Cocooning

I sat down at the computer this morning to check up on a few blogs, when I noticed an old notebook lying at my feet. The kids must have pulled it off the bookshelf and left it here, I thought. Flipping through the pages, I discovered it was a journal of mine from last summer. And in reading some of the entries, I was shocked to see how despairing I was about our financial situation back then.

I am in such a different place now.

Things are still bad, but we're moving forward with plans for bankruptcy. December is a difficult time to be dealing with all of this. But, overall I am at peace.

At the same time I move through this season with such a sensitivity to materialism. Maybe that's why the following poem (from a July journal entry) is one I feel compelled to share:

We reach
tears leaking from our fingertips,
grief
puddling
at other people's feet

there's nowhere
for grief to go
but down
and out. . .

it rains, rains, rains

on the self-righteous
who hold sturdy umbrellas
and large shopping bags
determined

to look the other way

Christmas decorations are up: the tree is trimmed with red bows and twinkling lights, our Dickens village has been sprinkled with snow, and the Fontanini creche is sitting in our bay window. The creche is my favorite part of Christmas preparations. A mom-friend who understands my affinity for accessibility gave it to me as a gift--4" resin figures, perfect for sticky-fingered kids that like to play.

This year, while Sean napped, Ryker helped set up the creche. As he pulled the rustic-looking stable from its off-season nest, Ryker exclaimed (as if truly seeing for the first time) "Why would God put Jesus in here?"

It was the perfect opportunity to retell the story of Joseph and Mary's journey to Bethelehem. And to explain how they searched for hopsitality when labor pains urged, "It's time, it's time!"

Within seconds of finishing the story, Sean woke up and came prancing towards the moss-lined stable, saying, "Is this mine, mommy?"

"Yes, it's yours!" I said, picking up the small resin figures for some fresh introductions. "Do you know who this is?" Sean had played with the nativity set as a 2-year old, but I wondered if he'd remember the baby Jesus. He shook his head no.

"This is baby Jesus. And this is Jesus' mommy--Mary, and Jesus' daddy--Joseph."

Instantly, he was at play, shuffling the figures around, repeating what he'd heard. "This is baby-Jesus. This is Mommy-Jesus, and this is Daddy-Jesus." My heart swelled and tingled when he said, "Mommy-Jesus."

I love it when my children unpack and play with the Christmas story. Not only do Mary, Joseph and Jesus do cartwheels and somersaults, but I love the way my kids turn things over and over in their mind, shaking Truth up like a snowglobe and watching what happens.

It's pure magic.

Or maybe it's pure risk. Of course leaving the creche within easy reach of a three-year old (or even a cynical thirty-year old) is always a risk. But losing the tiny 2" Jesus from week to week--finding him inside sippy cups, and dangling from Christmas tree branches, or nestled between blankets in the children's beds--is what it's all about. I'd have it no other way.

Because Jesus is supposed to be "hands-on."

It's the whole point of the Christmas story: Jesus risked everything, subjecting himself to human hands with the chance of getting lost, mistreated, rejected, abused. But in the end, accessiblity is what mattered most.

The idea of accessibility makes me wonder about the church. Are we too protective of Jesus--worried about sticky fingers, or fearful about where he'll end up if we let people "play" with their theology, prayers, and growing perspectives in life? If so, what magic might we be missing?

Maybe Jesus is a snow globe, and along with him we must get turned on our heads to discover truth that glitters like gold. If we're willing to shake things up a bit, or be shaken, maybe this Christmas we'll discover Jesus not only in a stinky stable, but in new places, too--in loveless living rooms, sterile hospitals, flourescent-lit shopping malls, empty bank accounts, over-indulgent parties, dark alleyways, and beneath the covers of our own quiet beds--close, close, close to the places where we need him most.

Honoring Pain

My son, Ryker, is well-versed in tears. At four years old, he cries with his whole body. One day, we were shopping at a party goods store when a sales lady gave him a free helium balloon. Grinning from ear to ear, he gripped its tail-string with both hands. Then, stepping out the automatic doors, gusty winter winds snatched the sphere-of-blue into a violent tug-of-war. "Hold on, hold on, Ryker!" I coached as we skirted across the street into the parking lot. He held on, white knuckled.

Buckled into our Jeep, Ryker celebrated his triumph at having escorted his balloon to safety. "The wind didn’t get it mommy!" And he cradled the helium-happy gift in his lap, the whole way home. Once in the front door, sheltered from the gusty day, Ryker let go of his treasure, relieved. It floated to the ceiling, and burst–with an ear shattering ‘pop.’

Oh the tears he cried! Ryker’s shoulders fell forward and his arms dangled lifelessly as he threw his head back and wailed. Every muscle in his back seemed to throb and convulse, as a shower of wet poured from his lip-heavy face. Little legs bowed and bent as he walked a small circle like a wounded puppy. Then, completely abandoned to his grief, Ryker collapsed to the ground, and folded in on himself.

It was a raw and uncensored funeral. My son had lost something that, to him, was profoundly important. His pain spoke to me: It unveiled my inhibitions; It asked about things in my life I’d given up, compromised, sacrificed, lost; It caused distant memories to creak and moan like an abandoned ship being raised from the depths. Uncomfortable with the stirring, I was tempted to "shush" the dramatic sobbing, "It’s only a balloon. It’s not the end of the world!" But something whispered about treasures to be found in such water-logged wrecks.

Children don’t fear pain. They seldom squelch it, hide it, apologize for it, or protect others from its reality. When loss shows up on their doorstep, insisting on a visit, they usher it in and allow it to play. They even dress it up and give it a role, center stage, until the curtain is drawn – and the next scene begins. Somehow they know–when denied its proper place, pain hovers and haunts, waiting in the wings for its overdue debut.

This is Part II in a series about listening to depression. To read the first post, check out my post Tears Talk Part I.

Yesterday was a true day of Thanks-giving. After I got off work from the dinner theater, we gathered at my mom and dad's for a homemade feast of roasted turkery, sweet potatoes, zucchini bread, green bean casserole, cranberry fluff salad, etc. . . . The food was amazing, of course. But everything was soul-satisfying, I think, because the real feast was found in the gathering:

Six-year old Ryker played with his new canister of "Flarp," giggling for hours about contrived gas-passing. He never tired of the flatulent fun.

Nine-year old Jennifer turned eager-entrepeneur, and made $6.00 selling foot and backrubs to the near-geriatric, couch-loving crowd.

Three-year old Sean played chase with "Grandpa," mixing up the familiar tease "na-na-na boo," calling out instead, "Na-na-na cuckoo."

Mom passed out personalized, country-cute stockings with handstitched names on the Christmas cuffs.

Rich and my dad caught pieces of the football game.

I crashed out on the couch, sleepy from a hard day's work, THANKFUL for all these special people in my life.

I love thanks-giving, and I see the spiritual necessity of articulating gratitude. Too often, circumstances can cloud our vision. It's easy--in our war-weary world--to lose sight of all that is good, and "wonder"-full, and worthy of praise! When pain and problems and impossibilities become the focal point, then our lives flood with fear, frustration, bitterness, anger. And we are all--together--in danger of drowning.

But at the same time, there is a grave risk in flipping things to the other extreme. When we don't give pain the proper place in our lives--when we force ourselves to wear smiles that lie, or we deny legitimate griefs--we become soul sick. Because as much as we think we're setting aside problems for a more positive, thankful perspective, somehow the pain and impossibilities still consume. We're so busy "covering up," denying, pretending, that pain still has a fierce, controlling grip.

When we fail to face our suffering, we are robbed of real gratitude. We lose sight of Christ, who is marked with stripes--both ours and his.

In other words, thanks-giving starts with God, not us.

I was visiting a few other blogs this Thanksgiving, and I ran across a familiar verse:
Be cheerful no matter what; pray all the time; thank God no matter what happens. This is the way God wants you who belong to Christ Jesus to live. (1 Thess. 5:18 MSG)

Given the sadness of our lives, we wonder what to do with such a mandate: be cheerful always. The words can confuse and burden the hearts of those who wear grief. And too often the message is misconstrued, strapping lifeless cliches around people's necks like heavy stones.

How can we be cheerful always, and human at the same time?

If true thankfulness starts with God, then first we must bring our very real feelings and heartaches to him. Being cheerful no matter what does not mean: hide the truth, deny what is real, smile when you feel like crying. Rather, tears are a form of integrity. When we let our insides match our outsides, we are living in harmony with God and who he has made us to be.

Tears don't betray faith. Tears are not unspiritual! Rather, tears help us to SEE God, life, the world, with rich, deep, true Christ-filled compassion. Its where true thanks-giving begins.


“O Lord, have mercy on me in my anguish. My eyes are red from weeping; my health is broken from sorrow. I am pining away with grief; my years are shortened, drained away because of sadness. . . But I am trusting you, O lord. You alone are my God; my times are in your hands. . . .

Oh how great is your goodness!

Blessed is the Lord, for he has show me that his never-failing love protects me like the walls of a fort. . .So cheer up! Take courage if you are depending on the Lord."

(Ps. 31:9-10, 14, 21, 24).

I trust that you have much to smile about this Thanksgiving. I also pray you have the courage to cry.

Live with integrity! Cry when your soul says cry. And may the eyes of your heart be washed clean, so that like the Psalmist, David, you are able to SEE God's goodness and thank Him no matter what happens.

Tears Talk

My friend, Sophie, is sitting on the couch across from me, cradling a tall mug of Green Tea in her hands. We are talking about our own unique experiences with depression.

Her face is pinched with remorse as she tells me about the time one of her friends, many years ago, confessed to being depressed. Wanting to be a devoted buoy during this season of sorrow, Sophie explains how she showed up on her friend’s doorstep with a huge smile on her face, and the Bobby McFerron C.D. Don’t Worry, Be Happy in her hand. In Sophie’s mind, she most certainly held the faith-fix for her suffering friend. She thought the problem was simply an attitude that needed boosting.

Sophie’s chin falls, "If I had known then what I know now..." Her voice catches and falters. She looks up at me for a second, her soulful brown eyes searching mine. Then, she begins studying her pink beaded bracelet, gently fingering it, failing to finish her sentence. It’s in the midst of her life-altering "breakdown" that Sophie and I’ve become friends.

"Don’t you think it’s hard for people to know what to do when they can’t peek inside of us and see what’s broken?" I ponder. "If my arm were in a cast, it would be a different story. It’d be easier for others to have compassion."

Sophie shifts quietly and glances out the window. A cardinal lights on the bare branches of the maple tree in my front yard, then quickly changes its mind–a flash of crimson as it flutters away. The branch is left shivering from the bird’s escape.

Looking down at her tea, Sophie begins twisting the mug in her hands, around and around. "People think I’m fine. . .but. . . inside...." she chokes, and begins to cry. We both pause.

It is a holy moment.

I look at the sunny-yellow votive burning on my coffee table, then back to Sophie. She has tucked her feet underneath herself and pulled a couch pillow onto her lap. Sensing this is only the first of many mournful mornings we’ll share, I sit patiently with her pain.

Sophie can’t verbalize what’s wrong just yet, but I know her tears can.

They gather in her dark wondering eyes like wise words.

Seasons of Suffering

Even though it’s healing, it can be hard to cry–choking, sputtering, and uttering half-strangled moans as tears rise up from somewhere unseen. They bully and push their way through a restricted throat and pinched face before springing to freedom– falling like delicate pearls from the corners of our eyes.

The irony is, depression can birth tears daily. Our souls can become bottomless wells that gurgle up under the slightest ounce of pressure: the thought of going to work, a pile of dirty dishes, an overdraft notice, a tender glance from a spouse, a blue-eyed baby on a magazine cover, a sticky closet door, children begging to play, a sock that gets lost in the dryer, clouds in the sky.

Crying for hours on end, we can wonder about the source of so many tears. And although we can name things in our lives that are perhaps good reason to cry, it feels like our souls have bigger stories to tell. Somehow we know that crying gives voice to our deepest needs, aches, fears and desires.

We speak a language without words.

Women experience loss on so many different levels, daily, it’s surprising we don’t melt into a pool of tears more often. Some of us mourn lost childhoods. We say goodbye to our innocence. We give up certain freedoms when we choose to get married, have children, or take certain jobs. We weep when important relationships become strained. We long for the babies our bodies refuse to conceive.

Others of us regret certain choices. We cringe when the bathroom mirror reflects a body that’s too curvatious, or not curvy enough. We worry we’re not the mothers we’d hoped to be–more maternal, patient, perfect. We grieve when our children grow up, get married, or move away. We mourn our age, our vulnerability, and sometimes even our femininity. And when we retire, we wonder if we’ve lost our place and prominence in a world that caters to the beautiful, wealthy, and young.

Suggesting women grieve these things is not to say we’re all alike. Rather, it points to the way grief cycles and seeps into our lives like seasons. And when we get stuck in a long and lonely winter, inevitably we ask, Why’s this happening to me? Too often our answers leave us pointing critical fingers at ourselves, compounding feelings of failure, loss and remorse. And so we kick our pain to the curb for telling the truth.

But what if, instead, we welcomed feelings of loss into our living rooms, bedrooms, laundry rooms, and kitchens? What if we poured sadness a cup of coffee and invited our tears to talk? Or, gave grief a place on the couch, listening to its stories about who we once were, and who we could be today? What if we made room for loss to lie down with us at night, whispering promise of possibility, passion, hope and joy?

What if we learned from our pain, and received its soul-transforming gifts?

(This is the first entry in a series about listening to depression. For more on the genesis of this topic, please read my post: Tis the Season. All these posts will connect. . .so check back soon for more.)

Well, the holidays are upon us, and those of us who struggle with (or have struggled with) depression are facing potential for the blues. Thanksgiving and Christmas offer moments to cherish family, celebrate traditions, nurture spiritual beliefs. And yet some of us during this time are vulnerable to "dis-ease." We feel isolated. Disconnected. Deflated. Alone. It can seem like everyone else is on the "right" side of the fence--feeling the love, warmth, and glow of the Together-Season. But for us, holidays disdainfully remind that between the real and the ideal there's an inevitable gap.

I am so thankful that when depression now tries to creep into my life, I have the skills and supports to deal. By the grace of God, and with timely help from others, I have learned the value of listening to grief--honoring it, and giving it it's proper place in my life. I do not believe in abandoning myself to feelings of sadness (leaving myself there) but rather surrendering to them as part of the human experience. In other words, when the holiday blues start dragging me down. . . I don't panic. I listen.

I started writing a book (several years ago) to try and articulate some of my life lessons related to depression and soul care--listening to one's life. Maybe this is a good season to begin sharing some of those passages as posts. I can't think of a better way for simultaneously offering myself and others healing and hope.

If you are struggling with feelings of depression, hopelessness, agitation, anxiety, my prayer is that you will tell someone. Find a listening ear. . . someone who can help you hear the language of your heart. That might be a friend, a family member, a pastor, or even a therapist.

There IS hope!

Offer yourself warm, tender, nurturing messages during this time. (E.g You have all that you need. You are deeply loved. The Spirit of God is holding you close.) Let your inner-voices be kind and full of grace.

Perhaps I'll add a chapter a day. We'll see how the Spirit leads. . . .

"To be alive is to be broken. And to be broken is to stand in need of grace."
Brennan Manning

My three-year old Sean says the cutest things.

This season of life is downright exhausting. I'm so tired so much of the time, that I've started wondering if there might be something wrong. Last week, I had an annual physical and I told my doctor that I'm concerned about chronic lack of energy. She said she'd check my thyroid levels, and do other blood work to rule out anemia, diabetes, or something related. But when she heard that I have a three-year old at home, she simply chuckled (a preschool mom herself) and said, "Well, that explains it right there! That'll zap the energy out of any mom."

Her empathy was encouraging. And my tests came back fine. But in all seriousness, my exhaustion level has brought me to my knees. Last weekend, my prayer was: God, I need refreshment. I need a break! I have a couple of days off work this week. . .please help me to use them wisely. I know there are things I often choose to do that I think will fill me up, but they rarely satisfy. So, please lead me in the way that is everlasting.

It was Sunday night when I asked for help, and to be honest, I doubted Yahweh's ability to provide. Because there was this other, competing voice in my head that kept saying, "Yeah, right. Like God can restore you when you don't have any money. Most people go to a B & B, or fly south, or get their nails done, or go to a spa, or buy themselves something nice, or go out to eat to save themselves the effort of cooking. . . .But YOU can't do ANY of these things. YOU don't have the resources required to find refreshment."

Thankfully, I didn't let the voice of materialism have the last word. I simply prayed again, "Lord, I'm utterly dependent on you. With my bent towards trusting money, it's hard to trust that You can restore. But I will seek you alone as my source of strength."

There were plenty of times during the week that I was tempted to fall back on spending money as a false source of refreshment. For example: I walked around the Kohls department store one day with an artsy-fartsy blouse in my hand (marked down to $15.00) wishing I could buy it. Also believing that if I could buy it, somehow I would feel prettier for a party my pastor was throwing, and thus I would be "filled" in some way. But, I put it back. Lord, continue to remind me that only You can restore.

I chose instead to wait on God. His answers to my prayers were surprising. . .

My kids were off school on Monday, and usually a day at home with all three of them would feel like siphoning off my last ounce of blood. Instead, the reverse happened. I soaked up their playful presence like a dry sponge. In fact, I was enjoying them so much, we invited their friends over, too! There were FIVE rambunctious kids running through our small, two-bedroom house, and I actually felt happy, blessed, grateful.

Their youthful presence was such a balm that I started to cry at the thought of them returning to school the next day. Talking with Rich that evening about how much I missed the kids (between my work schedule, Jennifer's ice skating, and church school, we only have one night a week for family time) I actually tossed around the idea of letting them play hookey the following day. Rich said, "Go for it. As much as you miss the kids, they miss you too. But. . . I'll bet you don't have the guts to do it."

He knows me too well.

Tuesday morning came, and like a dutiful mom, I made lunches, zipped up backpacks, and sent my children out the door with a lump in my throat.

All the while, God knew my heart. "'Comfort, comfort my people. . .Speak tenderly to Jerusalem and proclaim to her that her hard service has been completed, that her sin has been paid for. . . . See the Sovereign Lord. . .He tends his flock like a shepherd. He gathers the lambs in his arms and carries them close to his heart; he gently leads those that have young." (Isaiah 40: 1,2, 11)

Wednesday and Thursday came, and Ryker stayed home with a nasty cold. Now I know God doesn't will sickness on our kids, but I saw this as a blessing in disguise. Ryker was sick enough to stay home from school, but well enough to enjoy "mommy-time." We played Crazy 8's, Snap Dragon, Go-Fish, and watched the new release of Meet The Robinsons together, cuddling on the couch. Ryker even had enough energy to play with three-year old Sean, providing me with inadvertent down-time.

For two days, while the brothers raced their cars around the kitchen, played Playdough, Chase, and Hide-and-Seek, I was able to work on a script I've been writing. I also found time to blog, knit, and stare out the window from my blue overstuffed chair, reflecting on the bare-branched skyline and the wintery stillness. (Yes, we actually had our first few snow flurries the other day!)

All of these things, along with a few "homey" episodes of Rachel Ray, were refreshment beyond measure; blessings from a Savior's hand.

"Do you not know? Have you not heard? The Lord is the everlasting God, the Creator of the ends of the earth. He will not grow tired or weary, and his understanding no one can fathom. He gives strength to the weary and increases the power of the weak. Even youths grow tired and weary, and young men stumble and fall; but those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint."

Isaiah 40: 28-31

Ever since my "burning bush" weekend at Women of Faith (for more about that weekend, read previous post Search Me and Know Me), I've felt especially open-hearted and sensitive to Spirit. I sense her loving presence with me. I feel restful, calm, at peace--happy to be right where I am.

At the same time I also feel curious about where God might lead, if in fact my phone will start ringing with unbidden requests for me to speak. Or, if God will let me off the hook somehow. I wonder, Is it possible this was all just a test? Will God spare me the difficulty of following through on this soul-stretching thing, much like Abraham when he was asked to sacrifice his son Isaac? Even though we are called to be "living sacrifices," I confess that my resistant, avoidant, sinful side keeps hoping that I won't really have to lay anything down, or go, or obey.

I've also wondered if God's plan for me to "speak" might manifest in some serendipitous surprising way: like using my skills in a new career, or ministry position, or something of the sort. I've started praying about going back to work full time. Perhaps by next fall?

As I pray and wait and wonder, there's one thing God is affirming. Like the lillies of the field, I don't need to worry, toil, or spin.

Jennifer has been teaching me a bit about this. Ever since she articulated her desire to skate competitively, I've worried about our ability to support her dreams financially. I've had to tell her (and myself), Don't panic. Take this one day at a time. Simply put one foot in front of the other and see where we end up. So, last week, when Jen passed her Beta-level class with flying colors, and was given the "okay" to move up another skill-level, we decided to forego the costly one-on-one coaching her teacher had recommended, and continue with the more affordable group lessons. The only problem? Figuring out a way to buy Jennifer new skates.

For the last seven weeks we had miraculously squeezed Jen's size 6 feet into size 4, garage-sale-find skates. The skates had fit when we bought them two summers ago. And I knew that this year the skates had to be a bit small, but I didn't realize how small until the last day of class when we had to push and pull and force the skates onto her feet in such a way that the problem was more than apparent. (Jennifer loves skating so much, she just never made a big deal about how painfully her toes had been pinched.) With only one week before her next class, I knew we'd have to purchase another pair, fast.

On the way home that night, we stopped off at a Sporting Goods store in our neighborhood, just to consider our options. The store owner told us that figure skates are "pricey" and they can range from $150 to $600 new. He also explained that his store doesn't typically carry figure skates because they are a special market in and of themselves. But, he did have two pairs of used skates we could look at.

One pair just happened to be a size 6.

The price was $40. And even though I didn't have $40 in my pocket, my heart was buoyant because my mom had called me just the day before and offered to give us $40 to help cover fall expenses.

Amazing. God's provisions are always right on time. His plan, perfect and beautiful.

I imagine Jennifer is like a lily of the field.
It must give our Creator great joy to see her glide across the ice with a smile on her face.

Watching Jennifer helps me trust for timely provisions in my own life. Whether I am speaking or not, whether I have a new job or no job, God promises to grow something beautiful in my life--apart from any worrying or toiling of my own.