Cocooning

I just finished my last shift at the Dinner Theater for the week, and it's finally sinking in that we're moving on Sunday!

I've had so many mixed emotions. Obviously, I'm thrilled that we're moving into a space that'll better fit our family of five. (It's been my heart's prayer for 5 plus years!) But, we're also leaving our home of 7 years, the one that contains all the precious memories of my "young mommy" years. We've lived in this small two bedroom duplex since Jennifer was 2 and Ryker wasn't even born. This summer Jennifer will be 10, Ryker is 7, and surprise baby #3 (Sean) is turning 4. It definitely feels like our move to the house next door is a mark of change on so many levels: A new season of parenting. A fresh start financially. A growing ability to trust. And now that I'm 40, an evolving perspective on life.

The library called today and informed me that a book I ordered three months ago is finally in. (I don't know why it took so long, but I'm a firm believer that timing is no accident.) The book is Marianne Williamson's "The Age of Miracles." It's about navigating midlife with dignity and voice and grace. I read a few pages of the introduction and then quickly put it down. Because with everything I need to do for this move, sneaking a peek at a few pages felt like teasing myself with one small solicitous bite of a double decker chocolate cake. I can't wait for time to truly dig in.

We also found another monarch caterpillar this week. It's currently munching away on a huge stalk of milkweed in our living room.. Within only a few short days the cute, striped little creature has more than doubled in size. This is the third season we've played midwife to a caterpillar, but I never grow tired of watching the miraculous changes and waiting for the transformation to come. I guess the serendipitous timing of finding this little guy is also a gift.

Everything about this move feels simply monumental, so I must admit it seems slightly strange that our street address is only changing by one number. One of my friends said, "You've been waiting on Jesus for so long, and the whole while he's been living next door!"

I'll send address updates once I find out what our new email will be (because that's changing too.) Thanks for sharing the joy and the journey! Blessings like this one just aren't the same without friends and family to help us celebrate!

We delight in the beauty of the butterfly, but rarely admit the changes it has gone through to achieve that beauty. ~Maya Angelou

Happiness is a butterfly, which when pursued, is always just beyond your grasp, but which, if you will sit down quietly, may alight upon you. ~Nathaniel Hawthorne

There is nothing in a caterpillar that tells you it's going to be a butterfly. ~Richard Buckminster Fuller

Beautiful and graceful, varied and enchanting, small but approachable, butterflies lead you to the sunny side of life. And everyone deserves a little sunshine. ~Jeffrey Glassberg

It's been eons since my last post because it feels like the whole earth is shifting beneath me. I'm trying to find my feet. . .endure the aftershocks of John's death. The funeral weekend with friends was wrenching and healing, a time of mourning and praiseful worship. It still bothers me that life is so mixed that way. I'm 40, and still looking for the stone-less road even though I know (at least in my head) one doesn't exist.

Being at Church of the Resurrection (Margie and John's church and my family's home church before moving to Minnesota) was restorative. Through liturgy and music I was reminded that grief and praise can coexist. We cried and danced. Surrendered and celebrated.

Even now, I'm trying to embrace both. I need to mourn John, pray for and support my newly widowed friend and her two precious children, say goodbye to my present home AND celebrate the gift of a new home. As we prepare to move next door, I feel as if my current "nest" is simply being unfeathered. My garage is cluttered with cheaply priced "junk." And I feel restless about living in a new space that I can't quickly re-feather.

I'm just overwhelmed. I want to feel "at home" somewhere. In my grief, I long for comfy quilts and a room that is nurturing, warm, complete. Instead, my home is full of empty boxes.

Empty to fill.

Empty to fill.

Empty to fill.

The phrase runs through my mind as a source of comfort.

Jesus, the One acquainted with our sorrows, fill me with YOU. Help me to make my home in YOU. You're all I truly need.

Since writing my last post, Turning Tide Open Hands, the image of an OPEN HAND has continued to present itself, nudging my spirit like a reocurring dream.

If there's one thing I've "learned" over the past few years, it's to live generously, as if nothing is my own. When you have nothing, and your dreams are so far from reach, somehow it's easier to do. Because there's nothing to "protect." Which for me broke down walls and provided a real sense of wanting to help my neighbor. Because helping someone else felt like the best way to help myself. Living the golden rule in the midst of poverty felt like feasting on grace.

And now, as we're beginning to taste the goodness of the Lord in a new way. . .with realized dreams of a larger home. . . I find myself full of fear (or maybe it's simply old habits). I want to clamp down on our finances. Hold tight. Clench my fists and hold my breath. The dream of decorating a home with colors that appeal, and the hope of buying "new" furniture (garage-sale finds, but new to us) are not, I realize, important matters in the grand scheme of things. But if I'm honest, I spend a lot of time thinking about paint, and chairs, and coffee tables. Can I trust God to protect my dreams? I believe God will help us paint and refurnish in a way that will be a testimony to His grace.

I believe. . .but do my clenched fists tell a different story?

I was at a women's event the other night where I had the opportunity to watch Vanessa Gamble perform in a sketch called "The Bigger Picture." This profound one-woman show was full of stories and songs that were soul-stirring. God's Spirit moved through Vanessa in a way that filled the room with gentle conviction. Our collective clenched-fists began to relax as God whispered reminders: The Big Picture isn't about "bigger and better" or "more, more, more." Life is about living with open hands.

Open hands.

That very evening, I turned my back on an opportunity to give money to Myanmar.

I struggled and prayed, because for the first time in 5+ years, I've managed to save a small nugget of money. I've wanted to use it on my new house, but I heard the Lord saying, "Open your hands, Cheri." I felt the grip relax, only to clench tight again when fear continued to say, "Keep the money for yourself. It's not a lot. You need it. You're just being wise. How will you afford to paint and furnish if you don't hunker down and save?"

Lord help me. Everything is a gift from you. You gave me the money in the first place, so please tell me what to do with it.

Last night, watching American Idol, George Michael sang a song called "Praying for Time." I broke down and wept with remorse and regret. Not only for my choices, but for the ways ALL of us have erred on the side of clenched fists. The first line: "These are the days of the open hand."

Praying for Time
These are the days of the open hand
They will not be the last
Look around now
These are the days of the beggars
And the choosers

This is the year of the hungry man
Whose place is in the past
Hand in hand with ignorance
And legitimate excuses
The rich declare themselves poor
And most of us are not sure
If we have too much
But we'll take our chances

Because God stopped keeping score
I guess somewhere along the way
He must have let us all out to play
Turned his back and all gods children
Crept out the back door

Chorus
And its hard to love,
Theres so much to hate
Hanging on to hope
When there is no hope to speak of
And the wounded skies above
Say its much too late
Well maybe we should all be
Praying for time

These are the days of the empty hand
Oh you hold on to what you can
And charity is a coat you wear
Twice a year
This is the year of the guilty man
Your television takes a stand
And you find that what was over there
Is over here
So you scream from behind your door
Say whats mine is mine and not yours
I may have too much
But Ill take my chances

Because God stopped keeping score
And you cling to the things
They sold you
Did you cover your eyes when
They told you
That he can't come back
Because he has no children
To come back for

Repeat Chorus

Lord, I often regard TIME as a confounder of my own plans, a frustrating limitation. But now I see TIME as GRACE. I don't believe you turn your back on us. So, thank you for the gift of time, time for you to change our hearts and minds. Open our hearts, that our hands might open too!
To check out George Michael's American Idol performance, click here:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xZXE8Fohj8M

How do I explain the shift happening in our lives? A turning of the tide? A parting of the Red Sea? Some have suggested I've been given the gift of new perspective, that the only difference in our lives is that we can now simply SEE the waves of mercy and grace that were always there. But, who can deny the measureable change in our circumstances?

We can finally BREATHE! This month, we survived two, major, unexpected hits to our budget. $600 dollars later, we're still floating! This is such a good feeling. And in the meanwhile, a "push" from our landlord to move by the end of June has opened up the possibility of renting something that better fits our family.

I struggle to find words to describe the outpouring of blessing I am experiencing in my spirit. Several times this week, Psalm 145 has been brought to my attention in a way that feels like a favorite song on the radio, cranked up loud! I've even been given the image of God jumping up and down, like an ecstatic child, bursting with celebration and wild, wild joy at all that he has in store for me and my family.

Psalm 145: 13-16, 19, 21
The Lord is faithful to all his promises and loving toward all he has made. The Lord uplifts all those who fall and lifts up all who are bowed down. The eyes of all look to you and you give their food at the proper time. You open your hand and satisfy the desires of every living thing. He fulfills the desires of those who fear him; he hears their cry and saves them. My mouth will speak in praise of the Lord. Let every creature praise his holy name forever and ever.

The phrases that stick out to me are "You open your hand" and "You give their food at the proper time." We may have been given the invitation for this season of celebration many, many years ago. . . yet waiting and believing that this "year of jubilee" would come proved terribly frustrating and faith-stretching. However, the time is now. Now is the proper time. I can feel it. I will trust it.

I am so grateful that God opens his hand.

In return, I open my own hands, praising God for his forever faithfulness. . . even if it's only my perspective which is new!

On facebook I have a button posted on my corkboard that says "God is writing my life story." I love it because it's one of the ways I like to think of God. . . as master storyteller, plot-twister, dialogue-dancer, script-breather, soul-lover, word-wizard, and best of all. . . "author and perfector of my faith."

I was recently reminded of this "life story" button when I interviewed for a job. It was a much-hoped-for administrative church position that had been on my radar for 3+ months. It wound up being a dead end. Expectations dashed, a three-day funk took over (to the point where I didn't shower and I let my three year old watch cartoons for two days running). Only then did I dare pray. "God, for 7 years I've been begging you for change, and you always seem to take me down the same old path of poverty," I snapped. "What do you want from me? What do you want me to do?"

Laying there on my red couch, watching re-reuns of "Can you Duet," I heard God say, "Rewrite your story."

Now, for most writers "rewrite" is not a happy phrase. It's not a welcome word. It's hard to go back, pick a story apart, re-imagine it, let it morph into something new. It's easier to edit, shift paragraphs around, or simply write a new lead, but to REWRITE?

It feels like starting over.

Hmmm. Now there's a thought.

Still on my red couch, trying to pray my way through this funk, REWRITE broke through cloudy thinking like a ray of sunlight. Instantly I thought, "Yes, Cheri, if you want to start over, you've got to change the story you've been telling yourself (and others). It's all wrong. Check your facts. Rethink God's creative presence in your life. And definitely get rid of the opening line with which you ALWAYS start. . . For the past 7 years. . ."

For the past 7 years. . . What? Things haven't gone my way? I've been on my knees with no response? Everybody else is racing ahead in life and I'm stuck in the ditch?

Not entirely.

Flipping to a clean page in my journal, I started to re-write my "seven-year story." In black marker I scrawled REWRITE in huge letters, thinking "this is my new history."

History: everything that's happened to me in the past.

But also, His-story: God's story, as best I can interpret with simple, earthly, veiled perspective.

Its' been an amazing process. As I rewrite, (in my journal but also in my mind) I'm reminded of God's love. He may be suprising, unexpected, his thoughts higher than mine, but he is also faithful and true. And he's teaching me to a thing or two about what it means to be an author, how to "write [his love and faithfulness] on the tablet of my heart." (Proverbs 3:3)

"Therefore, I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknessess, so that Christ's power may rest on me. That is why, for Christ's sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong." 2 Corinthians 12: 9, 10

So, I'm officially hanging out in (on?) facebook. It's addicting! Setting up a profile page, searching for "friends," creating flair, sending bumper stickers, playing games, sending gifts, posting lists of books read, music enjoyed . What an amazing, interactive, creative, self-thinking, ever-evolving, massively-visited social network! I'm thrilled to be connecting with long lost friends while also interacting with my current friends in a new way.

It blows my mind, and it's fun. . .

but it's also got me thinking . . .about image. . .

"editing" the "face" we show to the world.

How much can a facebook profile capture who we truly are? In an effort to describe our lives and personalities, do we "tweak" information to try and put our best face forward? More than education, or jobs, or favorite activities, or things we read, or "groups" to which we belong, isn't it true that what shapes us most are the painful things in life? We build character, stretch our souls, through the difficult things we experience. . And yet it's the hard-to-tell stories--the real life-giving and life-defining journeys--that are strangely missing from our facebook profiles!

Another thing I've wondered about is the loose use of the term "friends." Why do we try to accumulate thumbnail photos of people like a collection of pebbles, and then display them in a virtual showcase (so to speak)? I've been on profiles where the friend-list boasts photos of more than 300. Why do I feel compelled to grow my list? Do I think that the person with the most friends win?

How much does facebook perpetuate my illusion of "connecting" when in reality it can serve to distance from true, human, face-to-face interactions. The more we depend on technology to engage with others the more we risk missing a warm touch of concern, a raised eyebrow, a loving sparkle in the eye, a tear, a voice that catches with fear, a contagious gut-giggle, a wince, a hesitant glance, a glowing smile--all interactions that feed and grow the soul. I mean, God befriended us by making himself HUMAN. Right?

There's a reason he didn't simply promote his personality on facebook.

All of this reminds me of a quote from Luci Shaw's Friends for the Journey where she confesses a deep longing to meet Jesus in the flesh:

"A kind of envy possesses me, as I think of the disciples. I know that by faith I have the help of God the Holy Spirit, but to have Jesus as my friend, with skin on, with his voice tones and personal mannerisms and unique memorable facial features. . . and then I remember that I do meet Jesus in the flesh, as I hear him speaking from the mouths of my friends, as his love wraps me round in their hugs, their letters, their phone calls, their laugher, their tears."

It's hard enough to journey honestly and humanly in daily situations. I cannot help but probe my own motives: What is my obssessive fascination with a community online?

Is it that ego-protecting need to edit?