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The Day I Spoke Up in Class

Apr 24, 2015 | Sacred Stories, Women's Voice & Power, Women's Wisdom

For most of my life I’ve been a rule-follower. I am really good at figuring out what’s expected and then never disappointing.

Especially true in school, I transitioned from smiley-faces at the top of my papers to 100%’s and straight A’s. Though I’ll take some credit for being smart and doing the work, I am also aware that at least a portion of good results was because I was willing, able, and highly committed to complying. Nothing other would have ever crossed my mind.

The day in class that I shakily-but-firmly said, “You don’t know what you’re talking about!” shocked me more than anyone else in the room.

 

I was 40, in my Master’s degree program, and listening to an in-class discussion about when the Judges ruled the Israelites. One of the stories told was of Samuel: a boy who grew up in the house of priest and heard the voice of God. He lived there because years earlier, his mother Hannah, heartbroken-yet-endlessly-hopeful, made a vow. She promised God (and Eli, the priest) that she would give her child away (to the temple, the priest, the God) if only she could have one in the first place.

A fellow student – a young man in his early 20s – decided to express his opinion: how crazy a woman would have to be to promise her unborn child. “What woman would do that?!? I can’t believe any woman could make that kind of a choice! What’s wrong with her?!”

As memory serves, my blood boiled and a switch flipped. The highly-honed and years-
practiced parts of me that had always done the right thing and said the right thing (which usually meant saying nothing) said “no more.” I turned from my front-row seat toward his in the back and said (at a volume that increased word-by-word):

“You don’t know what you’re talking about. You don’t know what you’re talking about! How could you? You’re not a woman. You couldn’t possibly understand. I do. I know. Any woman who that desperately longs for a child will promise anything, anything to get what she wants – even if it seems like it’s the craziest thing in the world! I made promises like that! Hoping-praying believing that if I just offered enough, gave enough, prayed enough, suffered enough, waited enough, was faithful enough, that maybe I would be granted my only wish, my deepest desire, a child of my own.

Frankly, I didn’t care what it cost me. I’d deal with the consequences later. In fact, I would have lied, stolen, and done nearly anything to get the only thing I wanted, the only thing that mattered. And it wasn’t crazy. I wasn’t crazy. I was willing to sacrifice what I most wanted to get what I most wanted. That’s what a woman knows. That’s what a woman promises. That’s how a woman lives. You don’t know.”

I turned back to the front of the class. Discussion continued. I don’t remember a bit of it. I do remember that I was never the same.

That day I heard a woman’s story being told in a way I knew wasn’t true, wasn’t accurate, wasn’t right. She was being misunderstood and misinterpreted, even maligned. And though I couldn’t quite see it at the time, it seemed as though his words were being spoken about me. It seemed that way, because it was that way. If I allowed Hannah’s story to be told in a way that felt shortsighted, lacking in grace, and frankly, just wrong, why would I expect that I should feel anything different on my own behalf?

The way in which I hear and tell the stories of other women is directly proportionate to the way in which I live my own. (The same is true for you.)

 

It doesn’t matter that nearly 15 years have passed since the day I spoke up in that class. The stories of staying quiet, following the rules, and doing what’s expected are still being told within my psyche. I can hear the doubts, the insecurities, the fears. I  desperately need to (re)tell stories of  women in reimagined and redeemed ways so that I can reimagine and redeem my own. (The same is true for you.)

And so I do. I (re)tell the ancient, sacred stories of women – over and over and over again.

The more they are understood, the more I understand myself. The more their voices are heard, the more mine is. The more they are seen as brave and beautiful, the more I see myself as such. The more I bring their wisdom forth, the more my own does the same. And the more I free them from old, tired tellings that silence and shame, the more I am freed, unsilenced, and unashamed. Did I mention? The way in which I tell the stories is exactly the way in which I live my own. (The same is true for you.)

Listen to the stories you’ve been told (about yourself, your past, your history, your lineage, your culture, your beliefs). Listen to the way in which they’ve been told. And especially listen to the ones you’ve been telling yourself. Stand up to misunderstanding. Disallow misinterpretation. And put a stop to the maligning. Then look for the stories you need; the ones that will invite you to living your own the way you most desire and most deserve. (I’ve got just a few of these to tell…)

It might be that once you have some reimagined and redeemed stories in your own queue, your own psyche, your very soul, that you, too, will speak up in class, stand up at work – at home – in relationship; that you will say “no,” shout “yes,” step forth, and shine. May it be so.

********
The woman’s story I defended that day? She did get her heart’s desire – and then some. Call her crazy if you want. She knew better. So did I. So do you.

The Unanswerable Question of “Why”

Dec 10, 2014 | My sort-of Sermons, Sacred Stories, Writing

Every day we are confronted with realities that confound us, enrage us, and break our hearts. We sift through their rubble for the smallest shard of meaning. We search for clues, breadcrumbs, anything that will put our tired minds at rest. And for all of this striving, it is rarely with measurable result.

We know Frederich Buechner’s words are true, but we’re loathe to admit or accept them:

“Here is the world. Beautiful and terrible things will happen. Do not be afraid.”

Still we fight, wrestle, and do battle with the unanswerable question of “Why?” We are ravenous for an answer.

I am no different than you. I see things I cannot reconcile, no matter how hard I try. Too painful, too diffcult, too impossible, too violent. I can’t shrug my shoulders and move on nor take a dogmatic position that enables me to rail at all who disagree with me. I have to find a way to hold ambivalence, to stay, to allow (though not accept) what I hate and hold on tenaciously to hope.

The only way in which I know how to do such a thing is to go to stories.

Stories of others who have asked the same questions – even more, have somehow lived without their answers. Stories that offer me perspective and wisdom – even more, companionship, kindness, and support. Stories that name and normalize my own – even more, remind me that so many have persevered and survived; that perhaps I will, as well. Stories that remind me that despite so much evidence to the contrary, grace, hope, miracles, and love endure – ever more, ongoing, infinitely, no matter what.

“All sorrows can be borne if you put them into a story or tell a story about them.”
~ Isak Dinesen

Stories are hardly an escape from reality; rather, a visceral and poignant reminder that one profound truth supersedes and wins out over all others (despite evidence to the contrary at times): Stories reveal all that we have in common, all that we share, all the similarity found even (and maybe especially) in difference. When we listen to an ancient myth, though far removed from our day-to-day reality, we see aspects of ourselves. When we hear a fable or fairytale, though hardly the stuff of our lived experience, we see aspects of ourselves. When we watch a film, whether drama, romance, or sci-fi, we see aspects of ourselves. And we see each other.

We must tell stories to be reminded that we are more the same than not. No matter the time period, the culture, the politics, the religion, the lens, the perspective. We are one.

“To hell with facts! We need stories!”
~ Ken Kesey

So let us tell stories. And let us listen to them. Our own. Others’. Any and all we can get our hands and hearts on. Those that break us open and those that bind us back together again. Most of all, those that bind us to one another – again and again and again.

When we do, the inexplicable, unanswerable, and ever-nagging question of “why,” loses a little bit of its power and grace, hope, miracles, and love gain back so much more of theirs. As it should be. As it must be.

May it be so.

 

 

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On a Wire

Apr 6, 2013 | Hope & Encouragement, Spirituality

Early in the morning I sat on the couch, my laptop awaiting the click-click-click of my brain and its compliant fingers. Steaming coffee. Vast silence. Cloudy skies. Heavy heart.

I looked out the window and saw six tiny birds sitting on a wire.

I thought about easy it is for them to sit there, perched and pretty, barely hanging on, not a care in the world.

I thought about how when they let go, they soar. How the wind buoys them up into the heavens.

I thought about how hard it is for me to sit still. How I feel like I’m barely hanging on. How I carry the weight of the world on my shoulders.

I thought that were I to really-completely-totally let go, I would undoubtedly crash. How the wind feels brutal and even violent. How flying and any sense of the heavens feels distant, impossible, and as certain-foolish-hope.

Then I just felt. Lots.

And then I thought that maybe that’s why those six birds sat there: waiting for me to think thoughts and then think new ones and then feel – lots and then trust and then Just.Let.Go.

Think. Feel – lots. Trust. Just.Let.Go. And believe that to soar is the only possible result.

Got it.

And just then, in that moment, the birds flew away and the sun broke through the clouds. God’s honest truth.

Life with Popcorn

Jan 29, 2008 | Hope & Encouragement, Mothers and Daughters, Women's Wisdom

Life is tough. It’s filled with disappointments, unmet expectations, hurt, grief, frustration, on and on the list goes. I’m not saying it’s not also filled with amazing beauty, celebration, life, and love. I’m all for that and know much of it. But as I’ve been in conversations over the past few days, I’ve been increasingly touched by the levels of difficulty and struggle that pervade.

Did we somehow expect something else? Is that what makes life feel so unjustly hard? Or is it that life really is unfair?

Here’s where I’m landing this Tuesday evening:

Of course life is bizarre; the more bizarre it gets, the more interesting it is. The only way to approach it is to make yourself some popcorn and enjoy the show. (Unknown)

Emma, Abby, and I made and then consumed popcorn tonight as we watched another round of American Idol auditions. Perhaps not the highest quality choice, but in the midst of so many stories that are painful, I was grateful for an hour of dissociation, popcorn, laughter, and an occasional surprising moment of amazing beauty.

‘Might be a good metaphor for life: in the midst of our own and others’ painful stories may we know some gracious moments that help us gain perspective, laugh even for a bit, and find beauty in unexpected places – all accompanied by more popcorn.

White-Knuckling Clarity

Sep 4, 2007 | Hope & Encouragement, Women's Voice & Power

I got an email from a woman today. In an attempt to describe her life these days, she said, “I am white-knuckling clarity.”  I love that! So descriptive. So palpable. So familiar.

I wrote her back and told her I may blog on that three-word phrase, one that feels so indicative of what is true about women: our innate ability to persevere while bearing so much.

It would be one thing to just stay on the side of perseverance: grinning and bearing it, bucking up, holding our own. Any of those sound at all familiar? It’s another to just bear incredible weight: being a martyr, suffering in silence, keeping our truest feelings safely tucked inside. Sounds familiar too, doesn’t it?

But what does it mean to find clarity in the midst? And what about white-knuckling clarity? This woman is choosing to hang on, but not just for the sake of such. She is hanging on so that she can discern where she is, who she is, how she is to be. She is choosing to stay in the tension between persevering and bearing weight. She is holding on tight and keeping focus. She can acknowledge the high-stakes reality of life and the need to see and act with discernment and wisdom.

I could go on and on about this tension, this dualism, this so-very-familiar reality. But where I go for the sake of my own clarity is to the metaphor (and experience) of birthing. A natural miracle that is inherent only and powerfully to women – and not just those who physically give birth. All women instinctually bring forth life. To do so requires much perseverance and the bearing of much pain. To push new life into this world a woman must hold tension. She acknowledges the high stakes and acts with innate focus. She will persevere. She will bear much. She has white-knuckled clarity. Life is the result: hers and that of what she alone can bring forth into this world.

So, for those of you who are living in this tension – the temptation to just persevere or that of hunkering down and enduring endless labor – hang on! White-knuckled clarity is what you know best (whether you can believe it right now, or not). Hang on, stay focused, breathe, and trust in life! It cannot not arrive. Birth is inevitable. New life will come in and through you.

So I say, bring it on! I’m willing to keep pushing – white knuckles and all – even without an epidural! Life’s the result and that’s worth everything!