on life and death

I think we should be talking about a topic that, generally speaking, a lot of us tend to avoid.

We let the moments of our days burlap-cover and tuck underneath what fear says we can somehow protect. We force-feed ourselves with various remedies that we think will manipulate a kind of growth to make our heart superhero-strong from pain.

Just below the undergrowth that we use to camouflage the tender shoots of our heart is a unique, one-of-a-kind treasure that was specifically designed for this crazy, mixed up, wild-like world. Yet, we don't believe it.

Acknowledging death in the periphery of our vision, we shirk off any consideration that our hearts matter and we try to better ourselves with busyness, expecting it will actually give us life.

Fear partitions us from our senses, keeping us focused on protecting ourselves at all costs.

We sacrifice the gift we can unwrap in tasting flavors mixed together because we're so famished for attention and we have this idea that we need to look a certain way to have what we crave.

Engaging with our children or even noticing them as they play feels like a waste of precious time and we want to do things that really matter, so we sacrifice the gift of seeing and feeling all that play and the perspective of a child can give us.

. . . and the list goes on.

People have shared their experience with me of how quickly time goes and they have encouraged me to hold onto it and to treasure the moments before their gone. Though they've been well-intentioned in their advice, I've always felt like their comments were itchy, like a wool sweater. I want to appreciate it for its warmth and comfort, yet this heaviness I experience with this kind of advice is sometimes too much for me.

I'm discovering that time is not something we can control. The vulnerability of not being as strong as we would like to be is what scares us the most I think. We fear the imperfect of our humanity, that we will miss something about a moment, or that our choices in how we allocate our time will somehow be wrong.

I believe that we were created by God who fully knew that we'd make mistakes. To go a step further, I believe He purposely created us this way.

We would be wise to face the hard fact: we will always miss some. thing.

We were purposely created as imperfect beings. This may be simple truth to some people, yet for me I somehow managed to misplace my focus for so many years. I spent my living days aware of my imperfections and thinking that my purpose each day was to fix me, or at least make strides toward fixing . . . toward perfecting what isn't. I thought God tasked me with the responsibility of fixing His mistakes or what He left undone.

My fear of complacency has been like a worm that wreaks havoc on a body, including the neurological system. I was afraid that if I accepted my imperfections then I was resigning myself, giving up on what I could be, and that I won't have what I hope for if I don't put in the effort to get there.

Did I think that my hope was used as some sort of carrot to be someone better?

Did I think life was a cruel test of will? 

Perhaps it's the American way, or maybe it's just me, but somehow I thought success was a constant highway of always improving, always growing, always striving; while, maybe, someday, arriving . . . at least mostly.

In the Spring I was faced with a question that rocked my world:

     How have I spent my life so far?

Truthfully, my own answer made me cry. Because, for so long I wanted to be someone who I'm not -- at least not yet. I've held such hope in my heart that I'll be someone different or better and so I've focused on being her, instead of simply me.

I didn't consider Who gave me my hope . . . Who will lead me to see it fulfilled . . . Who wrote a part for me in the plan for this world.

When I stood at the altar nearly 14 years ago and committed my life to my groom, words stirred in me that have stuck with me. They were words that made me consider how limited my time with him will be and that is what I focused on more so than the other part -- the part that said, "I love you so much I am giving this man to you as an example of my love for you."

There weren't expectations that I be someone who I wasn't, just that I know I am loved. That I receive the gift.

Back then I was ten pounds heavier than I am now. I didn't think then that I had any weight that I needed to lose. Now, if on any given day I'm a bit squishier or pudgier than the previous day, I somehow think I need to hide from the man who said he'd love me until death and who shows it to me everyday with his steadfast stickwithitness. Because, I've learned to eat even more healthy and to take care of my body even better than I did before. Knowledge has side-swiped me from living free to living focused.

I've focused so much on the end -- on when our end will be and how it could be any time, or on what is good for me and will help avoid this or that disease.

I've focused on so much that I thought would protect me that I limited myself from simply falling into the moments and receiving them. 

Living free is vulnerable and scary. I've seen people have the proverbial rug pulled out from underneath them, gutted by utter surprise at death or disease and I've not wanted to be left in a lurch like that, so I've done everything I could do to prepare myself and protect myself.

: : : 

This summer has felt a bit more like winter to me in that it's been a time of restful sitting on the couch with a cleared agenda and calendar. That my family and I haven't had plans has actually felt refreshing, like the comfort and warmth of a blanket.

I've discovered that I actually want to be home, even though it's not exactly the way I want it to be. Traveling and hustling with plans to do this and that really is just one big headache and my typical attempt to avoid the discomfort of imperfection.

I've discovered that I'm loved, even though I'm a wreck a lot of the time and as much of a yo-yo emotionally as the weight of my body. I've felt like new life is hidden just underneath the burlap and that an unfurling will happen, even though it's not quite happening when I think it should.

In the midst of feeling like each moment I live is one step away from falling on an icy patch and feeling tempted to be timid even to breathe, much less walk, I've realized that like my legs, my heart actually feels better when I exercise it instead of focusing so much on keeping myself safe and secure.

I found that by accepting the conditions of each moment, I am able to really live. And by that I mean, to embrace joy in the midst of the jaw-gripping, fault lines of life.

There's a young man who died recently, sparking so many conversations about people's perceptions of other people, particularly of biases as it relates to race. So much of the world noticed because the killing seemed unfair, judgmental, and irresponsible. People have been angry and rightfully so, yet I wonder if they expected some sort of perfect that hasn't transformed humans in spite of the strides that have been taken around human rights.

There's another young man who died recently, sparking another kind of conversation about how experience and success should somehow making him exempt from incurring pain or harming another person.

And then there's a third young man who died recently, sparking attention from a smallish-size group. Though not a nation-wide news story, people stood in lines for hours upon hours yesterday to pay their respects to a roughly 40-year old young man's family -- a village bartender -- who suddenly died of a heart attack.

I feel badly for the families of these men. I feel badly for their having the weight of sadness and for how these deaths have affected so many other people connected with them. I even feel badly for seeing goodness in all of these stories, because declaring any smidge of beauty in the brokenness feels so trite and dismissive of the pain people are experiencing.

Yet . . . I believe there really is more beauty than there is brokenness in this world . . . and most especially, that brokenness always gives way to beauty -- that it's purposed, even though we sometimes can't fathom how or even begin to pretend that we agree.

In the winter-like summer that I have experienced this year, I have hibernated and learned to rest. While doing so, I have contemplated the fragility of life and the risk of love and life.

I decided that I want to live, even if it means I'll experience brokenness.

I decided that holding my heart hostage from joy is more torture than any loss could ever be.

Death will happen. I will likely come when I least expect it. And though I am sometimes tempted to consider which way is a better way or which is a crueler way, I want to stop doing that as often and instead just breathe -- while I can -- sipping, savoring, and sometimes even slurping down the moments.

I'll sometimes evoke all my senses and might even taste life as I drink it in, yet there will be times when I'll gulp it right down with the mindlessness of a 1,000-thoughts-at-once frantic human being.

Maybe talking about death more would help us to be more comfortable with the imperfect nature of how it comes upon us. Maybe it would help us not to be so consumed with the idea that we can somehow perfect our handling of it.

Like parents do with children, we will mess up life.

We will forget to watch our tone and we'll even forget to wash our hands. We will forget that we really don't want the cookie and we'll reach for vices that have become our habits.

Life isn't something we can perfect or get through without pain. Though we want to be better, the truth is that we will die and we will die imperfect.

I don't want to spend all my energy trying to perfect me (or others) when I'll never finish the job anyway. 

I've decided that if Someone decided this world was worth having me a part it, then I can trust that Someone knows better than me.

That Someone wants me to embrace what is, as it is -- even what isn't exactly right or how I'd like it, including myself and other people.

Who am I to question Someone's Art?

Linking with Jennifer and Bonnie.

on learning to accept fear (Part 2: responding to a mother's worry)

My mother texted me the other day to express how "sad" it is about Robin Williams. I agreed and commented how mental illness is definitely very real.

She then said: "Promise me never to do that."

And I couldn't reply.

Sometimes the truth is too scary to face, so I hide.

I was afraid of my mother's fear so I chose not to respond to her request that I make such a big promise to her. Mostly I was afraid for her because sometimes the truth can feel like too much. I wanted to protect my mom from worry.

I've been paying more attention to fear these days.

I've been noticing that like children, fear just wants to be noticed. Even though fears can't just get what they want and don't have the right to push me around, I'm letting them be heard. I'm asking questions and trying to learn from them, even though rationalizing with or talking down fear doesn't always work.

Like the white hair, and wrinkles, and aches and pains that have been slowly making me notice that in spite of my feelings, I'm not 25 anymore . . . fear reminds me that I'm human.

I'm learning that I can rest when I simply accept fear as a part of life, kind of like germs that I can't just perfectly cleanse away. I make a choice to accept the risk that I might get sick and live.

No matter what we do, fear isn't something that we can make go away.

Fear isn't something to feel shame about -- neither that we have fear, or that we struggle to control it.

I hope that in time I'll become better at thoughtfully responding to fear instead of impulsively reacting to it and that my body will be strong enough for it the next time it invades me. For now, I'm learning to be honest that this conditioning takes a lot out of me.

I feel like a person who is just beginning a new fitness routine and is tempted to give up from feeling more exhausted because of the workouts. I'm learning to be gentle and patient and kind with myself as I develop the strength to stand strong in the midst of fear that is a part of life. Like wind, I can't control fear from happening, but I can do what I can to be prepared for it. Yoga reminds me of this as I contract my core muscles and stand strong like a tree, imagining that I can't be pushed or blown over.

I'm starting to accept fear and it's wonky ways. I'm also starting to accept it as a part of others, too, and how it spills over and makes a mess sometimes.

Though I couldn't promise my mom I won't one day take my life and I was afraid of how she might feel and what she might think if I spoke the truth, I decided not to let my silence be so deafening.

In my response to my mother's worry for me, I addressed it by saying:

I saw your text before I went to bed and didn't know how to respond, so I let it sit.

The truth is, I can't promise something like that to you. I can't promise that to anyone. Not even myself.

Does it mean you should be worried about my mental health? Not necessarily.

None of us are immune from random and seemingly sudden moments of onset anxiety and depression; however, I'd venture that the "sudden-seeming" nature is really a surfacing of the truth that's hidden below.

I've struggled in my own silent and scary ways for a lot of my life, and it's likely why I created "rules" that were my way of trying to fix myself.

I'm aware that my son and my husband and I could choose not to be brave in this life; we could choose to give up.

That I haven't . . . that any of us haven't . . . is truly a miracle. 

I share this piece of my response to my mom because truth alone isn't enough to set us free

     . . . neither is love from our family, and
     . . . neither is time.

It isn't because we aren't good enough that explains why we continue to struggle in life, it's simply because we haven't arrived in a place where anything is perfect.

When we accept that we were made human, we just might begin to accept our brokenness . . . and even ourselves. 

Maybe, just maybe, we'll begin to simply be, as we are, instead of work to become someone we aren't (even yet).

Maybe we'll begin to see our beauty as the kind that in its rawness is sometimes hard to look at, yet reminds others that they aren't alone.

Maybe we'll begin to see our imperfect bravery of accepting ourselves as the most perfect beauty of all.

Maybe we'll begin to accept grace.

Maybe we'll begin to rest.

Maybe we'll begin to live.

responding to a mother's worry

My mother wrote to me last night with what she called, unfounded worry. She asked me to forgive her if she steps out of line and said:

"I don't want interfere and I don't want to make things my business that don't belong to me. 

I worry about you because I am your mother and I love you. I cannot pinpoint why I worry. I have no definitive reason that brings me to this worry.  

It is not person or situation specific. It is just an uneasy feeling I have. 

. . . I just want you to know how important you are, how much you are needed and how much you are loved . . . " 

: : : 

Even though fear was rummaging around the walls of my heart, and . . . 

     I wasn't completely comfortable with what I had to say, and . . .
     I wondered what I could have possibly done to make her be worried, and . . .
     I wanted to run and hide, and scream and shout in defense of myself, and . . .
     I sometimes forget to count the gifts . . .

I scripted a response and sent it . . . in the midst of the fear . . . because:

I'm learning to honor myself, as I am
     . . . and I'm learning to honor others, too, as they are.

: : : 

My response to my mother's worry went something like this: 

Mom, 

I know you love me and that's a great gift -- to know.  

I truly appreciate you and how you care. 

Let me assure you that there's no need to worry. Though, mother's have this sense and that's not to be ignored, so for whatever reason that brings you to "worry" I'll just trust that you'll choose peace. I've been on a journey of rest and it's been deep and profound. Perhaps I've been distant. 

Why do people feel compelled to walk a certain line or stay outside of certain bounds? That kind of thinking isn't free to just love and care and express genuine concern and is what inhibits many of us from peace and what causes us continued restlessness, wondering what should we do? how should we act? what should we say? I've been deliberately choosing not to live that way and to be more open with my heart, though it's hard. I'm tired of the rules that imprison me; rules that I create and have based my life around that has ultimately inhibited me from living in joy and peace.

I want you to know that life is good, Mom. Truly, it's good. 

Now, in my mid-30s, I'm navigating who I am, as I am, versus who I think I ought to be. This may seem like a time to reply: "well, that's how you should have been living, silly girl" Yet, it's not how I've lived and that's just how it is. I think a lot of people my age get to this point in their lives and start to realize that we haven't been true to ourselves, and those who don't get it probably just haven't realized this about themselves. This is my story right now: learning to live freely as me and not focus so much on the imperfections.

I'm deep and often times too much for most people including myself, yet I am learning to trust God for my imperfections and trust my husband for his love. These two are profound lessons I'm in the midst of learning and it takes a lot of energy and strength and much of my heart just to live in this space. Perhaps that's a lot of the reason why I might come across as distant; there's just not a lot of words I can muster and not a lot of room in my heart right now. I'm okay with this and I trust I'm good enough in this moment, as I am. 

I hope you'll be overwhelmed with a peace that assures you that I'm in a good place. 

love,

a

Linking with Jennifer

a new kind of vow: As. We. Are.

I think we should come to the altar naked.

     No more of this beautiful white gown and glorified-perfect stuff.

Seriously, I think we should come naked: as. we. are.

     Messy. Dirty. Bruised.

     Self-mutilated. Self-shamed.

     Holey and drained.

     Ashamed and afraid.

     Angry. And even amazed.

Our vows should be of a different kind.

     Aware that we will surely swerve and sway and make mistakes.

So I'm proposing a new kind of vow.

     To our groom (or our bride), as much as to our littles, and each other.

A daily vow as much as a life vow.

: : : 

to my groom . . . my son . . . my self . . . and even my God,

my loving you today is a choice, and you need to know this:

     i will get angry even after i say that i won't.

     i will surely hurt you.

     i will be unlikeable a lot of the times.

     i will abuse and adulterate what we've got.

     i will put me first.

     i will have unfair expectations of you.

     i will be impatient, and impish.

     i will abandon my umph and stickwithitness.

     i will want to run.

     i will try to hide.

     i will want comfort more than i will want the hard work.

     i will make so much about me.

     i will want what i want over what i know is what's best.

     i will get everything so tangled and twisted, just as i will be.

     i will complain of not having what i want.

     i will pine for better days.

     i will come into my days scared and scarred.

     i will not promise that i'll always love with a generous and committed heart.

     i will, though, guarantee one thing: i'll always be human.

          i will live the definition of messed up, tripped up, effed up.

          i will be me. 

     i will boldly and brashly bring my whole self to the table, at least some days: real and raw.

     i will reflect my need for undeserving grace, unconditional love. true redemption.

     if that's what you're willing to want, then let's do this thing . . . this life . . . this day.

this is our worship. 

Linking with Jennifer.

cherished

I read about Lance Armstrong's confession with Oprah Winfrey last night and thought about myself.

Like Lance, I also expect to always get what I want. I am a controller of outcomes.

Softening the word to influencer sounds more special and sometimes that really is the better word, but truthfully it's because I don't trust.

I want too much. I pine for what isn't mine. I lust for dreams that really aren't defined (yet) as mine.

Knowing all of this is beyond humbling. It makes me cringe and want to hide away. I want to be mad at the world and God because of my own yuck. (I wonder why that is.)

Yet, there's this place inside of me that cannot deny what could very well be truth.

I am cherished. Just as I am. Controlling tendencies and all.

So I choose to believe it very well could be Truth.

Today's post was part of my friend, Lisa-Jo's fun challenge each Friday to take five and Just. Write.

     "...for five, short, bold beautiful minutes... unscripted and unedited...

     without worrying if it's just right or not."

Share your heart . . . add a comment below.

_______________________________________________

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for when you think you want control

accepting

uncertain

how I plan to spend my time at home

Expectations tell me to enjoy.

Craving Rest, I long for nothingness.

Video games playing. Movie watching. Family visiting. Workout forgo-ing.

Plans are imagined, developed, frosted and decorated.

So delicious-looking that I can't even bring myself to touch them.
These plans are just as fake as the adornments.

There may be rushing about and boredom,
and probably some shouting and crying.

We might wish we could run to school or work.

Reality will run her course.

Some things are for certain.

Peace will follow me. 
Love will lead me. 
Grace will free me.

Expectations will dissolve and perfection-seeking will crumble.

Those idols never last long--
     always the first to break, the ones I adorn the most.

He'll find me when I forget.
He'll comfort me when I cry.

And, I'll adore--Always. Adore.

In simple ways His beauty will be found.
And I will See *purpose*, even in my mess.

During my time home this week, I'll be living in a very real way. 
Simply and truly living.

_______________________________________________

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how to see yourself as who you are

Saying it aloud, I surprised myself by what I heard.

I need to start seeing myself differently. 

This year has wrapped up into a heap of challenges that began as *invitations*--Yes's that became something real.

Runners don't just hop on bikes and brave the road all strong-like.

Owning half the road and running two-wide doesn't phase a runner. Motorists must yield for us. But, cyclists share the space with those others. They can't just eye 'em down and demand space, they could be blindsided at any time. It's scary out there on a bike dozens of miles away and fully reliant upon others if something happened.

Runners also don't just hop in the pool and swim. 

It's hard to breathe in there. Water goes places deep inside and doesn't just shake off with each step. Breathing becomes deliberate with each stroke; something to be learned and practiced. And, there's no side to grab onto. It's lonely in a big lane, several dozen strokes away from start.

Runners don't choose to focus on arms for strength. 

Racing hills is the hardest workout for us strong-leg types. Push-ups seem foreign and unnecessary. Taking a day off of running to spend time on arms just seems like a colossal waste of time; training seems sidelined.

Runners tend to be soloists. 

The go-it-alone type, we're a weird bunch. Self-focused and introverted, runners are competitive and shy about their own pace. Partners can be fearful to have as pace becomes spotlighted even more. A leisurely run becomes a job.

So, His *invitations*--
   
     to get a bike...
     hop in the pool...
     focus on push-ups...
     and get a canine running partner...

--just didn't seem to make sense.

They were challenging Yes's for a girl like me. 
A part of me wishes I could say it was all easy. 

But, those *invitations* weren't nothing to me.
Those were very real challenges.

...just as was applying for two jobs in the past year--positions that I just knew I wouldn't get. Positions I felt were meant for my consideration, though not for my shoes to fill.

...and, then there were the three other non-paying opportunities I raised my hand to. Ones that would call me out and make me connected, and visible to others--doing things I never imagined myself doing.

...and the conversation with a colleague with hope that he would see me differently. The one where I shared my passion and tried to plant a seed, if ever there arose an occasion where a need would define my strengths.

These were all risk's others often can't understand. And ones I felt with every ounce of who I am, I needed to say Yes to.

The willingness declared that I am important enough to choose strengths instead of shoulds. 

There was a time, recently, when I went to a store and bought myself good, high quality trouser-pants. I paid a lot of money for them. And it was a risk.
Because, do pants really have to cost that much?
What if I don't fit in them a year from now?

At the same store where I bought the pants, a woman suggested I try on a sweater in a size I'd never imagine for me. After dismissing her suggestion, and then quickly considering, only to be pleasantly surprised, I immediately thought out loud that I need to start seeing myself differently.

And right there, at that very moment, the entire year worth of experiences collided into one magnificent firework in the sky of my mind.

I need to start seeing myself differently. 

The Boy dresses up in all funny costumes, using whatever pieces of rubbish scrap he can find. Carefree, a pipe cleaner becomes a necessity to his idea of something. He sees himself as some. one. With a vision that I don't have, he uses everything around him and makes some. thing.

I am astounded at how this speaks to me.

With a conscious decision--a deliberate willingness--
     we can travel a completely different path, 
          seeing things we never could imagine we would, 
               if only we would say Yes to the *invitation.* 

Not always seeing the beauty, I look at the Boy's creation with wonder over what he could possibly thinking. The real astounding thing is to see that he has made Some. Thing.

Choosing Yes gives way to Some. Thing. 

I didn't swim in that race within record speed. And probably not even close to my full potential. But, I said yes and stuck it out. I learned how to breath the best I could, and in the process of trying I learned some valuable things.

The bike I bought isn't a lightweight one that's the most efficient for 25 miles. It's not even a technical road bike. But, it works for me. It's the bike that allows me flexibility to ride with my son on sidewalks still, or grab the old railroad tracks between my parents house and my own.

100 push-ups are broken into five sets, though they're the real ones. It's been my hardest challenge yet, aside from keeping my marriage and raising our child--all three emotional mountains. It took nearly six months to complete and only possible with a willingness to keep on.

And the dog, she slows me down and has her own set of fear when we trod outpre-dawn. I'm not always patient with her and sometimes I complain about her stinkyness. She has helped me bend and flex with the changing weather, demanding that I notice things more.

Those jobs I raised my hand for were definitely not gimme's. Applying for them may seem pointless to one person, and yet necessary for me.

Choices are individual.

How my groom and I make time for each other isn't in the way of advice suggested to us. We have made adjustments and constantly re-adjust, still--seven-years in to belt-tightening family decisions. What we do on a daily basis is the exact reverse of what many in society expect of us.

Being *willing* to See is the first step to seeing yourself as who you are...

...it is surrendering the glasses we see through and trusting that we'll be given the vision for Some. Thing. 

When we live our own story, we never want to go back to living it for them.
We ache inside at the thought of doing something that isn't made for us.

Truth reminds us:
     not everyone is called to every. thing.--
          but, we all are called to some. thing.

As this year concludes and another one attaches to my story,
and as I look around at the different choices of others,
I can't help but long for acceptance--of myself.

I want to See myself as He does. 
I want to live out my commitments. 
I want to inspire you to choose Yes. 

...because, All. Is. For. Purpose.

_______________________________________________

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color

The seasons of my life blend uniquely.

What is for you, isn't for me. And the colors I See aren't what you See.

Our perspectives of life are unique.

At this time of year, I am a seething red in the rawness of the pressure. Twisting and turning, trying to wriggle my way out of the stress I've allowed to overwhelm me.

And, embarrassed that I've let it become this way.

He makes me less dark and more light. Pink-ish. As if I've only been kissed by the stress and caressed by His pure white.

The truth of this overwhelms me--He makes me less dark and more light.

I begin to See when I lean into how He is so much of me. I needn't try harder or be good-er. He accepts me as I am, and created me with purpose--even though He knew I'd struggle in these ways.

A friend asks if choosing gratitude "really works?" and I consider this long into the night. I wonder what she means exactly--works? And I know she wonders, too.

What is it we look for? Radiant blues and blissful greens? Or, pop-out yellow and radiant orange?

Beauty. Purpose. Peace.

When I begin to lean into His Story, I See the magnificence in color. Beauty lies in them all. Purpose for each.

Even the black has a place in my story. I choose to trust.

Colors strike the heart in such poignant ways, evoking and awakening emotions we see as shame and He sees as moments to trust.

And this--this touching of our heart and brushing our story in colors galore--it is how He speaks, ever so personally and ever so beautifully.

Today's post is part of my friend, Lisa-Jo's fun challenge each Friday to 

     "Write for five, short, bold beautiful minutes... 

     Unscripted and unedited...

     Without worrying if it's just right or not."

_______________________________________________

Follow A {Grace} full *life* on Facebook and Twitter.

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