Me and Van Gogh (You Are Not Alone)

The Good Samaritan by Vincent Van Gogh

While the kids watch TV my husband and I steal a quiet moment at the edge of the yard.  Sitting side-by-side at the end of the driveway, the garage shades us as we talk about the morning’s sermon.

“I really liked the painting,” my husband says. “It makes me want to have more paintings of gospel stories.  To hang them in the house.”

That morning I spoke on the parable of the Good Samaritan and rather than making a formal power point presentation, I used Van Gogh’s rendition of the story as a visual backdrop to the discussion.

“Yeah,” I reply, “It really helped me when I was preparing.”

It’s one thing to read about acts of love, another to see them laid out stroke, by stroke in rich yellows and blues.

“I found a post where someone wrote about it,” I add.  “It’s by Van Gogh.  He painted it when he was in an asylum.”  Tipping my head to the side and shrugging my shoulders with my hands spread wide I add with a grin, “So . . . you know . . .  me and, Van Gogh.”

We exchange looks and laugh.   

“Yeah,” he says, “You and your pal, Van Gogh.”

//

Parker Palmer struggled with debilitating depression.  As did Henri Nouwen. 

When I was in the psychiatric hospital last summer, I gathered these names and held them to myself as evidence that mental illness and hospitalization didn’t have to be a stigma.  Their stories gave me hope that despite struggles, my life could proceed with productivity and meaning. 

This past Sunday, after reading about his painting online, I added Vincent Van Gogh to my list.

// 

This week I’m approaching what my counselor eloquently referred to as a “tender anniversary.” 

A year ago this Thursday I had my first panic attack.  My heart beat furiously, waves of heat and chills ran through my back.  My stomach flopped.  I lay on the living room floor, unable to get up.  I called my husband at work and asked him to pick up our kids and come right home.  I canceled my plans for the weekend, which included preaching, and made an appointment with my primary care Dr. 

Still, the panic continued, pulling me under, like a rip tide.  Six days later we woke a friend in the middle of the night, asking her to come and stay with our kids while John drove me to the ER.  The next evening, after a long wait, I was admitted to the Behavioral Health unit. 

I’m telling you this because it happened.  It's part of the truth of my life.  I’m also telling you this because it happens – every life is filled with shadow and light.

And lastly, I’m telling you this because I want you to know that you can add my name to your list. 

When fear rages and panic sets in. 

When you’re unable to eat, unable to sleep. 

When you make a difficult Dr. appointment and fill a prescription you’d rather not need. 

When you or your child needs to make that scary trip to the ER, to be sheltered for a while until the meds kick in. 

You can add my name to your list.

Me and Palmer, Nouwen and, of course, Van Gogh.       

Linking with #TellHisStory.

When the %$*& Hits the Fan (#SmallWonder Link-Up)

Prince Humperdinck, "First things first, to the death."
Westley, "No, to the pain."
- The Princess Bride

O, I believe,
fate smiled and destiny
laughed as she came to my cradle,
know this child will be able,
laughed as my body she lifted,
know this child will be gifted,
with love, with patience and with faith,
she'll make her way. 
- "Wonder" by Natalie Merchant

Last Friday I sent up a call of distress. 

Early in the morning in the cold, dark living room I sent a message to a few friends on Facebook,

“Here’s the thing – I’ve become discouraged.  I have dreams and visions of what it means to live where we do – ideas about Spiritual Direction, Retreats and a life close to home filled with writing, speaking and tending souls.  But, and here I know it sounds a little ridiculous given God’s miraculous provision of this place, for some reason lately, I’m losing hope.  We’ve hit some very significant financial road blocks, we’re between church communities and I am weary of piecing things together.  So, will you pray for me, for us?”

//

Last Wednesday my husband called early in the morning to tell me the timing belt broke in his car on his way to work.  Thankfully it didn’t happen on the highway, thankfully it was within walking distance of his office.  But, really – this was just three days after we started urgently petitioning God for financial provision.  See what I mean – this was AFTER we started praying.

With that one phone call and the two or three phone calls after it, it was like someone, somewhere pulled a plug and all of our savings went “whoosh,” down the drain.  The little bit of money we had to help us get through to the end of summer just up and disappeared. 

//

The most natural thing you can do, the worst thing you can do, when stress sets in and life becomes laced with fear, is to seize up.  The most unnatural thing you can do is to relax, to rest, to hold your own peace of mind and spirit.  This is how infants and young children can survive terrible accidents without being injured – they don’t know enough to be afraid, they stay calm, relaxed and flexible.

//

When the %^&% hits the fan, my impulse is to “man up.”

I got out the computer and started a resume.

I organized a yard sale.

I took the little seeds of my own dreams out of my pocket and buried them somewhere in a deep, dark, place.  They no longer glowed with hope and promise – they were as good as dead to me.

//

Thursday night, I dreamed I was pregnant again – a fifth child, still tiny showed up in an ultrasound.  How did we let this happen? I asked.  That baby filled my dream-self with dread – seven more years at home I thought.  Seven more years until I can do what I want. 

In the dream, the baby was also a tiny dragon.  But, you know, that’s how dreams often are.

//

Friday morning I sat on the love seat by the cold, empty stove with tears streaming down and sent up a call of distress. 

“I’ve become discourage . . . I’m losing hope.”

The kids woke up and I built a fire, because wood is free, and we moved into the day while I still swallowed tears down. 

Around eight, my kids started humming and buzzing with excitement.  “Why’s he here?” they exclaimed.  I looked out the kitchen window while my kids ran out the door and saw my friend, one of the few added to that Facebook call of distress, climbing out of his car.

He hugged and toted my kids around, watched them climb the small Japanese Maple tree and we stood in the yard talking about chickens waiting for the bus to come.  After the older two climbed onto the bus, I pulled up Cat in the Hat on Netflix for the twins and we sat in the kitchen and talked over coffee. 

“I’m losing heart,” I said.

“I know,” he replied.

This friend of mine has the look and build of someone straight out of Sons of Anarchy – a giant of a man complete with pony tail, beard and a Harley Davidson.  If he was a stranger, I would be afraid at best to see him approaching on darkened street or even in broad daylight. 

This friend has a Masters in Pain, a hard earned degree in life and loss and resilient hope.

“I could see this coming,” he said and I believed it to be true, because this friend and I resonate on a deep level.  More than anyone else in this world he has helped me understand myself, has given me new words and insight into my own brokenness which often provides just enough of a tweak to set me on the road to healing. 

Here are just a few of the things he said to me that morning that helped clear the fog of fear, things I remembered well enough to write down in my journal a few days later,

“Provision wouldn’t solve the problem.”

“It’s not hard, you can do hard, you’re a hard worker – it’s painful.”

and, “Pain is part of your gift.  You have pain in proportion to your gift and your gift is great, so you experience great pain.”

Talking together I saw that I’m again rounding a blind corner in my journey – I’m being asked, again, to trust. 

To trust pain can be a gift.

To trust God cares.

To live loosely, to lean in to the bend in the road, to believe seeds buried in darkness and fear can sprout and live again and the life that follows death is always greater than the loss.

//

Not much has changed.  Everything has changed.

We had a great yard sale.  There’s the dim prospect of overtime work for my husband.  I put my resume on hold.  We told the kids we would have to pray about a vacation for the summer. 

In the midst of the pain, faith is sprouting again, the tiniest speck of green.

Later that day one red tulip opened in the garden and the rest of those friends on Facebook sent their own thoughtful, compassionate replies, most of which consisted of some gentle version of, “Me too.”

I'm not writing this to garner sympathy.  I'm writing because maybe you also have been gifted with pain.  Maybe you too are rounding another blind corner in your journey.  I won't tell you it's going to be ok, but for now, I will pull back the curtain long enough to give you a glimpse of my own pain.  I will give you my pain, my life as I know it, in hopes that it will help you in some small whisper of a way.  

  

*   *   *   *

Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.

What if we chose to deliberately look for the small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God? 

That's my proposal - that we gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.  

You're invited to link-up a brief post about a small moment of wonder.  Don't worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right - you're welcome to come as you are. 

While you're here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.