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Turning This Impossible Page

I bought a new journal a few weeks back. Planning ahead. Knowing my current one was nearly full. Wanting to make sure I didn’t run out of pages. But here I sit, the last sheet of lined paper filled with words, and yet unable, unwilling, to close the cover.

“It’s just a page,” I tell myself. “Turn it, then open up a new one.” Impossible.

How could I have known that I would finish my most recent journal on the very day that marks my first-born leaving home, the day before I take her to college, the day that perches precariously between all that has gone before and all that is yet to come?

The symbolism is not lost on me.

~~~~~~~

With every journal I complete, I feel a certain sense of satisfaction, of accomplishment, of “success,” somehow. It’s a physical sign of something completed. I close the cover and hold it in my lap for just a moment – palpably aware of all I’ve experienced and expressed in and on those pages. All I’ve grieved. All I’ve imagined. All I’ve hoped.

I can’t bring myself to close this one, these 18+ years, these everyday days. I can’t bring myself to open a new one to late night phone calls and weekend visits and home-for-the-holidays. I can’t bring myself to face the empty page, the now-empty half of her room, the empty space no longer filled by her everyday presence. How can I?

As my hand hovers on this last page, this tome that is Emma Joy, I am flooded with so much of the same. She has been physical sign, daily reminder, visceral presence in my life. A life that, with and because of her, is complete and rich and messy and whole. Every word, sentence, paragraph, and page so full, so true, so worthwhile. I held her in my lap for hours, the most-profound and miraculous manifestation of me-as-creator, the end to infertility’s grief. More than I ever imagined. More than I could have ever hoped.

How can this day be here? How can this journal be filled? Wasn’t it just yesterday that I opened to the first, fresh, brilliant page that was her? Wasn’t it just yesterday that she scribed herself across my heart?

~~~~~~~

As I (will, eventually, necessarily) close this journal, it is Emma Joy who opens the new one. As it should be! Blank pages upon which she has yet no idea, no notion, no preconceived idea of all the glorious prose and poetry and music and drama and grief and imagining and hope that await her powerful, poignant writing – on the lines and between them.

This is the gift of a new journal, of life itself: wide open space, freedom, and stepping into an unknown that awaits creative engagement, consistent presence, honest truth.

What more could I possibly wish or hope on her behalf?

Turn the page and write, Emma! College-ruled paper. New pens. Words and stories and experiences and expressions to create, compose, and live. Write yourself! No pseudonym. No holding back. No editing. No restraint. Because you can. Because you know how. Because you’re ready. Because you will change the rest of the world just as you have changed mine.

And remember that it will require no more effort to do so than your willingness and maybe the occasional reminder from your
mom that this is what you have always done, that this is who you are – indelibly inscribing yourself onto every heart you
touch.

~~~~~~~~~~

“It’s just a page,” I tell myself. “Turn it, then open up a new one.”

Not impossible, just not yet. Not today. Maybe tomorrow. But for now, I’ll hold it in my lap just a little bit longer. Pen in hand. Heart on sleeve.

You are NOT the Invisible Woman!

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.

“The greatest day ever!!!”

I went to the grocery store a few days back, irritated that I had to make the trip in the first place. Stepping out of my car and dashing between drops of threatening rain, I heard a boy – probably about six years old – yelling at the top of his lungs:

“This is my greatest day, ever!!! Isn’t this my greatest day ever?!?!”

His mom said, “Yes, sweetie, it’s pretty great.”

I smiled and moved through the parking lot toward the front doors. Just a few steps before entering, I spotted a dad and his young daughter who had obviously witnessed the same. She said “Is this my greatest day ever, Dad?” He smiled and said, “It sure could be.”

I laughed out loud. And my less-than-stellar attitude changed dramatically.

This is the nature of enthusiasm, of glee, of happiness, of praise. It’s contagious. It’s viral. It will not, cannot be slowed, contained, or stopped.

Can you, will you imagine that the Divine expresses such unbridled enthusiasm, glee, happiness, and praise over you?

Go ahead. Imagine it. I’ll wait for you . . .

What might change? How might you act, respond, feel, speak, be? What if, even for a moment, you could allow this to be true?

Psssst: it is true!

The Divine sees and shouts, sings, whispers – endlessly and infinitely: “This is my greatest creation, ever!!! Isn’t this my greatest creation, ever?!?”

When you believe and live like it’s true, others can’t help but say the same: “Could I be the Divine’s greatest creation ever?!? Could I?!?”

And like a flash-mob, more and more people will see, hear, wonder, ask, act, and dance. Everything will change.

*****

As I look around at the world: Sandy Hook Elementary School, the NRAs response,
bi-partisan politics, the painful and recently-personal effects of patriarchy, the ongoing reality of sexual trafficking, and so much more, I long for something, anything to change.

We need a viral, contagious belief in my own goodness and that of others. We need a viral, contagious belief in the Divine’s determined and passionate heart our my behalf. We need to be able to stand in the middle of a parking lot and yell, “This is the greatest day ever!”

May it be so.

Happy 11th Birthday, Emma Joy!

It is hard for me to remember anymore what life was like without you.

I remember deeply longing for you; well, for a child. I remember the grief, the darkness, the sadness, the numbing reality of infertility. I remember the disbelief at the pink line on each of the 7 or 8 home pregnancy tests I took. I remember the slow and cautious hope that grew within me as you did. I remember your birth. I remember holding you for the first time and weeping with joy. Indeed, you have lived into your name already: Emma Joy.

Now that I see even this paragraph I’m tempted to go back and edit my beginning sentence. There is much that I remember about life without you – all of which I’d go through again if I knew that the transition point of that past into the eleven years since would be you.

Eleven years. Amazing. So much has happened. You have grown into a girl who is nearly a teen, who shows glimmers of the woman she will become. You have brought me and many much joy.

In these past twelve months I’ve been struck by so many things about you. Time, space, and my exhaustion level at the end of this day will keep me from listing them all; but I can spend a few minutes and a few paragraphs typing down what I reflect on most – all of which fill me with such joy.

You are amazingly smart – not just academically, but in common sense, and also in humor. I am stunned by how funny you are and not just in a goofy way (though that is delightful to see when it emerges) – in a sophisticated, cunning, witty way. That is not to say I’m not also stunned by your intellect. Seeing you learn in a realm that appreciates, affirms, and accelerates your gifted brain is a joyful experience every day. I can only imagine what you will do, who you will impact, the worlds you will change, who you will be. What a joy you are – and offer.

As we’ve walked through this past season of much change I’ve watched you balance your own heartache with levels of awareness, sensitivity, compassion, and candidness that belie your age. I’ve watched you care for me and your sister. You’ve listened deeply and well. You’ve assimilated new information and emotions into your heart and mind, sifting and sorting through your own experiences and feelings, holding much and bravely, honestly expressing much. Though that process has and continues to be painful in many ways, it is also such a beautiful and profound picture of who you truly are: a young girl, soon-to-be-teen, nearly young woman who knows herself well, can stand her own ground, and still both experience and bring joy.

You are something, Emma. The amazement I felt at knowing you were even a flicker of possibility in my wildest dreams has not lessened for a moment. You continue to exceed my loftiest dreams and move me into realms of hope – and joy – I’ve never known before.

My deepest prayer for you is that you will come to know how much you offer and that others in your life will have the capacity to offer you the same; that relationships will not be one way but that the very strength, presence, and joy you offer will be returned to you. You deserve that, Emma. I will do all I can to give that to you – with the same level of care and nurture I offered before you ever emerged on the scene. It’s the least I can do. You are joy for me. And I know even more of such in being, offering and showing joy to you.

It is not hard for me to remember what life was like without you. Though I knew much joy it wasn’t you. I love you, sweet girl: Emma Joy.

Happy Birthday.

Happy 9th Birthday, Abby!

Much has changed in the 9 years since you were born – and much has not. In the middle of the night on October 7, 1998, the doctor had to tell you to slow down; that we weren’t ready for you to make your appearance yet: so eager were you to burst into the world. That has not changed.

You continue to burst into my world (and that of many others) with eagerness and full of life. I love that about you.

What has changed? This past year has been one of much change for you and with it, your own testing of emotions, relationships, your very strength and resilience. You have grown as a friend – grieving over the hurt that others can cause, longing for fairness and justice, deeply wanting your intent and heart to be known and understood, standing loyally by those who might be overlooked or not chosen. I love that about you.

You have struggled with your own emotions – the things that hurt, that seem unfair, that don’t make sense. You have raged, wept, sat quietly, and thought things through, often without resolution, without available answers, without any fix. And still you have laughed, played, danced, sang, created, and loved. I love that about you.

Though not through teachers I would have desired, you have learned about disappointment, loss, and heartache. As much has changed in our family you have had the amazing ability to survive ambivalence – letting good and bad, confusion and resolution, celebration and mourning, joy and pain all be true simultaneously. It has been difficult. And it continues. And you wake up each morning (after a bit of prodding) ready to face a new day. I love that about you.

As I have walked through this past year’s days with you, Abby, I have been amazed at your tenacity, your demand for the good, your endless hope, your tender heart, your stamina, your strength, your loyalty, your sense of humor (who else sees a neon sign with a light out and says, “Look Mom, it’s Tacoma _Elf Storage!”), your laughter, your singing, your love. I love all these things about you.

And there’s so much more! This past year has brought fervent piano playing, competitive math skills, talent show performances, choreographed dance numbers to your favorite CDs, fashion sense, joke-telling, creative writing and storytelling…the list goes on and on as each day of your life brings more of you to the fore!

In the middle of the night 9 years ago you burst into my life with a cry that left no one doubting your will to live, your unmistakable presence, your indelible, undeniable mark. That is even more true now than then. What is also more true now, is that I love you more deeply and more profoundly than I did then. You have that effect. I am entranced – just as I was the moment I held you for the very first time. I love you.

Happy Birthday, sweet girl.