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The Widow of Nain

Dec 18, 2018 | Sacred Stories, Spirituality

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. Still, she is in the “canon” of stories with which I work because she deserves to be heard and I trust-trust-trust that she has wisdom and meaning to offer.

  • 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.

And you.

My Empty Nest

Sep 20, 2017 | Hope & Encouragement, Mothers and Daughters, My sort-of Sermons

I can hardly believe the title of this post, the truth and heft of just three small words, the fact that they actually apply to me in just a few more hours.

My youngest, Abby Evangeline, leaves for college today.

In just a few more hours we will pack up my car and her dad’s truck. She’ll ride with me as we caravan north to Seattle
and arrive at her dorm at least 15 minutes before her assigned move-in time. “I want to be early, mom.”

I will help her carry pillows and rugs and a duvet cover and matching sheets and an adorable ottoman that doubles for storage and a mini-fridge and an over-the-door mirror and boxes and boxes of toiletries/supplies and boxes and boxes of clothes and even more.

I will carry my heart – tenderly, gingery, gently – because I know the smallest stumble, the tiniest tumble, will cause it to break. And I will shelter hers – because I still can – for just a few more hours.

She’s ready. It’s time. She knows it – despite her understandable and allowed fears, uncertainty, and edge-of-sadness.

I’m ready, too. It’s time.

But still…

How can one ever really be ready for this?

What guidebook or manual exists to walk me through even these next few hours – not to mention days, weeks, months, and years?

There is no such thing. Instead, I will listen to my barely-beating heart as it catches at her smallest sigh. I will trust my shaking hands to wipe away both of our tears. I will watch my now slightly-more frail body get back in the car and drive “home” to the nest that awaits.

Leaves. Sticks. Twigs. Feathers. Bits of string. And empty; both birds now flown.

I will circle, circle, circle…not ready to land.

Abby has no guidebook or manual either, but her heart beats strong and fierce even as she tentatively steps, tentatively leans forward, tentatively lets go…and flies. As she must. As she can.

Of this I am certain: she will land.

But me? How? And where, exactly? Must I? Can I? Will I? I’m less certain.

 

*****

 

The lines from one of my favorite children’s books, read more times than I can count, circles, circles, circles in my mind:

She was almost too sleepy to think any more. Then she looked beyond the thorn bushes, out into the big dark night. Nothing could be further than the sky.

“I love you right up to the MOON,” she said, and closed her eyes.

“Oh, that’s far,” said Big Nutbrown Hare. “That is very, very far.”

Big Nutbrown Hare settled Little Nutbrown Hare into her bed of leaves. She leaned over and kissed her good night. Then she lay down close by and whispered with a smile, “I love you right up to the moon – AND BACK.” (All pronouns admittedly changed…)

She feels almost that far away already…the moon…and we haven’t yet left this bed of leaves. Just a few more hours…

 

*****

 

I expect to dream of flying tonight.

Of this I am certain: it’s a long way to the moon and back.

And it is there that I will go, for now. Until I am ready to return. Until I can land-and-stay in this empty nest. Until my heart is yet-again steadied by the joy, elation, and in finite-and- endless gratitude I feel for all she’s been, all she is, all she’s yet to be.

Of this I am certain: in just a few more hours I won’t be able to lean over and kiss her goodnight.

Instead, I will hope that she looks up, sees the moon from her brand new (and far-from-empty) nest, catches a glimpse of me as I circle, circle, circle, and hears me whisper with a smile, “I love you, sweet girl. Always. Now soar!”

My Heart (Monitor)

Aug 1, 2017 | Hope & Encouragement, Mothers and Daughters, My sort-of Sermons

I am hooked up to a heart monitor right now. It’s mobile – just four electrodes connected to various and particular locations on my chest with wires that connect to a small timer-like thing that’s currently in my pocket – even as I sit here and type.

Other than the fact that I definitely know it is there, I barely know it is there.

I’m hooked-up because my heartbeat is erratic. The doctor asks me what I’m feeling. He listens with his stethoscope. He has me take deep breaths, “in and out, please.” He explains what a normal heart does and what mine is doing – which may or may not be normal. He tells me that he’d also like to do an ultrasound – just so he can see the heart itself and make sure there is nothing damaged or structurally problematic. Then he talks to me about a couple of possibilities: 1) This is happening for no apparent reason and may just go away; “it happens more than you’d think,” he says. 2) My heart is getting older and sometimes, for some people, needs help – more help, like not just a 24-hour monitor help. I’m opting for and planning on #1.

It’s somewhat paradoxical: the way in which stress impacts the heart. And yet here I am, stressed because I’m worrying about my heart. I’m trying not to, of course; trying to trust that my heart is simply making itself known to me in a very particular way, wanting me to be mindful. And once assured that I have given it due attention, it will go back to beating steady and strong, steady and strong, steady and strong.

May it be so.

*******

Today is August 1.

Emma leaves in early September for her 3rd (and possibly final) year at Western Washington University and Abby leaves three weeks later for Seattle Pacific University for her 1st year away. My heart(s) – leaving; the two hearts to whom I have given my heart – leaving; the two hearts who have filled my heart and enabled its strength – leaving.

I’m hard-pressed to not believe these two realities are interconnected. Could my physical heart be feeling this tug, this pull? Could my physical heart be beating out-of-sync as it tries to incorporate this lifealtering transition, tries to find equilibrium and balance, tries to determine its rhythm in the absence of my two girls? Could my physical heart already ache? Could my physical heart feel grief that my mind does not yet know?

My mind says, “It’s all going to be OK. You’ve been preparing for this season, this time, these goodbyes. Your girls are ready. You are ready. All will be well.”

My mind is wise, to be sure; but it doesn’t know everything. (I have to keep this in mind…and in heart.)

There is nothing I need to do about any of this.

Indeed, even the medical establishment confirms this unwittingly when they inform me the first follow-up appointment available isn’t until early October. “If we see anything serious in the monitoring, we’ll bring you in sooner; otherwise, that’s the best we can do.” Little comfort. And bizarre. The significance of the timing is not lost on me: when I return to the doctor, the girls will officially be “gone.”

There is nothing I need to say about any of this.

No pronouncement. No vows. No promises. No “if I only had 1 year to live” plans. No. Just awareness. Just presence. Just this.

Beat-beat——————–beat——-beat——-beat. The two quick beats, followed by the long space-and-pause are what keep calling me back to my heart – the discomfort, the impossible-to-ignore “flip” within.

My two girls, quickly gone, followed by the long space of just me – it keeps calling me back to my heart’s ache and its strength, its impossible-to-deny will and stamina and love. It will keep beating. I will keep living. Just differently – with a bit of arrhythmia – at least for a time as I adjust to this out-of-sync, not quite correct, and not quite steady way of being that waits for me.

*******

When I was pregnant, two hearts beat within me. I cared more about my daughter’s than mine. Hers was all I wanted to hear, all I wanted to see on the ultrasound, all I wanted to watch when hooked up to countless monitors during labor. Keep beating, little heart. Keep living, little girl. Come into my arms. Come home.

And now you are leaving. Both of you.

Three hearts have beat within me. Not always in sync, by any means. Hardly steady all the time. But all here. All beating. All together. Now, in just weeks, one heart remains and now, strangely, beats alone. Mine. Erratic. Unsteady. Imbalanced.

It’s no wonder I’m hooked to this monitor.

The Scaffolding Around My Heart

Jun 6, 2017 | Hope & Encouragement, Mothers and Daughters, My sort-of Sermons

Today is Abby’s last day of high school.

I just finished packing her last school lunch – ever; my last school lunch – ever. So many mornings over so many years now complete. it’s a big deal. She was always the hard one to pack for, only liking certain things. Were the truth told, she’s probably
thrown more lunches away than eaten them. So much energy expended and angst expressed. Now done. Now over. Now finished.

I remember her labor and delivery. I consciously thought, “This will be the last time I ever do this.” As I nursed her I realized the same. Last Saturday’s prom, today’s school lunch, this Friday’s upcoming graduation: all markers of more ‘lasts’, of endings, of completion.

Yes, a summer awaits before college begins. Yes, more meals to prepare and cleaning to do and cash to hand over and crises to solve. But very little of all this remains when juxtaposed to the years of such. Now nearly over. Just…like…that.

As much as I have complained about all of this (the meals and cleaning and cash and crises), these very tasks, responsibilities, even struggles have created the scaffolding around my days, my life, my heart. And now, like any long-term construction project, I watch the last supports fall away and witness the finished product standing tall, intact, and completely separate from me.

And so, I stand back and take it all in, take all of her in, as she turns and walks away.

In just moments she will get in her car and drive to school. She will park one last time in her reserved slot. She will sit in class and move locations with each bell and wave to her friends in the hall – realizing (and not) that this is it. She will turn in one last paper, sign forms, and say goodbye. And it’s definitely time for all of this. She’s ready. So am I.

Still, I feel undone – this scaffolding now gone. Not unravelling. Not unstable. Not upset. Just aware that the rigor of a world ruled by school lunches and after school agendas and a 9-month calendar and back-to-school shopping and homework and field trip permission slips and immunization records and yearbook photos and choir concerts and sleepovers and late nights and early alarms all falls away, fades away. Just…like…that.

I am still here. In the same chair with the same pen and the same ritual of coffee and writing and the dog on my lap. And she is leaving. Yes, just for this last day of school, but for so much more.

I get up from this page to hug her goodbye, to tell her I love her. She shrugs and looks at me, wondering why I’m making a big deal about any of it.

Because that’s what I do as a mother: hold the awareness of all that is happening to and for you, all that you are – until you can and will and do. I build the scaffolding and then dissemble it, piece-by-piece, year-by-year, lunch-by-lunch, until you no longer need any of it. Because you don’t.

I’m guessing there will be days, months, and years ahead when I will gather that scaffolding around me, in my mind’s eye and deepest heart, that I will recount how every bit of it was privilege and precious gift, that I will realize I now stand intact because you always were – my beautiful and amazing girl. As it should be. As it will be. And so it is. Just…like…that.

On Writing – #2

Aug 30, 2016 | Mothers and Daughters, Writing

This week, I’m offering a series of posts on writing – ones I’ve written before, new ones yet unseen, anything and everything that reminds you of just how powerful the act of writing is – whether you have any aspirations of ever being a writer…or not.

Turning this Impossible Page
[Written almost exactly a year ago. Incredible!]

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.