This week I was in charge for a few days. My boss was out of town attending a conference, and two other counselors who typically oversee the clinic were out on vacation. My boss asked me to be the "go to" person. I usually feel much more comfortable in the 'follower" role. This time, though, I wanted to be a team player and knew there needed to be someone to lead. I accepted her request.
It was as if I'd been asked to perform a solo dance. I'd never danced alone, but I knew the steps--knew them well. I entered the stage, my tap shoes securely laced. The curtain parted, the spotlight fixed on me. I began tapping, my body remembering the routine, freedom and joy filling me as I made my way across the stage, the rhythmic, sonorous beats of my shoes on the wooden stage resounding throughout the theatre. By week's end, I bowed, panting, a sheen of perspiration on my face, simultaneously exhausted and invigorated.
The week caused me to think about the importance of remembering things we are proud of in our lives. Not in an arrogant way. But rather times we've had successes that have brought satisfaction and increased confidence. Sometimes we tend to fixate on failures, or regrets. We all have those, surely. But what about the "performances" that have gone well? What about those times when we've taken a well-deserved bow? I spent some time concocting a list...
Teaching my children to read.
Moving across country and making new friends.
Learning to skateboard when I was eight, traversing hill after hill.
Buying a house on my own and never missing a payment.
Continuing to write, even when I've believed it would be better to quit.
Learning to play the flute.
Getting an "A" in a photography class in college.
Finishing college.
We all have a list. I encourage you to take an hour out this week and write down at least ten things you are proud of. Then celebrate your gifting, your courage, your very life.
In the spirit of The Dance, I thought you might enjoy this link:Uptown Funk
I remember the day, a hot, sweltering, Carolina afternoon, not unlike the scorching summer days we are experiencing now. Maybe that's why I'm recalling that time a few years ago. I walked over to our mailbox. I could feel the heat soak into my hands when I opened the box. I didn't even look through the collection of envelopes--probably only junk mail and bills. I spied a neon-yellow card in the middle of the stack. I wasn't curious--coupons, most likely, for fast food. Later that night, I sat eating dinner alone, my husband out of town. I absentmindedly picked up the envelopes and began to shuffle through them. Buried inside the quotidian array, I found a postcard from my husband. He has a lovely, vintage practice of buying postcards, writing a few lines and mailing them to me when he's away visiting his family in Europe. The photo on the card captured a scene of people sitting on benches around a fountain, a faultless blue sky overhead. My husband wrote on the back of the postcard, "We should be here together." I ran my fingertips over the ink he used to pen the words, the handwriting as familiar to me as my own breath. How could a postcard, something so small, so elemental bring such comfort?
I think because we crave to be known. In the sometimes harrowing pace that life foists upon us, we long to know that someone wants to share our company, that we have been singled out by someone else.
I believe God sends us postcards too. I felt the literal suffocating heat here in the Lowcountry this week, as well as the "heat" of life--whorls of stress at the work place. I wanted to escape both. I felt uncertainty about my future creeping into my thoughts, like a fever rising. Then yesterday, as I sat in my study, I heard a rush of wind, then rivulets of water began streaming down the windowpane, a rainstorm arriving as unexpectedly as the gleaming postcard. Tears streamed down my face as well. I thought of the concept of God collecting my tears--thought of Him using one of those vials that holds tears--lachrymatories. The rain went on and on. I imagined lifting my face to its cleansing reprieve. Imagined my pores absorbing the cool water. "Soaked to the bone," as the saying goes. Touched and comforted by the One who knows me, the One who singles me out, the One who says, "We should be here together today."
Your're as real to me as Bedrock beneath my feet,
Like a Castle on a cliff, my forever firm Fortress,
My Mountain of hiding, my Pathway of escape, My Tower of rescue where no one can reach me,
My secret Strength and Shield around me,
You are Salvation's Ray of Brightness
Shining on the hillside.~Psalm 18:2 (The Passion Translation)
I decided that the most subversive, revolutionary thing I could do was to show up for my life and not be ashamed.~Anne Lamott
I rounded the corner and drove up onto the bridge, on my way to work. Clouds, singed pink around the edges, flamed against a gray backdrop. I wanted to pull over and let that sky seep into me. But I couldn't. I had to let nature's brief caress be enough. Like a tender kiss with your beloved that you'd just as soon be extended. But life and duty called more loudly. This week, though, I thought about how these things I love can't get lost in the sea of obligation. It is important to connect to things we love, whatever those things are. It is imperative to let our real selves rise to the surface.
Just this week, a young woman was hired at our worksite. She'll be moving from another state. What struck me in the interview that I liked more than her resume and experiece, was her authenticity, her vulnerability. She said moving to a place near the water was a lifelong desire, and now she had the opportunity. I loved that she was connecting with her truest self. My interaction with this lovely woman, caused me to ask myself if I was consistently aligning with my heart's desires, or had I allowed myself to merely be going through the motions. Maybe that was why the morning sky slayed me, pierced through the pensive, anxious state I allow myself to dwell for long periods of time without a break.
I hadn't been walking as much, feeling too tired to get outside. Not wanting to spray myself with insect repellant. Yet I realized that what often energizes me on walks is the combination of light and sound and wind. Light at the end of the day is golden, honeyed. I enjoy the sun's rays glistening on the water, dappled shadows, a breeze pushing the hair from my brow. Peace can steal over me as I listen to birds singing or the rustle of leaves or the quiet hush of the creek waters as they lap against the shore. As soon as I lifted my face and peered through tree branches and witnessed blue patches of sky, I felt better. I stopped and admired some ironwork on a gate. I saw a pelican drift through the air, relaxed and lanquid, enjoying his flight.
Reading the psalms is like poetry to me. I found several phrases that I liked, that centered me: (All taken from The Passion Translation)
You are my beautiful strength.~Psalm 92:15
You break open a way into a beautiful and broad place.~Psalm 118:5
Streams of your refreshing flow over us until our dry hearts are drenched again.~Psalm 126:2-4
He has a thousand ways to set you free.~Psalm 130:7
What are your heart's desires, kind reader? Give some thought to connecting this week with some things you love. What might you expect?
We don't have to persist for life--we have to persist for now--and now is always the accepted time.~Graham Cooke
The moment. I am often guilty of living behind or in front of "the moment," the now, in my life. Last week, I continued to glance at the package sitting on the passenger seat of my car when I'd drive to work or go on errands. Why hadn't I mailed it? The large envelope contained the rough draft of the latest manuscript I'd written. When I sealed the envelope, several thoughts ran through my mind. "If I look at one more page, I'll scream. I'm sick of this material." "I know the piece still needs work. There will be a lot more revisions to make before publishing." I drew myself into "the moment" and was able to declare, "This is part of the process. You've given the manuscript all you have. In this moment you let the editor do his job. For now, your part is over. Take the next step. Mail the package, Priscilla. Don't let it sit one more day. It's time."
Sometimes I get tired of needing to persist. To persevere feels too difficult. My life is a pathway with many choices and distractions. Failures. Unexpected events. Decisions. Annoyances. My responses can tend toward negativity, doubt, judgment of others, a critical nature, self-condemnation. The shadowy places along the the trail. I feel like giving up, my mind averted. Too much introspection. I am reminded to look outward, toward the light. Allow the illumination of God's truths to consume me. Walk in the light for this moment.
He is for me. He is the majestic one who has laid the path. Persist in the presence of His light.
There is such comfort for me in that light. I notice the good-- like the sheer joy of laughing out loud with my daughter as we sit in a movie theatre. Peals and peals of gladness. The humor of life. My granddaughter saying, "Oh, I love spending time with you; it's been the best part of my day." The miracle of health. My doctor walking into the exam room, smiling. "Good news. Your labs are perfect." Just this week, all that light. All that beauty to soak up in the moment. In the now. And the celebration of persistance, the manuscript in the mail. Not perfect, but good enough.
What about you? Where are you now? Where do you persist for just "the moment." Stay in the light. Stay in the light.
When I was fifteen, I preached a sermon on love. I didn't volunteer to do it. I was singled out as the most viable candidate in my youth group of about nine teenagers who attended the small Presbyterian Church in Irving, Texas. Our pastor wanted the youth to provide the Sunday service. The other kids said to me, "You're taking a speech class at school, this will be good practice." Though I felt reluctant to get up in front of the congregation and open my mouth, even then there was a part of me that understood that God yearned to show His love to people. I met with the pastor and he asked me why I'd chosen the topic of love. "What do you plan to say?" There I sat in his office, wearing my bell bottoms and tie-dyed T-Shirt, my hair freshly ironed to keep it straight and sleek. The year was 1970. This man with a PhD in divinity, Dr. Hunt, asking me what I'd say about God's love. Inside I laughed. But I barreled forth in youthful enthusiasm and naivete. "A lot of the time I sense God is with me. I feel as if he whispers words of encouragment to me in school. Helps me pass tests. Helps me be brave. When my boyfriend broke up with me, I felt like He held my hand. I mean, not really, but I just felt better knowing God was in my life. It's sometimes hard to explain, but I know He's there somehow. I am the one that walks away from Him, but I never feel as if when I walk back to HIm that I'm rejected. He welcomes me back. I play the flute in the band at school. I usually don't like the music we have to memorize for marching, but I've been playing this nocturne over and over. The music reminds me of God. His gentleness. His tenderness. The world can be is so ugly, Dr. Hunt. God's love and presnece in my life is sometimes the only thing that makes sense."
Dr. Hunt sat before me, hands clasped under his chin, his pale blue eyes looking directly into mine. He nodded his head and said, "I see that you understand God's love very well. I believe you will provide just what our congregation needs to hear. You go home and put this into writing and come back next week and you can practice what you'll say at the podium." That Sunday, my knees shaking, but my voice clear, I spoke to the people and assured them that God's love never quits, even in the midst of sickness and sorrow, even in the midst of celebration and rejoicing. Wherever they were on their journey, He continued to whisper that He was present and loved them, would help, support and comfort, would sing hallelujahs with them in the good times. Hold their hands.
My view and experience with God has not changed much since I was fifteen. He remains my truest friend now in my senior years. I don't have my flute anymore, but if I did, I'd play that nocturne and think of His kindness toward me. I still wander off the trail in this noisy, painful culture, my back pushed up against a wall at times, but then I hear Him whisper from a wide, open space. "Remember you are my beloved. Come closer. I've missed you."