Learn the unforced rhythms of grace. ~E. H. Peterson
I'm on the cusp of my journey to Italy. As I think about the adventure and uncertainty ahead, I'm reminded of a dream I had when I was twenty years old. I stood in the open doorway of an airplane, the wind buffeting me as I readied myself to jump. I felt a compilation of anxiety and adrenaline racing through my veins. I was scared. I trembled. Yet somewhere in the back of my mind there was a reservoir of peace, because I knew my instructor was by my side. And I trusted that he had taught me well.
I didn't doubt knowing as I stood hovering on the edge, that I would jump--knowing that I could jump. Embedded in that supply of peace was a thread of confidence--again not so much in myself, but rather in the imparted wisdom of my instructor. My teacher sat kneeling by my feet, saying nothing, yet I felt the comfort of his presence. Then right before I dived into the yawning sky, I turned to look at him. His eyes, the color of the sea, light-filled, met mine. There was deep love communicated through the brief gaze. I needed nothing more. I leapt.
At first I felt only blazing fear as I plummeted toward the ground. But I remembered what I needed to do--even through the terror. I pulled the rip cord, and I could feel the parachute billowing out from my pack and slowing the descent. And it was then I could see. As I looked down, I noted silver streams glinting through trees, rectangles of golden and red earth, green swaths of foilage. I realized that unless I had jumped, I would never have had the unique perspective. And the glory of that viewpoint was worth trusting my instructor--that he had taught me well, and that I could take the risk to make the leap, because I had learned the skills. He would not have permitted the dive if he had not trusted my ability.
And I landed, both feet on the ground. On target. No broken bones--my body and soul intact, infused with holy confidence.
I had that dream, now decades ago, when I'd gone through a sad and lonely break up with a young man who I loved very much. We just didn't work out. That dream helped me move on--to jump into my life again, even though I felt intense desperation that I would not love again. The love of the Master teacher urged me on.
And I keep on needing to jump at different times in my life. As I know you do, too, dear reader. I encourage you to trust the Master with whatever terrifies you. He is kneeling beside you. He has taught you well. You can trust HIm. Meet His gaze. There is deep love for you. Your parachute will open. You will land well. You have learned the unforced rhythms of grace.
I'll be away from the page for several weeks. I will be back the week of March 14. I'm confident I will have stories to tell of the Master's instruction and faithful tutelege as I trod new landscapes. God's peace, abiding favor and oceanic love keep you, shelter you.
A kitten begins dreaming at about one week old.~Sign on a local vet's office
And like the kitten, I dreamed while in Italy--the first night in our little house that was like a sanctuary. In the dream, I saw a blue door with a prominent doorknob. I lay hold of the knob. It felt large under my palm. It was heavy. I gave it a good twist and heard the hopeful click of a door opening. (Is there not a better sound, especially when you fear the disappointment of a locked portal?). I pushed the door open and stepped over the threshold, and then was awake.
Blue in dream symbolism is the color for grace. And in other ways as the trip unfolded, it seemed to symbolize the color of peace. Other times when I'd been to Italy, I felt almost constant anxiety, especially because I had such trouble understanding and speaking the language. At family gatherings my hands would sweat profusely and I felt so panicky, what little language I knew and understood would fly out of my brain. I went mute. This time, though, I kept telling myself, "Just walk through the blue door. Breathe. Be mindful of the love around you. Be kind with what words you have. Ask open-ended questions. Smile." And so this worked. It was as if a warm breeze kept blowing through my mind reminding me of truth. The Holy Spirit, no doubt.
On one of our days there in the lovely boot-shaped country, Giovanni and I visted a national park named the "Cinque Terre." Cinque is five in Italian and terre is loosely translated as "lands." The park is a group of five small towns nestled on hillsides that overlook the Mediterranean Sea. A train takes you along the route of the five towns, and there is opportunity to explore if you climb the myriad steps that weave through the the nooks and crannies of these ancient villages. And so we did in each town. On one of the climbs I encountered my own blue door. I saw it there, a wooden door, painted blue, embedded in a hillside, propped open. I stepped through and there on the other side I could see the gold, rose and coral-colored homes heaped up like precious gems--the Mediterranean a glimmering presence lining the horizon. I could hardly contain the pleasure I felt to see such beauty. I breathed in the scent of the sea, and raised my hands in gratefulness that I could experience such an obscure spot on planet earth with my beloved.
And so I would keep walking through the grace doors as the days unwound in Italy. Then I fell ill, but that is a story for another post.
When I was eight years old I loved The Beatles. I had a huge crush on Paul McCartney. I guess I still do. In 1963 I'd sit in my pink bedroom, cross-legged on the ecru shag carpet, reminiscent of a poodle-like dog breed, holding the Rubber Soul album and sigh over the handsome faces of the "Fab Four." My dad had disparaging remarks about the long-haired foursome--"Hippies," he said, fingering his neatly trimmed mustache with thumb and forefinger, wearing his gray suit.
I remained transfixed. I'd carefully open my portable record player (the cover was brown faux snakeskin), switch it on, then blow lightly over the needle, loving the sound of my breath echoing through that childhood room, the white French Provencial dresser cluttered with hair ribbons, rubberbands, pennies and a music box with a ballerina that twirled on a spring when I opened the lid.
I liked all the songs, but would place the needle ever so gently over number six on side one. There was that slight hiss as the LP moved smoothly around the turntable before the song began. Michelle, ma belle I need to, I need to, I need to make you see oh, what you mean to me...Paul sang.
I think we never stop wanting to be loved. All the "hook up" sites are part of that craving for authentic intimacy that we humans have--longing to make connection, hoping to be understood, desiring someone to kiss us and touch us. I know I have these yearnings. And in some ways I've found human romantic love with my husband. Yet simultaneously, even with someone who is handsome and has an Italian accent and buys me Chanel and things from Victoria's Secret, there are holes, deficits, disappointments. Affection lags. Back aches and nights on the couch. Chores. Bad breath. Work. Always work. I am left with hunger.
And so what do we do when we thirst for something that is not our reality? How do we manage the unmet expectations and all out despair at times? The loneliness? Some people find someone else. Some give up and go it alone. Some escape into spending or sex or substances. Others keep searching and searching and searching. Who doesn't search? Tell me who does not search?
I search. And my adorable husband is not the answer to my soul's appetite--my rubber soul that bounces erratically through this chattering world I live in. My search has ended with the One who loves me best, who delights in me--the One who is radiant and strong. Wise and regal. Pure and loving--filled with laughter and joy. Warm. Appealing. Creative. Bravehearted servant lamp to my path. Full of supply. Abundant. Grace abounding--heaping my life with gift after gift. All praise and honor and glory to you, bright Sovereign, brilliant King. The One who tells me when I thirst, that He is the Living Water that quenches my parched life and relieves my craving for love. He is Jesus.
When I first met my husband he gave me a petite music box that now sits on another dresser strewn with costume jewelry, safety pins and pennies. The minature box has a crank on its side and when I turn it, I watch the knotched spool strike the mechanical bars that move up and down. The tinkling, slightly off-key melody plays, " Michelle, ma belle, I will say the only wordsI know that you'll understand I love you, I love you, I love you...
I will be glad and rejoice in your unfailing love, for you have seen my troubles, and you care about the anguish of my soul.~Psalm 31:7
I hadn't seen her in months. Only sadness glinted from her eyes. I could hardly meet her blue gaze, the pain almost blinding. "I don't know if you heard. My daughter died of an overdose last year." My mind galloped. I remembered that her daughter was not much past thirty, and ahe had a young son. My mouth opened, but I was speechless. We were at a book fair. She was volunteering, a glass coffee carafe filled with water secured in one hand, getting ready to brew a pot for the authors gathered. "Oh my God," I managed to whisper. "I had no idea. I'm so very, very sorry." With her free hand she used her ring finger to swipe under both eyes, now pooling with tears, like skies weeping.
I headed back to my booth. I felt disappointed. My table was in a hidden alcove. I had worked diligently on the display, creating a sort of vintage motif--a minature typewriter, a bronzed baby shoe, a pair of opera glasses, a sepia-toned photograph of my mother taken in the forties. I draped a leopard-print scarf around a shabby chic shelf, my books scattered throughout the design on stands made of iron. I sat next to my table waiting for people to take a look at my wares. And sitting there I recognized something in me that was wrong--what Julia Cameron, author of The Artist's Way, calls being spiritually out of alignment--it was like I needed supernatural chiropracty. There I sat with this voracious desire to be seen and heard. Discontent. Wanting, wanting, wanting--panting. Even those two words so similar--WANT, PANT. I sat hidden, covered up. No one was looking but God.
And it is often in the secret place that God performs the chiropractic maneuver that realigns me with His ways. He seemed to say, "You see from your natural viewpoint, and it looks upside-down. But I see the whole picture, the magnificent kingdom that I'm allowing you to reflect. You can be thankful that I see you, that you are accomplishing my desires, even though no one stops to look, even though few can know what it has taken for you to keep writing. Trust me. Today you were here as a conduit of hope for another hidden woman. Your hug, your few words were my comfort to her."
At the end of the afternoon, the dear woman with the sad eyes came by as I packed up. "It was so good to see you again," she said. She carried an empty coffee pot now, on her way to clean up after the event. A servant. I thanked her for voluntering, for telling me about her daughter. "I'm praying for you," I said. Our eyes met once again, this time her gaze, still sorrowful, reflected some hope. "My faith is what gets me through. And my grandson is okay. He's living with his dad. He has two stepsisters, so I have some girls to love." She was already moving on, looking to give, to love, even in the grief. "Oh God, Oh God, thank you for your ways, your superior wisdom. The things you do in the secret place."
Keep your eye on me; hide me under your cool wing feathers.~Psalm 17:8 (The Message)
My friend wrote, "Just try and soak up the atmosphere; don't worry about the language." Soon I'm off to Italy, my husband's native country. I'd written to my friend, "I am packed, but emotionally I'm undone, the feelings hanging out of my bags, unkempt and a mess. I've not been able to study the language as much as I'd hoped. I've lost several CDs, and I'm just so tired after work that I struggle with diligent verb conjugation, grammar and vocabulary."
And I've had some disheartening moments in that boot-shaped locale.
On my first trip, I went for an exploratory walk. I was in a residential neighborhood enjoying a sunny day, the houses like giant jolly ranchers stacked next to each other in shades of green, pink and yellow. Tile roofs perched regally in blue skies, pots sat by stone steps filled with bright bursts of red geraniums. A van pulled up beside me, a man alone--handsome and nicely dressed. I wasn't scared. There were children playing in the quaint yards, dogs barking, clothes hanging out to dry. I could hear voices from open windows, everyday life. I thought at first the man might need directions, but as I listened and picked up a few words, it registered in my brain that he thought I was a prostitute. I wasn't dressed provacatively--jeans and a T-shirt, lovely new Italian walking shoes. I felt stunned. I just stood there, paralyzed. I finally managed to say I was an American out for a walk--only a walk. He frowned and actually seemed disappointed, then sped away. I ran back to where Giovanni and I were staying as fast as I could. Later when I told Giovanni about the incident, he said rather nonchalantly, "Oh that neighborhood is known for prostitutes walking around." In some ways, it was kind of a funny story, but in another way, the experience left me feeling anxious and lonely.
Another time I answered the door of our apartment. I thought the man who stood there was a friend of Giovanni's. We talked for about fifteen minutes, and I made him an espresso. I was feeling a little proud of myself that I was communicating with someone who seemed to understand my American-accented Italian. But as the conversation wore on, I realized he was a salesman attempting to sell me sheets and towels. I still thought he knew Giovanni, then finally asked him, "Do you know my husband?" He shook his head. I yelled at him, "Vai, vai." (You go!). I felt like Lucy Ricardo in one of her madcap adventures. Only this was real. How dare he do that? Oddly, I kind of wanted to buy the towels, but I was too mad.
On my third or fourth trip, I finally found a way to ease some of the anxiety of being in a foregn country and regroup before we were off to another family event. (Giovanni has six brothers and sisters, and my introverted self is often overwhelmed by all the banter, and I understand about half of what's said.) I found a park bench in a small park. Mountains surrounded me, and a church sat atop a hill, its bells chiming the hour. I walked there every day with my journal. On that bench I poured out my thoughts, and wrote page after page. Before I ever began writing books or had any kind of formal writing life, there on that bench of contemplation writing became a remedy for bandaging my lonely heart, my fractured expectations of a country that I thought might offer me days of unlimited romance. In that safe place where I could spill my feelings on the page, I began to face the reality that I'd have to embrace the "limp" of my accent and difficulty in communicating. Writing became like my beautiful cane. When it came time to create a symbol for this website, that Italian wrought iron bench sat fixed in my head as the perfect image to represent the feelings of grace and rest I'd been able to experience in Italy when my emotions felt threadbare, my heart frayed.
And so I'll go back again with the feelings dangling out of my luggage, my messiness on display. Most times when I'm there, I feel as if I hang on by my fingernails just trying to survive, wanting to fit in, the alien aching to belong. But I don't. I stand out. I think I'm taking the right clothes, but then I don't look chic and sophisticated like my Italian sisters-in-law who glow without make-up with their gorgeous olive skin and know how to wear black without looking like they're in mourning. Sometimes I don't know where God fits into all of this--my emotional baggage. This trip I'll find another bench to write, to abide the limp, depend on the sturdiness of my decorative staff. This trip I'm praying to let go of self-consciousness, and not disslove into anxiety so that I don't give up loving others. Oh, God, let my language, my narrative be love.
And regardless of what else you put on, wear love. It's your basic, all-purpose garment. Never be without it. ~Colossians 5:14 (The Message)