fbpx

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.

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!!)

Imagining God’s Voice as “She”

Dec 2, 2014 | Spirituality, Women's Wisdom

I know. I know. God is neither a man nor a white-bearded patriarch in the sky. And yes, I know that God is not a woman either. Qualities of both. The best of everything. (Thankfully) beyond my capacity to imagine, entertain, or hope. Energy and light and love. Yes, I know.

But just because I know something doesn’t mean I can fully incorporate it. Just because the intellectual and intelligent part of me gets it, doesn’t mean that I don’t, still, admittedly, struggle to separate from old habits, deeply-ingrained lessons, nearly-in-my-DNA-dogma. And truth-be-told, sometimes, when stuck in this kind of mental spinning and theological puzzling, I want to throw the baby out with the bathwater. Only not really…

I need ways of helping my brain latch onto and understand something else, anything else. I need experiences of something, anything else.

More than all else, I need and long for my head to quiet down and my heart to speak; for Her to speak. And so, by way of practice and discipline, I imagine the voice of God as a woman. What does She say? What does She know? How does She invite me to new ways of experiencing the Sacred that already and always dwell within me?

Most recently, just.like.this.:

I see how deeply and desperately you long for rest. Rest from the swirling, spinning, endless thoughts in your brain. Rest from attempts to control outcomes. Rest from the labor required to get circumstances (and particular people) to go your way. Despite all your best intentions, all the work your brilliant mind does to craft and implement solutions, at the end of the day, you can rest. Your heart will carry you. Your soul knows. Your intuition courses powerfully through your blood, your body, your very being. And there is a larger story that is writing you. It is beautiful and miraculous. Even more, you are beautiful and miraculous. You are a womb for miracles. You bear and bring forth life that is infinite and dazzling in impact and force. You are chosen. You are worthy. You are seen. You are so much more than enough. And you are not too much. Ever.

Because of all this…and so much more, you are loved.

And did I mention? You can rest.

To tell you that I have deep, unfailing faith that never wavers wouldn’t be true. What is true, though, is that I have deep, unfailing, and never-wavering hunger – and hope – for all of the above, and then some. If I could find, know, and experience this God, I’d be sold, I’d be committed, I’d be devoted, I’d preach!

I do find, know, and experience this God.

Just not all of the time.

Anne LaMott once said that “the absence of faith is not doubt, but certainty.” Because I really like Anne LaMott and because I am convinced she has a direct line to God (how else could she write as she does?) I’m going to go with this. I trust that my uncertainty is actually the doorway into faith; a faith that far exceeds the one I grew up with, the one that is too small, the one with the white, bearded man in the sky. And as I continue to doubt, I’m going to continue with the “if God was a woman” process for no other reason than to offer my brain some God-given rest and much-deserved Grace; to let my heart lead and beat and love as it wants and knows to do. In the midst, maybe, just maybe I’ll come to believe (i.e., have faith) that every single word I’ve written above is actually true.

That would offer me rest. And it does.

May it be so (for you, as well).

 

If my writing resonates, I’d be honored if you’d subscribe to A Sunday Letter. Long-form, from me to you, every week. Learn more.

Believing in Another World

Jan 13, 2014 | Hope & Encouragement, My sort-of Sermons, Spirituality, Women's Wisdom

The debate is long, old, and exhausting.

Is there life beyond ours, in other places, on other planes or planets. Is there a heaven and a hell? Is there a Divine-reality that surrounds and supports; advocates and angels upon whom we can depend or guides who have our back? Are there forces of evil with which we battle? And is all of this “out there” or is it just through the veil? On the periphery or in my direct line of sight? Within or without?

I do not claim to have answers to these questions. What I do have, though, is belief.

I believe in another world; a world of mystery and beauty and the Sacred that exists around me, yes; but more, within me.

I believe in another world that is woven into the warp and woof of this world. Found in the faces of my daughters, the laughter (and the tears) of my friends. Experienced in moments of writing, particular words spoken, stories told and heard. Tasted in a perfect meal, strong coffee, and dry champagne. Recognized in stunning prose, brilliant thought, a clean house (and even a messy one). Felt in a tender touch, a long hug, a slow kiss. Seen in a sunrise, the majesty of Mount Rainier, the birth of a child. Heard in my heartbeat, my breath, my body.

Not Someday. Not far away. Not in the sweet-by-and-by. Not when the roll is called up yonder. Right here. Right now. Ripe for the picking.

Perhaps the point is less about “another world” and more about allowing, acknowledging, and yes, believing that the one we’re in is worth believing in.

If we only had eyes to see and ears to hear and wits to understand, we would know that…holiness, goodness, beauty is as close as breathing and is crying out to born both within ourselves and within the world…We glimpse it at those moments when we find ourselves being better than we are and wiser than we know. We catch sight of it when at some moment of crisis a strength seems to come to us that is greater than our own strength. (It’s) where we belong. It is home… ~ Frederick Buechner

May it be so.

The “but” changes everything.

Mar 11, 2013 | Hope & Encouragement, Spirituality

With an hour’s drive ahead I pulled up Google on my iPhone – on the hunt for a scintillating audio to keep me company.

You might find it hard to believe, but I typed “Walter Brueggemann sermons” into my search bar. An Old Testament scholar extraordinaire, Brueggemann offers brilliant and innovative insight into ancient texts that continues to dazzle me. This was no exception.

He told the story of a young woman who attends his church, bound to a wheelchair, unable to speak, fed through a tube, and completely dependent upon caregivers. He pondered what she must think about on Sunday mornings. Week after week of sermons, liturgy, and ritual – none of which she can talk about or participate in, at least as others around her do. In this context, he then read Psalm 31: 9-15,
positioning her as the psalmist.

Be merciful to me, Lord, for I am in distress;
my eyes grow weak with sorrow,
my soul and body with grief.
My life is consumed by anguish
and my years by groaning;
my strength fails because of my affliction,
and my bones grow weak.
Because of all my enemies,
I am the utter contempt of my neighbors
and an object of dread to my closest friend —
those who see me on the street flee from me.
I am forgotten as though I were dead;
I have become like broken pottery.
For I hear many whispering,
“Terror on every side!”
They conspire against me
and plot to take my life.

I can imagine Brueggemann is right: this must be how this young woman feels so much of the time. And though I don’t begin to understand her plight, I know my own version of these emotions. So do you. Different circumstances, but no less acute, our complaints are allowed and legitimate.

This psalm reminds us that it is normal and even acceptable to articulate such a dirge; to express exactly how we sometimes feel – to a god of our own understanding who can handle it. Indeed, in the face of such injustice and ache, the divine is often the only one who can handle it – and us – raw honesty, complete candor, no holding back.

This, in and of itself, was worth the sermon and the drive. But Brueggemann continued, turning the corner in the psalm and drawing his listeners attention to the “disruptive conjunction” that occurs after the litany of frustration, fear, pain, and emotion; one small word that changes everything:

But…

But I trust in you, Lord;
I say, “You are my God.”
My times are in your hands…

Yes, there is much that threatens to destroy, but…
Yes, there is injustice, but…
Yes, there is heartbreak, but…
Yes, there is misunderstanding, but…
Yes, there is sickness and sorrow and sadness, but…
Yes, there is anxiety and worry, but…
But…my times are in your hands.

This is what changes the psalmist’s perspective. This is what changes our perspective – about ourselves, about those around us, about our world. Not a dismissal or diminishment of any or all that threatens to overwhelm; certainly not a dismissal or diminishment of a young woman’s wheelchair-bound existence. But one simple conjunctive that disrupts lament with something else; someOne else.

The but changes everything.

Is it that simple? Does just saying it make it so? Is it true even if belief is less than rock-solid? Is it enough to repeat the words like mantra without the accompanying feelings?

I do not know. Here is what I do know:

I’d rather cling to even the most doubt-laden and insincere repetition of that but…than to let go of faith and trust.

To hope-to-believe that my times are in the divine’s hands (and my ever-changing definition/experience of such) changes how I act, how I choose, how I behave, how I love, how I live. And that is enough. At least for today.

The last verse of Psalm 31 says this:

Be strong and take heart,
all you who hope in God.

No if’s, and’s, or but’s about it: may it be so.