meaty and meaningful (the only kind worth having) comes out of intention. It is found when we choose, when we hold on, when we “push through,” when we name and acknowledge what is most true about our past and our present, when we believe in spite of the evidence, when we accept that our story is worth telling.
Rather than either dissociate from our stories or become so obsessed by them that we cannot get outside of ourselves, we do what Emma does: we acknowledge, name, and tell. More, we live. In faith. Tear-stained pillows and divorces, harmful realities and aching loss, births and deaths, break-ups and reunions, plenty and lack, satisfaction and frustration, health and dis-ease, celebration and suffering.
In the great big mess that is our life, we show up, tell the truth, and find faith. We name where we are from, where we live right now, and where we are going – all with perspective and awareness. Just like Emma.
It’s tempting to think that the honest naming of the deepest truths of our lives will cause us to lose our faith. But I think it’s just the opposite. This is where we find it: an eyes-wide-open faith. One grounded on earth. Offering strength and hope. A faith that compels.
Faith found…in the poetry of a 14-year-old girl. In naming and acknowledging what’s most true about our stories. In telling the truth.
Thanks, Emma.
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You have no idea what perfect timing this is for me, or what it means. But it’s perfect and awesome. Thank you.
deb
I’m glad. That would be “grace,” then.
That poem brought tears to my eyes. Beautifully written and authentically honest. I’m with you; I’m 35 and not sure I could have pulled that off (!) but now it’s got me thinking . . . Thank your daughter for writing from her heart and moving mine. Great stuff!
Suanne Camfield´s last [type] ..Redbud Love
I will thank her, for sure, Suanne. And thank you – for being here, for saying what you have, for acknowledging both the beauty of and desire for authenticity and honesty. Can’t ever be enough of either!
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