Expressing profound grief & fierce loss

Feb 18, 2014 | Sacred Stories, Women's Voice & Power, Women's Wisdom

There is an ancient story told of a widow whose only son died. With him went her last semblance of family, belonging, and even physical security – not to mention every last shred of hope and joy. On the day of his funeral, she moved in slow motion as the procession paraded through the streets of her village. Her head was down. Her heart was broken. Her sorrow was bottomless. Her tears were unstoppable. Until she heard a man’s voice speak directly to her: “Do not weep.” Grief was replaced by white-hot rage. Her red-rimmed eyes rose to meet his only in time to hear him speak again, this time directly to her dead son: “Young man, I say to you, rise!” And her fury was just as miraculously replaced by joy-beyond-belief as her son rose and began to speak for himself. The prophet/healer disappeared into the crowd, leaving everyone speaking of what they had just heard, seen, and experienced.

I have struggled with this story – with my writing of it. I have wrestled with crafting its telling in a way that enables the woman to be the central character instead of the prophet/healer. But I’ve struggled even more because I don’t like the words the prophet/healer speaks: “Do not weep.”

I know. I know. We can understand what he says because we know that the healing is yet to occur; that he speaks knowing what is yet to come. But she didn’t know this! She was broken and struggling to put one foot in front of the other. She had just lost everything that mattered to her, everything she held dear. And we do her a disservice by hurriedly moving from one verse to the next, slipping right past her known reality to the one on which we’d rather focus.

I do not want to move past her known reality. I do not want to move past her. So here it is:

To say, “Do not weep” is insensitive if not downright cruel. But this is not the half of it. For me to say such, to even whisper it, immediately causes a shame-based pressure to clamp itself around my throat and nearly stop my fingers from typing. To say that I disagree with what the prophet/healer said means that I am directly disagreeing with Jesus, the son-of-God, a voice of authority and then some. And that’s just not OK.

You may be liberated enough to skip right over this as no big deal with an “it’s-only-a story-after-all” perspective. Or, you may be brave enough to dismiss the whole thing completely.

Apparently, I’m neither.

As I have worked to write about this story, I have felt and experienced my dissonance and disagreement as NOT ALLOWED. As though I am obligated to remain silent. As though my opinion is too much, too dangerous, and just not worth voicing.

Which means I then become complicit in letting someone else’s voice carry more authority than my own; that I also become complicit in allowing the same to happen to someone else, another women; that in this case, this man’s voice trumps that of this woman’s.

I’m not making this up. The story itself perpetuates this. This woman’s voice isn’t heard. And it’s a story about her! Which is, of course, the point.

Her story puts me face-to-face with patriarchal power/authority and a woman’s lack thereof.

Her story puts me face-to-face with words spoken that are painful but ignored, because of who he is; because the rest of the story somehow redeems the earlier harshness.

Her story puts me face-to-face with my own resistance to speaking out in response to these very stories and the god within them (not in critique, but with allowed honesty, perspective, and hope).

Her story puts me face-to-face with the paradox of the divine – things understood and far more not.

Her story puts me face-to-face with me; with the heartache I know on behalf of the woman in this text and all those within the larger Text; the silence that too-often envelops them and the voice I long to give.

Her story puts me face-to-face with my\ fear: my visceral awareness that to speak – to weep – to express my perspective, my opinion, even my rage, carries with it the nearly-certain risk of profound loss.

Her story puts me face-to-face with my own known grief and hope, silence and voice, heartache and endless-longing for miracles.

When it comes right down to it, her story is about me. I am not confused at all about this – ever.

But maybe, just maybe, her story is about you, too. It’s possible that what happened to her has happened to you – in both literal and figurative ways. It’s more-than possible that you’ve witnessed the same. And it’s highly probable that you know exactly what I’m talking about:

Wanting to speak out, but daring not to – the sudden and overwhelming rush of emotions-and-voices-and-censors that tell you to just. keep. quiet. The clamp that immediately restricts your throat. The invisible “slap” that hovers over your fingers as you try to type-write-speak. And the less-than-subtle lesson-learned: do. not. weep.

And this is exactly why this woman’s story matters.

This is exactly the subterfuge and fabulously stealth-like way in which she does speak.

This is exactly the way in which her legacy endures, strengthens, and transforms.

She calls us to weep. She calls us to speak. She calls us to voice. She calls us to express emotion that is accurate and right and allowed in any and all circumstances in which we find ourselves, no matter what. And she subtly-though-powerfully calls us to sit/stand/stay with the palpable dissonance that occurs when we come face-to-face with the divine (or at least the stories we’ve learned and incorporated of
such) – even and maybe especially when we disagree.

Does her story continue? Is her son restored to her? Does her weeping turn to joy? And does this prophet/healer’s compassion on her behalf make all of this possible? Miraculously and graciously, yes. But more, she makes this possible. It is her profound grief and fierce love that turns the eye of god in the first place. It is her profound grief and fierce love that impacts Jesus’ heart. It is her profound grief and fierce love that invites miracles, changes everything, and turns the world on its axis.

The Widow of Nain calls us to any and every expression of profound grief and fierce love we can muster on behalf of what we desire and deserve.

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It is true: not every story ends with such a happy ending. Death steals. Disappointment rocks us to our core. And weeping continues, as it should.

In the meantime and in the midst, may we be women (and men) who allow for tears – our own and others’. May we be women (and men) who bravely say what we think and feel, no matter what or to whom. May we be women (and men) who step bravely into conversations in which angels fear to tread. And may we be women (and men) who stand alongside those without voice – past, present, and future – and give them our own. That kind of profound grief and fierce love is what turns the world on its axis.

When that kind of profound grief and fierce love is expressed, the Widow of Nain smiles and says “Yes, of course. For you are my daughters (and my sons), my lineage, my kin.”

May it be so.

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Conversations of this kind are sacred ground. They matter so very much. And they’re all-too rare. Gratefully, they are what I facilitate, offer, engage in, and love via my 1:1 work with clients. Learn more about working with me. 

You are NOT the Invisible Woman!

Jan 27, 2014 | Sacred Stories, Women's Voice & Power

Do you ever feel as though you are unseen, unheard, invisible? As though your story doesn’t have all that much significance in the larger scheme of things?

Don’t believe it! Nothing could be further from the truth!

Your story is more than significant, more than profound, and more than critical to the larger, gorgeous, amazing drama that’s being woven and written around you. And your place, your voice, your role, your heart is right in the middle of it! I promise!

Want an example?

Not surprisingly, I’ve got one.

There is an ancient, sacred story told of a nameless woman. We know nothing about her other than what we can deduce: she was a daughter, a wife, and a mother. These alone, in my opinion, are more than enough to give her stature, merit, and value. Sparse details hardly limit the depth or scope of her significance. She lived a story that couldn’t help but change the world. Just like yours.

After Adam and Eve left the Garden they had two sons – Cain and Abel; later, a third. One day, in a fit of jealous rage, Cain killed his younger brother. (Makes eating that fruit seem relatively mild, doesn’t it?) His punishment was to wander the earth – a nomad, no home, no family. In fear for his ability to survive, he pleaded with the Divine to protect him; to somehow keep him from being killed by those who would seek his death. And so he was given a distinguishing mark that would forever protect him. And of course, this is where we get the phrase, “the mark of Cain.”

Later in the text we read that Cain settled in the land of Nod, east of Eden. Then this, Cain made love to his wife, and she became pregnant and gave birth to Enoch. (Genesis 4:17)

That’s it. Her only mention.

Now some would say such is not even worth the bother – for a blog post or a book chapter, let alone an attempt to offer some level of significance to those who feel their stories are small, inconsequential, almost nonexistent.

Don’t believe it! Nothing could be further from the truth!

“…there are stories we will never find, no matter how many times we search the sacred texts. I think it was Marcia Falk who wrote, ‘What we cannot remember, we must imagine.’ And so we read between the lines, listening beneath the layers of suppression and neglect to hear the chorus of voices where we were told there was only silence.” ~ Jan Richardson, In Wisdom’s Path

In between the lines and listening between the layers. Expecting to hear a heartbeat of significance, meaning, and worth. Imagining what we deeply, intuitively, and already/always know to be true: women’s stories matter. Just like yours.

Whether myth or historical fact matters not. Her story is true. Cain’s wife sings out the continuation of countless generations: hundreds of thousands of women who are unnamed but no less real; without position, but no less powerful; barely spoken of, but hardly silent. Cain’s wife symbolizes every single page of life and death, hope and despair, triumph and tragedy that is being written, even if seemingly unseen and unheard. Cain’s wife signifies that women endure, period. Just like you.

And if this weren’t enough (though I believe it is), Cain’s wife is the first woman mentioned outside the Garden. Eve’s daughter-in-law. The wife of a marked-man. The bearer of Adam and Eve’s grandson. A mother who heard her husband’s stories and told them to her son. One who enabled generations to follow. She lived a significant story. She is a significant woman. Just like you.

So if there are days or even seasons in which you feel as though your story is not worth mentioning, barely seen, a whisper that’s hardly heard in a noisy world, take heart! Cain’s wife stands alongside you in solidarity and strength. She reminds you that every story matters and that every woman’s ability to nurture, labor, grieve, laugh, cry, persevere, live, love, and bring forth life in any and every form is what enables the far larger story to even exist, let alone be told, endure, and thrive.

You are part of a legacy of a women who endure, who make a difference, who matter. To ever think, let alone believe anything less is a lie.

Cain’s wife calls you, me, all of us back to the truth. Hear her voice:

I see you. I hear you. I know your name. I love your story. You matter. You endure. You live. This alone is more than enough. You are more than enough. Take heart: you are my daughter, my lineage, my kin.

My Proclivity for Lists

Jul 31, 2007 | Hope & Encouragement, Spirituality

I’m a list-maker, I admit it. I not only make them, I complete them. I can have multiple lists running at the same time: work, home,
parenting, the grocery store, yard work, future vacation itineraries – both fantasized and real. Whether fortunate or not, my brain has the capacity to hold all of these at once, determine which one(s) to work on at a particular time, and still recall the others.

My parents would say I should enjoy this while I can because that now-taken-for-granted-capacity will begin to fail as my age increases. I know what they mean but at least right now I’m not sure it’s a gift that’s all that great.

Lists somehow regiment life. They add order. And though both of these may be good things, I only want lists informing my life, not defining my reality.

Lists have a strange and mysterious power to become the determiner of what was, is, and should be – in many realms, but perhaps most profoundly for a religious person who lives within a text that is filled with more lists than we know what to do with.

I was looking at some passages in 1st and 2nd Timothy last week that had to do with Elders: their role, the qualities of such, etc. And I found myself incredibly frustrated. Too many to-do’s. True, the order thing is there – in spades, but for me, they felt like they’d lost their goodness and moved to something dangerous, something life-draining vs. life-giving. I struggled to think of a way to breathe life into these texts; to offer a larger perspective on how I/we might understand them. I wanted to find and invite something, anything different. I didn’t have much luck.

As I’ve spent some more time reflecting on the palpable tension I experienced in this context I wondered how it might speak to a larger reality in my life these days:

My list-making, or at least my previous understanding of what would provide me order, security, boundaries, safety, and even answers, stopped working the way it used to.

Surely, I used to think, the Biblical text – the mandates, the commandments, the lists (and those who’ve interpreted it) could offer me a rubric through which to understand my life and how to live it: a simple step-by-step process that would make sense of the increasing complexity I found myself in. I went back to the books that lined my shelves, most written by reputable Christians, hoping to find that framework.

They let me down – through no fault of their own. Somehow, between the time I bought the books and read them the first, second, or even third time and now my life no longer fit. The rules and how-to’s don’t make sense at all. I need something that offers freedom, something that gives me life.

Not surprisingly really, I found it in the Biblical text when I went to the stories – especially the women, who didn’t live by the rules and were (still) deeply loved by God. I found story after story that literally drips in freedom, that offers life. I’m incredibly grateful.

Still, what to do with the lists – my own and those in Scripture? At least for now, I choose to understand them in the larger context of the Biblical narrative, in the larger context of a God who desires and promises life above all else. For now, I wonder how the lists themselves, the do’s and don’ts, the thou shalts and thou shalt nots might limit both freedom and life.

For now, I’m fine to just wonder – not worry, about making the lists, completing the lists, crossing off every item.

If nothing else (though I believe there’s more) I’m glad I can remember what I need at the grocery store while simultaneously typing on my cellphone a list of to-do’s for work the next day as I’m waiting in the checkout line, looking at my watch, and thinking about how many things I need to get done before the next alarm sounds on my calendar/phone indicating what’s next on my list…

Enough typing. I’ve got to get on to the next thing on my list!