On Miracles

Mar 14, 2016 | Hope & Encouragement, Sacred Stories, Spirituality

I made a video a few days back in which I talked of Tabitha. Little known. Rarely told. Hugely significant. (This could be my tagline!)

If you didn’t watch the video, here’s the quick recap:

Tabitha dies. Her friends aren’t OK with that and so they send for Peter to come and bring her back to life – which he does. He says, “Tabitha. Get up.” She opens her eyes, takes his hand, and is presented back to her community – the women who love her.

Truth be told, there’s a part of me (and probably you, as well) that struggles with this story because, well, she was resurrected! That seems too good to be true: some made-up story to make the “miracle-worker” himself look better, an ancient version of the snake-oil salesman. But what if we reserved such judgment and instead, allowed the story in its entirety? Even more, what if we could/would allow her story to be ours?!?

What if we allowed miracles into our consciousness, our everyday reality, our lives? Even more, what if we actually
believed that we are one?

That just might change everything. (Kinda like a miracle…)

We’ve been conditioned to think of a miracle as something that is completely outside the realm of possibility. The parting of the Red Sea. Walking on water. The blind and lame healed. And yes, the dead raised to life. But…

What about the miracle that despite our grief and agony and depression and profound sadness, we still hope?

What about the miracle that despite marriages that bind and bruise, we continue to live…and sometimes leave?

What about the miracle of birth in its EVERY form?

What about the miracle of friendship?

What about the miracle that flowers die and the sun goes down and yet both will rise again and again and again?

What about the miracle of opening our eyes to one more day, to taking someone’s hand,
to rising? (Just like Tabitha.)

That is phenomenal and anything but ordinary. That is extra-ordinary. That is who we are. Miracles – each and every one of us. Including you.

So the question remaining is simple:

If you will but allow that miracles do occur, more, that you actually are one, how then will you live?

Where have you hesitated, held back, and played it safe? Where have you not risked, feared misunderstanding, and stayed quiet? What have you not yet written, said, or done? What emotion, passion, idea, brilliance, heart have you not yet let out of the bag? What dance is yet within your bones and song within your lungs? All of these are yours to do, oh miraculous one.

And believe me, I’m right there with you (along with Tabitha, of course).

May it be so.

Tears

Feb 2, 2016 | Sacred Stories, Spirituality, Women's Wisdom

Tears are a river that takes you somewhere…Tears lift your boat off the rocks, off dry ground, carrying it downriver to someplace better. ~ Clarissa Pinkola Estes

I had been in months of conversation with my Spiritual Director – trying to theologically, ethically, psychologically puzzle out the pain of my marriage. Back then, the thought of leaving it never occurred to me. I had to make it work. It was my responsibility, my fate, my plight, my promise.

And so, week after week she and I would talk of the desert and the story of Hagar (my favorite) and her God. Week after week we would talk of my desert and my story and my God – the one that kept me bound and gagged, stuck, and imprisoned in promises and covenants and vows. Now mind you, I didn’t talk of God this way. I didn’t even believe this about God. But in truth, because I somehow had my choices (or seeming lack thereof) tightly wound ‘round my inherited beliefs, I really was imprisoned. Not by God, but by my ideas and faulty understandings of God.

Patiently, consistently, week after week, she would ask the smallest of questions that would open up my heart just a little bit more to a God that she knew and I wanted to know. And the smallest of shifts would take place.

Sometimes they felt as futile as pouring a glass of water on a desert full of sand and hoping for a lake; other times, they were an ample pour that soothed my deepest thirst.

One day she said, “We’ve talked much of the desert, Ronna – the heat, the sand, the journey, the diffculty. Where is the water? Where is the water for you?” I sat there for a few minutes, slightly incredulous that she would even ask such a thing. Finally, tears rolling down my cheeks, I said, “That’s the problem! There is no water for me! I’m totally parched, endlessly looking for some relief, some easing of this excruciating pain.”

And just as calmly as she’d asked the question, she then said this, “That’s not what I see, at all. There is plenty of water. Lots of it, actually. Do you not see?”

I responded hurriedly, even angry: “No! I don’t see. I don’t know where the water is. I am so thirsty. Tell me?” Graciously, she handed me a box of tissues and said, “Your tears, Ronna. Your tears.”

What makes the desert beautiful,’ said the little prince, ‘is that somewhere it hides a well… ~ Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince

How could I not have seen?

I remember moments in elementary school, middle school, high school and beyond when something would be said that wounded me or caused profound shame. My instinctual response was tears. I’d try to hide them, but that was not easily done, given that my face would turn red, and red-rims would immediately form around my eyes even if I was able to prevent the actual tears from falling. When I was finally alone, whether hiding behind my locker door or in my bedroom at night, I would cry and cry and cry. Such sadness would pour forth.

And this is hardly something from just my past. Even now, I cry. A couple months ago, there was a period of two or three nights in which I cried myself to sleep – so sad over an ending relationship that once again (!!!) completely broke my heart. Two weeks ago, while visiting my sister across the country, I caught a horrible cold. One night I took myself to bed at 6:00 – unable to sit in the living room one second longer. My head was completely congested. Crying was not helpful, given how much liquid was already clogging my sinuses. But I was so miserable, that it was all I could do. The tears came, I wiped them away along
with the snot, and I prayed for the mercy of sleep.

What if my tears are gift? What if they are the well in my desert?

When Hagar cried out in her desert, an angel came, the Divine showed up, she was heard and seen. Her tears called the Divine to her side. And if her, perhaps me, as well.

Perhaps all my searching for the Divine was and is “answered” in my tears. Perhaps the water that pours forth in the driest of places, the harshest of places, and even the most lovely, is the Divine in liquid, watery form. Perhaps my tears are the Divine. Perhaps.

And if so, then the Divine has always been with me. In my bedroom alone at night, hiding behind my locker door, in sadness, in sickness, and yes, in health. My tears have been an embodied experience that expresses my very soul. Which IS where the Divine dwells, shows up, lives, and moves –  the same spark that dwells within us all.

And hey, even if it’s not the Divine (which I believe it is), it is still a miracle – just like the angel that showed up for Hagar. It is a miracle for me to see my tears as an expression of my soul; as a way in which I have an embodied knowing that I can trust…

The awareness of this overwhelms me, actually, and makes me cry. Which means it is true. Which means I’m right. Which means that right here, in this place, at this computer, within this post, as word number 925 is typed, I am embodied, my soul is engaged, and the Divine is – as always – present…and handing me another box of tissues.

If me, then you, as well.

May it be so.

 

*****

The conversations I had with my Spiritual Director over many hours and many years formed a profound basis for the work I do today – handing you a (virtual) box of tissues, hearing your stories, seeing your heart, welcoming your soul, and
finding/expecting/experiencing the Divine that is and always has been here and present and real.

Undoing old understandings. Inviting new ones. And deepening your connection to the infinite wisdom you do hold within, in your very soul. Learn more.

Tidings of Great Joy

Dec 19, 2015 | Spirituality, Women's Voice & Power

It’s an early evening in December, 1966. I am six years old, standing on a stage, proudly fulfilling the prestigious and
coveted role of head-angel in the Salem Heights Kindergarten Christmas Pageant.

The “shepherds,” were keeping watch over
their flocks by night when, dazzled by my light, my radiance, my glow, my gold-garland halo and sheet-made-into-celestial-robe, I speak these words, the only lines in the entire presentation:

Do not be afraid; for behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy which will be for all people…

This is my first memory: My voice saying, “Do not be afraid.”

What if I believed my own declaration.

What if I weren’t ever afraid?

What if never belied my dazzling light, my radiance, my halo, my holiness?

What if I acknowledged my own magnificence, brilliance, and power?

What if I remembered?

What if you did, as well?

Behold! I bring you good tidings of great joy!

Much has happened since I was six years old. There’s much that I’ve forgotten and much that I’ve tried to forget, to be sure. But this is worth remembering: I was (and am) dazzling and radiant and whole. Angels rejoiced. They still do. Over me, yes; over you, as well. No “what-if’s” at all. Just good tidings and great joy and angelic hosts bursting into song.

May it be so.

A woman’s heart = experiencing God

Dec 9, 2015 | Hope & Encouragement, Spirituality, Women's Voice & Power, Women's Wisdom

From the beginning of time we have been asking questions about the Divine. The form, complexity, and context of the questions have changed as centuries have passed – influenced by our understanding (or lack thereof) of so many things: cosmology, philosophy, psychology, sociology, biology – but at the end of the day, year, generation, epoch, our inquiry remains essentially the same: Is there a God? And if so, how are we to understand
this God?

I hardly mean to make light of humanity’s quest – or even that of an individual – but what I know-that-I-know-that-I-know is that all it takes to solve any and all existential angst is to hang out with a woman.

I have the privilege of doing a lot of this – which, when I think of it, leaves me profoundly qualified to speak of God. (Bonus!!)

As I write this post, I am sitting in the airport awaiting my flight home after enjoying 5 days with one of the wisest, most beautiful, kind, and compassionate women on the planet. To call her friend takes my breath away. I stayed in her home, spent time with her family, ate her food, slept on her fold-out couch, kept her up way too late, and enjoyed a number of bottles of wine, spirits, and of course, champagne. It was fun, restful, encouraging, inspired, heart-overf;owing, grace-filled and above and beyond all else, just pure-and-endless love. It was, quite simply, divine. I did, quite clearly, experience the Divine.

So, want your own proof for the existence of God? Want to know how you are to understand this God? Yep. Hang out with a woman! The Divine will be revealed in and through her embrace, through the experience of being seen and heard and known by her, through the gift of time and conversation and hospitality and rest and most of all, her pure-and-endless-love.

And here’s even more definitive proof: When you show up and hang out with a woman, she becomes certain of God’s existence, as well – because of you. (Bonus!!!)

You can push me on this anyway to Sunday, as you please, but every bit of my experience, education, and expertise only validates what I know to be true:

It is only through our experience of love that we are certain of God’s existence. And love is experienced through a woman’s heart.

I know this is shocking, but it’s really that simple, that clear, that easy, that delightful.

Test this for yourself. Hang out with a woman. Pay attention to everything that is most true about your time together and apply these characteristics to the Divine. They won’t be wrong, I promise. Then take this one step further. Look in the mirror and revel in the fact that you reflect exactly the same!

All existential questions answered. All denominational strife solved. All religious wars settled. Every doubt soothed. Every hope realized. Every faith made real. God incarnate. In our midst. Relevant. Present. And right here. (Sounds a little reminiscent of the Christmas story, yes?) Yes.

‘Looking to experience God? Hang out with a woman. Yourself included. (Bonus!!)

When Darkness Threatens

Nov 16, 2015 | Hope & Encouragement, Spirituality

But a grave separateness has invaded the world… ~ Naomi Shihab Nye

It is said that in the beginning, darkness hovered over the face of the earth. God separated the dark from the light, the night from the day, created the moon and the sun, and decreed that all of this was good.

Oh, how we fight the separateness, the disconnectedness, the darkness, the aching spaciousness and silence that often seem to reign. We are loathe to call such “good.” Still, there is something about the darkness that connects us most profoundly to ourselves and to each other. And this is good. Not as reason or justification for the grief, the violence, the harm, the graves; but as evidence of light’s endless, undaunted, and determined presence, despite it all.

Clarissa Pinkola Estes tells an old, old story of when Mother Moon was stolen. At its end, these words:

On nights there was no light to guide, and so many people became lost, and so many children became orphaned, and so many people suffered, the villagers decided they must go and find what had become of the moon. Armed with torches and clubs, they trekked through the night into the bog, sinking down into the wet and slimy grass all the way up to their knees, and cold and wet they continued on. The evil things were about and surrounded them, scratching and clawing at them, but the flames from their torches kept them safe.

And they came to a great boulder, and they said they did not think this boulder was in this place before. There was a little lip of light all the way around it that shown whiter than white. With great excitement they lifted and they hauled and they tugged until the boulder rolled away. And then staring down into what seemed like the most beautiful face they had ever seen, they saw eyes filled with the love of humanity.

This is what we seek, and this is what we find when darkness threatens to overwhelm: “…eyes filled with the love of humanity.”

Ours. Other’s. Always.

May it be so.

*******

(This post acknowledges and grieves darkness’ aftermath in Beirut, Baghdad, Kenya, Syria, and Paris. In endless hope that light will dawn…)

Messy is Preferable

Aug 12, 2015 | Spirituality

Sunday morning was a known and predictable entity for me while growing up; a thing in and of itself. No question ever considered, we would be in church. All five of us. Everyone in the car. Everyone in the pew. Everyone paying attention. Everyone being respectful. Everyone singing the songs. Everyone following the rules. At a certain point in the service, I would be excused to Sunday School. I have few memories of these rooms: small chairs, big tables, flannelgraphs, bible stories, right answers, wrong ones, a craft project, songs sung, maybe a snack. Afterward, the Fellowship Hall. Finding my parents. Waiting for obligatory conversations to end. Getting back in the car. Heading home.

As I reflect, I see that weekly ritual as a mirage: Sunday morning became the façade we maintained the rest of the week: all of us in our right places, paying attention, being respectful, following the rules. A command performance – though we didn’t realize it. We would be – come hell or highwater – a family that worshipped together, prayed together, and yes, stayed together. Only we didn’t.

*****

Years later, while in seminary and studying aspects of “church” of all things, I would ask my (now ex-) husband, the pastor, what he thought about making Sunday morning a space and experience that invited honest, vulnerable, and real conversation; a place in which the mirage and façade could be broken; a place in which authenticity was welcomed, invited, and above all else, safe. (That conversation never went anywhere. I think he believed that was happening.)

I’d dress my daughters in their darling outfits. The three of us would sit on the very front pew. Perfect. Pretty. Well behaved. At the expected cue, the two of them would leave my side, walk down the center aisle, and head off to Sunday School – toddlers with shiny shoes and bouncy curls. And in expected required fashion – smiling, stoic, and barely sane – I stayed. Until I didn’t.

*****

I left that pew – the one of the distant past and more recent – thinking that in so doing, I left behind the veneer. But the smell of it still lingers: the plasticky desire for a perfect Sunday morning, a perfect family, perfect relationships, a perfect life. And I can feel my highly-honed proclivity to pretend that it is. Except it isn’t.

My life is messy. My relationships are messy. My family is messy. My Sunday’s are too (thankfully): sleeping in, drinking coffee, reading Brain Pickings Weekly, braving Costco and Target and the grocery store, doing laundry, and sometimes – if my daughters’ schedules permit (and the stars align) a movie together.

And my soul is messy. The days of a Bible verse to satisfy every doubt or disappointment, definitive solutions to life’s most difficult questions, a pre-determined god, a 3-point sermon, and less-than-fresh cookies after the service are long gone.

In their place are questions and wonderings and looking within and finding my own answers and long conversations with amazing women over wine – not to mention writing (and writing and writing).

I’m learning to allow for this ongoing, twisty, often-directionless-but-incredible and did I mention (?) messy journey; this life that’s mine.

That hardly means it’s easy. The mess (though completely understood and even chosen) remains hard for me to tolerate and allow. The tendency is high to nail everything down, to find some system that works, to hammer away at my flaws, to sublimate my intuition, to think that if I just try harder… I’ve learned to color in the lines, to never get angry or be moody or say how I really feel, to bury my emotions, to keep a stiff upper lip, to be disciplined, to be the responsible one, to hold it all together, to smile politely, to sit, to stay. Except I can’t.

*****

These days, the problems inherent in my Sunday morning reality overwhelm and sadden me. The least disruption is huge. One crayon mark on the wall is fatal. One unmet expectation is seen as a betrayal.  There’s little bandwidth for ambivalence or confusion or, god forbid, grief. Desire and naming and truth-telling feel dangerous.

Because they are.

*****

So I’m experimenting (metaphorically) with scribbling on walls in permanent marker. I’m choosing to scream and yell and rage and weep (mostly on the pages of my journal or multiple documents on my Mac). I’m wondering what it would feel like to actually be connected to my body, to the earth, and consequently-really passionately, to the Feminine.

I’m learning (again and again and again) to tell the truth – first and foremost to myself. I’m throwing stuff away. I got my nose pierced. I’m toying with the idea of a tattoo. And I constantly fantasize about buying a TinyHouse and moving to Costa Rica or Southern Italy or Carmel or Vashon Island or anywhere, really.

I’ve given up nearly all of my Sunday morning beliefs. New ones, graciously and gratefully, have taken their place, including this:

Messy is preferable – to pretending, to dogmatism, to being disingenuous, to denial.

And this:

The Sacred shows up in undeniable and impossible-to-ignore ways when we acknowledge just how far we are from perfection, when we trust that know-that-we-know-that-we-know voice within, when we actually invite the mess to coexist with the miracles.

Not just on Sunday morning, but every day, all day, and in all ways.

May it be so.