What Matters in a Broken World?

Name what’s true.

Go small anyway.

  • A job in which you are miserable.

Acknowledge default behavior.

Name what’s true again.

Go within and look closer.

  • The miserable job: I can pay attention to where am compromising myself, complying, people-pleasing, and not telling my truth. And I can choose to do things differently.

Now, widen the lens.

Name what’s true. Again.

Do the math.

There Is No Plan B

On days like today I need a way to make sense of (or at least hold on to) my broken heart. Perspective. Confirmation. Sense-making. Sort-of . . .

Because we are vulnerable, life hurts. We are not here to be free of pain. We are here to have our hearts broken by life. To learn to live with vulnerability and to turn pain into love. . . . There is nothing so whole as a broken heart, said Rabbi Mendel of Kotzk, [a] Hasidic sage. The world breaks our hearts wide open; and it is the openness itself that makes us whole. The open heart is the doorway, inviting the angels in, revealing that the world–even in the pit of hell–is charged with the sacred. ~ Miriam Greenspan, Healing Through the Dark Emotions

Yes, this: “. . . even in the pit of hell . . . ”

I’m taking deep (and sometimes graspy, raggedy) breaths.

On days like today, I want to shut my heart down; to create a super-power barrier to the inevitability of ever being hurt or sad or disappointed (again).

And on days like today, the idea (and reality) of continuing to open myself up, to be exposed, to risk and palpably feel heartbreak as the very path to wholeness and joy feels not only counter-intuitive, but just plain idiotic.

Still, there is no Plan B.

Without heartbreak there wouldn’t be space – and spaciousness. Shattered-wide-open creates room for more love – and love and love and love.

So, down I go. Over the edge. Making the leap (which, more truthfully, feels like being pushed off the side of a cliff). Trusting that vulnerability (and raw strength, capacity, and time-worn-hard-earned perseverance) will sustain me (along with texts from my sister, calls from friends, the glimmer of a kind face via Skype, lingering conversation over good soup and better wine, sage advice from wise women in my life, and knowing-hugs from my daughters). And hopefully, prayerfully my faith. Yes, all this will (eventually), lead me back to joy, the sacred – and love and love and love.

“There is nothing so whole as a broken heart . . . ”

I click the heels of my Ruby Slippers and try to imagine, try to believe. “There is nothing so whole as a broken heart. There is nothing so whole as a broken heart. There is nothing so whole as a broken heart.” Longing for home. Longing for hope. Longing . . .

And always, especially on days like today, longing for love – and love and love and love. There is no Plan B to this, either.

Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted. ~ Jesus, Matthew 5:4

May it be so. And then some.

*****

I wrote this post nearly three weeks ago . . . not ready to say it out loud; the emotion too raw. It still is. But in the midst, gracious confirmation that my words matter, that my heart is whole: 

“This is precisely why grief, like love and any other foundational, deceptively simple human emotion or state of being, is the terrain of artists. And it is a writer’s even more specific job to give voice to loss in whatever ways she can, to give shape to this unspeakable, impermeable reality beneath all other realities.” ~ Emily Rapp

Yes.

And so, on a day exactly like today, I’m hitting “publish.” Because even though Easter has passed, I still believe in its message. Because comfort comes. Because grace conquers grief. Because faith endures. Because hope cannot be held back or held down or even, ultimately, withheld from a heart that’s hell-bent on surviving and healing and knowing-giving-generating-offering-receiving-being love and love and love.

Because there is no Plan B . . . gratefully.

The God of Once Upon a Time

Once Upon a Time. There was a day when these four small words would instantly transport my eldest daughter to another world. Her imagination and senses would engage. And she implicitly trusted that something rich and beautiful, something of dreams and intrigue; something that touched in deep and anticipation-filled ways was on the verge. She was a child.

Now she is a teenager. She has no time for such tales. At least not those of myth, of history, of fairytale. She is steeped in story, to be sure; but now they are narratives that create pressure and leave nothing to imagination. Boys. Body image. Behavior. They broadcast nonstop.

Everything is blatant. Everything is seen. Everything is said. And a Once Upon a Time world, at least to her, feels silly, if not a waste of time.

I cried today. For her, for myself, and in remembrance of days gone by when I could hold her on my lap and make everything right. Now hard stories seem to abound. There is no fantasy for escape; no fairy godmother to wave a magic wand; no prince to rescue.

And so I pray.

*****

I have heard that God, when beckoned, shows up for some in palpable and find-a-parking-spot ways.

This is not my experience.

Sometimes talking to God feels as silly as the stories to which my daughter now rolls her eyes. God? Really? How am I to understand, to trust, to know there even is a God – who hears and understands, let alone acts on behalf of a 52-year-old mother and her 16-year-old girl? Please.

“Please?”

*****

In all good stories the plot builds. We feverishly turn the pages, longing to see what happens next. And something significant always occurs – somewhere between Once Upon a Time and Happily Ever After. We lean forward in anticipation and hope (maybe even prayer), implicitly knowing and believing (maybe even having faith) that the tide is about to turn. We are rarely, if ever disappointed.

Nor am I.

The divine does show up. No magic wand or parking space. No “fix.” No miracle. Or is it?

A gentle wind blows through my mind and a sacred tale catches on the jagged edge of my heart. Grace whispers and soothes. And story returns. Once Upon a Time…

  • Eve longed for more, reached, and desired.
  • Noah’s wife, in the face of tragedy too excruciating to comprehend, survived.
  • Hagar was abused, abandoned, and alone…but not forgotten.
  • Hannah agonized over infertility and God heard her cry.
  • Esther took incalculable risk to save a nation.
  • Mary knew ecstatic joy and the depths of sorrow with her son.
  • The woman at the well, lost in shame, was seen and loved.
  • Mary Magdalene felt deep emotion, deep passion, deep love, deep heartache.

These stories and hundreds more are answered prayer for me. They hold and comfort. They accompany and guide. They lift me up. They calm me down. They bring me home – to myself and to the God who dwells within them. They remind me that I am not alone.

One could say that I find the divine in story. But truth-be-told, the divine, maybe even God, finds me.

And this is miracle, indeed. For in this infinite finding, I return to Once Upon a Time. To perspective. To wisdom. To hope. To an epic quest and heroine’s journey. Plot twists and turns. Battles lost and others won. Ball gowns and scullery rags. Heights and depths. Laughter and yes, tears.

*****

I cried a second time today. Deeply aware and profoundly grateful for a God who intimately and palpably reminds me I am not alone; who dwells in stories – others’, my daughter’s, and even my own.

Are there days when I wish for simple answers or a quick fix? Yes. Today was one of them. But given the choice, I’ll forego the God of good parking spaces Every Single Time for the God of Once Upon a Time.