Treasuring All that is Precious

Mar 23, 2023 | Hope & Encouragement, Mothers and Daughters, My sort-of Sermons

As I write this (early January, 2023), I am in Toronto at the home of my dear friend, Tanya Geisler. I was scheduled to fly there nearly three years ago, but had to cancel at the last minute because of my dad’s sudden and unexpected illness, days thereafter, his death. Then Covid. And border restrictions. And leaving my job. And moving across the country. And life. Now, at last, as of this past Thursday, I am here.

Tanya and I met online more than a decade ago. 2010, if I were to take a guess. I knew of her and somehow, shockingly, she knew of me. I decided to invite a small group of women to an in-person event, certain every one of them would say no. Three days together with no agenda—just time and space. All of them said yes, instead. Tanya was one of them.

She flew out of Toronto. Changed planes somewhere in the U.S. Landed in Seattle. Took a shuttle to the ferry dock. Took a ferry to Whidbey Island. Took another shuttle to where I picked her up. Then, having never seen me in person and after travelling for far too many hours and feeling a three-hour time difference, she jumped out of the van and literally ran to me, arms wide open. That embrace? Words fail me.

When I got here three nights ago, I felt that same embrace.

I leave tomorrow. She’ll embrace me one more time. It seems too soon. I cannot, would not trade these precious days for anything in the world.

*****

My mom, knowing how much I love the writing of Ann Patchett, recently told me about her latest book, a collection of essays entitled, These Precious Days. My library loan expired before I got all the way through it, but I’m back on the waiting list. Before it was out of my grasp, I highlighted these words:

I’d been afraid I’d somehow been given a life I hadn’t deserved, but that’s ridiculous. We don’t deserve anything – not the suffering and not the golden light. It just comes.

This is how I often feel when I reflect on my relationship with Tanya. I don’t deserve it. Maybe better stated, I’ve not done anything to deserve it. It just came to me, and to us. It’s precious, sacred even. It’s a gift of grace.

In truth, there are countless, countless people and stories and memories and experiences in my life that are just like this. They have “just come”—in both suffering and in light. They have changed me, strengthened me, shaped me, and ushered me more deeply into a sense of awareness and acceptance and gratitude.

Precious, to be sure.

Why would we turn “precious” into something that is, well, less so?

I don’t have definitive answers, but I am reminded of a story . . .

*****

I got married when I was 31 years old; my husband was almost 48. Given our ages, we were determined to get pregnant as soon as absolutely possible. After five years of infertility (and unsuccessful treatments), I was convinced it would never happen.

You already know how this story played out. I have two amazing daughters. Emma Joy is 26 and Abby is 24. I remain stunned and humbled by their presence in my life. Miracles, both. Precious, to be sure.

But let’s go back to those five years. I did NOT, in any way, see my suffering as precious. In point of fact, I didn’t even allow myself to suffer. At least not visibly, consciously, wisely. Every twenty-eight days I’d give myself a good talking to: “buck up, accept your lot, get it together, trust God’s plan!” If you hear a ridiculous degree of harshness, you’d be right. Even typing it now, I feel a lump in my throat. In many ways, what I told myself (without realizing it until this very moment) was to NOT be precious; to not consider myself more highly than I ought, to not see myself as “entitled” to that which I held most dear and of great worth and price.

Isn’t this sad?

My longing deserved to be precious and dear. My suffering and grief deserved to be precious and inestimable. My hope deserved to be precious and prized. Instead, I told myself that I was being affected, fragile, and pretentious.

We can be so quick to dismiss that which is rich and tender and vulnerable in our lives. To Ann Patchett’s point, we can, all-too-often, see ourselves as undeserving and so, not notice what “just comes.” When what’s precious comes to us through suffering more than light, it’s that much harder to see it as such.

Before I turn this around (which I promise I will do), I’m wondering where all of this lands for you. I’m wondering if, like me, you have stories of suffering that you didn’t allow, experiences you couldn’t let yourself grieve, hopes you couldn’t dare hold onto. I’m wondering if, like me, you have been far more inclined to see yourself as undeserving and so, in light of such, have not given yourself permission to take in, revel in, and honor all that is precious in your life . . . and in you.

I cannot be talked out of this truth: The definition of “precious” defines you—valuable, of great worth or price, honorable. The synonyms for “precious” describe you—adored, cherished, dear, inestimable, loved, prized, treasured.

You are precious, to be sure.

*****

Tomorrow I will fly back to Charlotte NC. I’ll go through customs, take the shuttle to my car, and then make the 3.5 hour drive back to Hampstead. I’ll feel tons of gratitude for the days Tanya and I have shared. I’ll be lost in thought about all we talked of together. I’ll be happy the weather is at least 20-30 degrees warmer. I’ll wish I weren’t driving back in the dark. I’ll listen to an audio book. I’ll stop for gas and probably drive-through dinner. I’ll pull into the driveway, see the porch light left on for me, and say a prayer of “thanks” that I’m safe, that I’m home, that this is my life. All of it is precious—when I choose to see it as such.

I’m certain the same is true for you.

May it be so.

Before Valentine’s Day

Feb 7, 2018 | Hope & Encouragement, My sort-of Sermons

I have an ambivalent relationship with Valentine’s Day.

When young(er), I wished and prayed that I would have a Valentine by the time the day arrived. I was almost always disappointed. Much, much later, when I married at 31, I chose Valentine’s Day for the wedding itself. That changed my position and perspective. Every year, as our anniversary rolled around, I was (mostly) able to see the day in a positive and heart-warming way. After 14 of annual celebrations, we separated then divorced, the former occurring just weeks before the marking of our 15th year. That Valentine’s Day was significant – not a celebration, but certainly a marker not about relationship with another, but with myself; not about another’s love, but my own – for me. And now, 10+ years later, I admittedly vacillate between the wishing/praying of my younger years and an almost complete disconnect from the day itself.

Would I like to have this day marked with roses, chocolate, a sweet card, a romantic dinner? Of course. And is any/all of that predicated on someone else? Uh, no.

So, before Valentine’s Day arrives, I’m asking myself some questions. Maybe you could as well.

  • In relationship, can I remain clear and committed to all the places my passion lies – and for whom, all the ways it is expressed within and through me? Will I express it – in articulate, even lavish ways?
  • Out of relationship (and frankly, even in), will I refrain from bitterness or caustic cynicism; instead, smiling generously and genuinely at those who are captivated by this day, grateful that love still holds sway, still conquers all, still survives and thrives?
  • Will I treat myself to the gift I most want to receive? A leather-bound journal. A beautiful ring. A good bottle of wine. A weekend away. An exercise routine. An Instant Pot. A quiet day of writing.
  • Will I courageously ask for what I most want? An honest conversation. A conflict resolved. A decision made.
  • Can I, will I, wholeheartedly declare-and-believe that I am whole, complete, and worthy of love – first and foremost my own?
  • Will I recall, recite, and recommit to these two truths: I am not too much and I am more than enough?

It’s estimated that more than 1 billion Valentine’s Day cards are sent each year, And, not surprisingly, women purchase approximately 85 percent of them. Given such, let’s buy and send them to our girlfriends, our sisters, our daughters, our mothers, ourselves. Not because we feel the need to mark such an arbitrary date and contrived “holiday,” but because we deserve to make it our own.

Toward that end – making the day our own – let’s boldly declare our love (to others and self) whether roses are delivered or not. Not because it’s Valentine’s Day, but because it’s who and how we are: strong, glorious, expressive women who do not shy from telling our truth, from giving our heart, from risking everything on behalf of what matters most.

So before Valentine’s Day – and in preparation, know this: you are worth the greeting, every sentiment held within, and all the love (and then some) that you can possibly bear.

You are not alone. I promise.

Jan 21, 2013 | Sacred Stories, Spirituality

A dated a man who often said, “At the end of the day, we’re all alone.” He meant it in a sort-of existential way (and because he playfully knew it would get under my skin); still, I always bristled.

I just don’t believe it is true.

Yes, at the end of the day, we are left to our own thoughts, emotions, and experiences. We bear deep grief, suffer palpably, are exhausted beyond comprehension, and wonder if the tide will ever turn. These are all realities we know far too well. But none of them, part-and-parcel, assume or even engender isolation or alone-ness.

We need an awareness of companionship and care that permeates our very consciousness; that reminds, consoles, encourages, and strengthens at all times – no matter what. We need a place of delight and rest.

I go to story.

Elizabeth was married to a priest. (Not the Catholic kind. This was a long time ago before such a thing existed.) She was very old and with no children which was excruciating for her – a source of shame within her family, her community, her day to-day world. Her husband went to the Temple to participate in particular rituals and practices. At one point, an angel appeared to him and foretold the coming-birth of his son. Because this seemed impossible to believe, he questioned the angel’s words and was struck mute – unable to speak. Some time passed. Elizabeth did became pregnant.

Six months later, Elizabeth’s cousin, Mary,  became pregnant. She was young, unwed, and also visited by an angel who told her she would give birth to a son, not via a man, rather the very breath of God. Unlike her cousin’s husband, Mary believed the angel. And hardly mute, she spoke: “I am the Lord’s servant. May your word to me be fulfilled.” No time passed. Mary hurried to the home of her cousin.

As the story goes, when Elizabeth saw Mary, she proclaimed, ‘Honored are you among women, and favored of God is the child you will bear! As soon as the sound of your greeting reached my ears, the baby in my womb leaped for joy. You are blessed for believing God’s promises to you!’ And in response, Mary burst into song – refrain after refrain of glorious celebration and praise.

Mary stayed with Elizabeth for three months, probably until Elizabeth’s son John was born. The boy who would later be a “voice crying in the wilderness;” who would proclaim the coming of God in the person of his cousin, Jesus.

The relationship between these two women was more than a bloodline. It was a knowing so deep that even Elizabeth’s unborn child responded. It was an awareness and appreciation so profound that Elizabeth, no matter her own circumstances, could offer Mary the words she most desperately needed to hear: the blessing of her courage and willingness to trust in a God who doesn’t make sense. And in such, neither of them were alone. Together they established a place of delight and rest. In presence, in spirit, in heart.

We are not alone! This is our lineage. This is ours to claim and count on.

Here are two powerful ways to do exactly that: 

1) Trust other women. No matter the unbelievable-ness of their stories, Elizabeth and Mary immediately turned to each other, certain they would find understanding, acceptance, and love.

I have women like this in my world. Don’t you? I love them deeply and fiercely – and they me. I cannot imagine life without them. I talk to them and they listen. I weep and they comfort. I wrestle and fight and they hold me tight. They are a place of delight and rest I turn to again and again.

2) Trust that you are companioned by an entire sacred lineage of women. Including Elizabeth and Mary. No matter the unbelievable-ness of your story (the heartache, the worry, the anxiety, the exhaustion, the fear), they walk alongside you. They dwell in your psyche, your spirit, your very soul. They are bound to you in deeper-than-cellular ways. And when you seek, when you trust, you can be certain that you will find understanding, acceptance, and love from them. And not only Elizabeth and Mary. Their predecessors and lineage: Eve, Noah’s wife, Sarai, Hagar, Tamar, Abigail, Hannah, Jepthah, Deborah, the Extravagant Woman, the women at the tomb, and countless more. All of them, endlessly and infinitely, offer you the words you most need to hear: a blessing of your courage and willingness to trust in them . . . and maybe even in a God who doesn’t make sense.

We are not alone: it is in the stories of other women that we find delight find rest. In flesh and Sacred narrative, in history and myth, in literature and art and film and song. Women wait to greet us with open arms, with perfect words, and with a generous heart on our behalf.

Find them. Trust them. Talk to them. Be them.

*****

One more story:

Jeanne Frances Fremiot was born in Dijon, France on January 28, 1572, the daughter of the royalist President of the Parliament of Burgundy. She married the Baron de Chantal when she was 20. However, after 8 years of marriage and 6 children, the Baron died. The young widow took a vow of chastity, as well as responsibility for raising her four remaining children who had survived infancy. In 1604, she met Saint Francis de Sales, the bishop of Geneva. With his support, she started a religious order for women: the Order of the Visitation of Holy Mary (the very story I told above). The order accepted women who were rejected by other orders because of poor health or age. During its first eight years, the new order was unusual in its public outreach, in contrast to most female religious who remained cloistered and adopted strict ascetic practices. When people criticized her, de Chantal famously said, “What do you want me to do? I like sick people myself; I’m on their side.” (Wikipedia)

Legend has it than when Jeanne Francis de Chantal stepped over the threshold of the stone building that would become her home and that of the order itself, she said, “This is the place of our delight and rest.”

Step over the threshold and into the space of delight and rest for which you long, that you need, and that you deserve.

You are not alone. I promise.