How deep is your love? I really mean to learn.~Bee Gees
The movie practically jumped from the library shelf. Nostalgia. I'd watched it a couple of years ago, and the subject matter had a meaningful impact--so many of the themes I relate to integrated into a movie. Time, memory, grief and love. I decided to watch the movie again. This time the impact was no less great, but perhaps more poignant. This time I watched, I was experiencing some of the same dynamics as the characters in the movie. Giovanni and I readying our house for sale and beginning to pack up our belongings.
In some ways, I'm not ready to move from this home. I've become comfortable here, like a favorite pair of shoes. They go with everything. They don't hurt my feet. I love the way they look. And yet it's time to think about another pair for a different season. I can't wear boots in the spring.
There's been a tendency to become overwhelmed with feelings of grief and loss when I discover old photos. Loved ones gone now. My mind meanders down pathways I've traveled before, desiring to walk those trails again. Remembering.
I'm reminded, though, as I wrap up the objects of our narrative--a paperweight, framed art, packets of love letters, a favorite table cloth--of the loving history collected within this framework of brick and mortar. Giovanni and I have loved each other in this house. Its walls embraced my suffering the year I struggled through cancer treatment. Our kitchen table has been the heart of our togetherness. Giovanni has prepared a thousand meals and placed them on that table. Trees have matured over the years in the yard, providing shade and sanctuary.
I've walked hundreds of miles on our private street that I love. Today was no exception. I walked to the end of the road and stood at the tidal creek at high tide. A breeze blew that was so alluring, I could hardly pull myself away as the air grazed my cheek. A seagull flew overhead. I listened to the Bee Gees on Pandora. "How deep is your love? I really mean to learn." The lyrics were probably written about human love. I thought about the love of God. Over these years lived on this street, He has loved me deeply. I had learned that.
It is not easy to think of leaving, and it is simultaneously not realistic to think of staying. It is time for change.
If you'd like to watch the trailer from the movie, Nostalgia, directed so beautifully by Mark Pellington, find it here: Nostalgia
Actually, God considers all of humanity to be prisoners of their unbelief, so that He can unlock our hearts and show His tender mercies to all who come to Him.~Romans 11:32 (The Passion Translation)
I wept through a movie this week. That kind of crying where tears stream down your face and roll down your neck. Where all the mascara pools under your eyes and leaves black smudges. A Beautiful Day In The Neighborhood is based on a true story about the relationship between a magazine writer and Fred Rogers The magazine writer had established a reputation of being overly harsh and cynical in his reporting. No one wanted to be interviewed by him. His editor at Esquire assigned him to interview Fred Rogers, the only person who would agree to an interview with him. The writer responded with sarcasm, "You mean the guy who talks to little kids? Has all those puppets?" His editor assured him that's who she was talking about. Reluctantly he accepted the assignment, and ultimately his life was transformed by the kindness, love and authenticity of Fred Rogers.
Mr. Rogers didn't judge the writer regarding his acrimonious and bitter demeanor, but rather welcomed him into his world with no judgment or pretense. Validated him. I thought to myself, "Who am I not loving like Mr. Rogers would?" Immediately Donald Trump came to mind. I'd joined in with all the late-night hosts in laughing at Trump jokes, expressing disdain and contempt toward him. I asked myself, "What if Mr. Rogers met Donald Trump. How would he treat him?"
Perhaps he would have invited Donald into his neighborhood television set, as he did the magazine writer--let him see how he interacted with children. Introduced him to Daniel Tiger. Asked him, "What special toy did you have as a kid?" Told him that he liked him just the way he was. I can imagine that even Donald Trump might melt in the warmth of Mr. Rogers' kindness and empathy toward him.
This last week when I've leaned toward derision regarding the pugnacious and vitriolic behaviors of Donald Trump, I've attempted to think of him as a little boy trying to find acceptance and love. Trying his best. Did he ever have someone like Mr. Rogers in his life? Mr. Rogers cultivated a habit of praying for people by name as he swam laps. I could pray for Donald Trump by name, even though I didn't necessarily agree with his politics or like his behaviors. I could pray that he be surrounded and influenced by God's grace. That God unlock his heart and show him tender mercies. I could do this, because my heart, too, is a prisoner of unbelief. I, too, need God to unlock my heart and show me His tender mercies.
I think this is the cry of my heart--to live in wonder instead of dread.~Journal entry, September 12, 2020
We were driving home from our weekly Walmart run for groceries. Billie Eilish on the radio--I'm in love with my future, she sang. The lyric penetrated my thinking, and resonated. I'm more practiced in anticipating dread. This kind of thinking, this weakness, this vulnerability is my Achilles heel.
This past week, though, it was almost as if God whispered in my ear and asked me to peer into my future, to lift my hands in childlike awe. He seemed to say, "I brought you triumphantly over the finish line as you completed your formal work life. Now look over your landscape. There's more to explore. I have so much in store for you. Dream with me about your life."
Then I dreamed in the night watches. I'm not sure where I lived, what house I was in. I walked around a corner in the house, and there in an alcove sat a desk, simple and elegant in design, with wrought iron scroll work embedded on the sides. A window was positioned above the desk and sun poured in, bathing the glossy wooden top in its light. The surface of the desk was bare. The desk appeared as if it was merely waiting for me to claim it. Giovanni was with me and said, "Priscilla, I bought this desk for you."
God is this good, to love us so well. To hear a song. To whisper in our ear. To give us dreams. To dream with us for our lives.
May God carry you into the the plans and dreams He has for your life. May He strengthen you to embrace His goodness, His protection and His guidance. He goes before you and stations provision at every turn. May you fall in love with your future.
I came to understand that God hadn't lost me, even if I seemed for years to have misplaced God.~Kathleen Norris (From Amazing Grace, A Vocabulary of Faith)
My husband began reading my new book this week. He said, "You talk a lot about God. I could call you the God girl." I reflected on his comment and the labyrinthine course of my faith. For many years I "misplaced" Him, or perhaps more accurately, I detached from Him. Wanted no more of the fundamental principles I came to believe were associated with my faith in Jesus. I tried to leave the faith, but found that was impossible. How could I truly remove myself completely from the One who interceded in prayer for me, who promised never to leave me?
For decades my heart was caged in a belief system that was tied into performance-based, conditional love. I believed that the only way I could be accepted by God, loved by God, was performing well. If my behaviors fell in line, then I could receive His acceptance. But if not, I couldn't approach Him. It was all about keeping the rules. I could earn His love by my good behavior. Toxic.
My faith was like running miles around a track. Round and round the track I'd go, racking up miles, fine dust particles affixed to my Nikes, my calves muscular. My performance kept me strong. But there came a time, in a spiritual sense, when I could no longer muster the energy to run--to keep the rules, to perform. I believed I had failed God and He wanted no more to do with me when I was weak, when I was no longer fit and muscular. I was wrong.
He pursued me. He rescued me. He drew close to me. I couldn't resist grace. I could not withstand unconditional love that was not dependent on my behavior and performance, my ability to keep running. It was in this merciful environment that my belief system was recalibrated. My fear diminished, because I knew I'd been accepted for who I was. For the first time in my life, I began reading the Bible because I wanted to--not because reading it fit into some kind of religious formula. I began to relish time in His presence when I could talk with Him. Prayer became part of a relationship instead of a burden.
His grace convinced me that I was not only loved by HIm. He liked me too. He liked the way He created me. My God was not all about the "disciplines" of the faith, but rather all about the "delights" of the faith. When a person is loved, she can relax. Bask in her identity as the beloved. Then the "doing" follows.
So, yes, I guess I am a "God girl." My book speaks to much of this circuitous route of finding my way back to faith. My relationship with God is not merely a comfort. He saved me, and not only my soul. He saved me from rule keeping and legalism. His grace unlatched the cage and allowed my heart its freedom. Inside His grace and mercy and love I do run. Still. These truths are my joy. My wings.
Psalms 120-134 all begin with words "A song to take you higher" or "A song of ascent" or "A song of the stairway...One Hebrew manuscript titles them "Songs of the Homeward Marches."~Footnote in The Passion Translation
A time of reflection. Like I've ascended an elegant staircase, run my fingers over the intricate wrought iron as I've climbed up. I'm paused on a landing. Leaning against the banister, remembering the steps I've taken over the years.
How can it be that I'm at this place so quickly? Retirement. I've been thinking about all the people I've worked with, colleagues and patients alike. I've said a thousand farewells already. I've felt the exhaustion of endings. "Even good change brings loss and discomfort simultaneous with hope and glorious anticipation of new beginnings," I remind myself.
I've contemplated the stairs I've already climbed. As I've advanced, I've embraced the concept of small steps, increments as a way to live life. "Just take the next step, Priscilla. No matter how insignificant the movement may seem, one step moves you forward." I realize that with each step there is something miraculous that occurs. The step triggers something that I cannot accomplish on my own. Carrying on ignites the power of God to multiply the minute action on my part. Something like Jesus multiplying the loaves and the fishes. My duty is to keep proceeding. Sometimes I've been able to run up the staircase. More often, though, it's been the steady, slow movement higher.
With each step there is a song on the staircase, the melody of the Spirit who accompanies me with His Word:
For I know the thoughts that I think toward you, says the Lord, thoughts of peace and not of evil, to give you a future and a hope.~Jeremiah 29:11
...the very hairs on your head are all numbered. So don't be afraid; you are more valuable to God than a whole flock of sparrows.~Luke 12:7
You know every step I will take before my journey begins. You've gone into my future to prepare the way, and in kindness you follow behind me to spare me from the harm of my past. With your hand of love upon my life, you impart a blessing to me.~ Psalm 139:4-6
We glide along through the tides of time--so quickly gone, like a dream that fades at dawn. Like glistening grass that springs up one day and is dry and withered the next, ready to be cut down!"~Psalm 90: 6
He will guard and guide me, never letting me stumble or fall. God is my keeper; He will never forget nor ignore me.~Psalm 121:3
My glance is positioned forward as I prepare to once again begin the ascent. The pause on the landing has fortified me, given me confidence that the chorus of His anthems will never stop.