The Room Full of Darkness (an invitation for Lent)



I wrote this poem this past December and then let it sit for a good long while.  Now it seems to me that it has something to do with Lent and Jesus' invitation to follow him into the desert for these forty days.  When I wrote it, I was thinking of the root cellar in the basement of my Grandma's house.  It was a fascinating space to me as a child, full of spider webs and canned goods.

 

There is a room full of darkness
within each of us.
Descend the stairs,
round the corner,
and descend the stairs again.
There stands the door,
worn and wooden,
the room behind it
like a small cell
cut into the cool, earthy
darkness of the soul.

The door is held shut
by a thin hook and eye latch.
What lies behind it,
we dare not guess -
deep secrets wrapped in fear
huddled in darker corners yet?
Perhaps.

But maybe, also, there exists
preserved in the dank shadows,
the fruits of our lives,
treasures untold,
the deep, cool roots
from which we and the world might drink,
were we ever to dare to
reach out our shaking hand
and open the door. 

This post is linked with Playdates With God and Hear It On Sunday, Use It On Monday.

The Gathering Love of God

She told him, "When I was in college I read a folktale about a father pursuing a son who'd run far away, from one world to the next. The father called to him, 'Please come back!' But his son looked across the great gulf between them and shouted to him, 'I can't go that far!' So his father yelled to his son, 'Then just come back halfway!' But his boy replied, I can't go back halfway!' And finally his father shouted, 'Walk back as far as you can! I'll go the rest of the way!'"

- Atticus by Ron Hansen

The twins had a real knock-down, drag-out fight the other day. There was an intensity of pushing and pulling and screaming as they battled. By the time I realized what was happening they were knocking each other down, falling one on top of the other into the teetering baby gate.

I jumped up quickly and intervened, pulling them apart as they screamed, still leaning in toward each other in a "let me at 'em" posture. Then, as quickly as it started, it was over and Isaiah clung to me, sobbing, while Levi backed away, defiant.

I walked over to the couch intending to sit down with both and Isaiah ran to me, burying his face in my shoulder as I lifted him to sit on my left thigh. Levi stayed, though, where he was on the other side of the room pouting out his lip and sliding down to the floor, turning into the perfect picture of a tiny teenager right before my eyes.

I called his name and stretched my arm out toward him, my hand open, beckoning, "Levi, come. Come to Mama. Come let Mommy hug you."

He grunted, a rude little defiant noise he's perfected in recent weeks, and cast his eyes down in a dramatic gesture while his little hand explored the floor around him looking for something to throw.

So I changed my tone adding a note of authority, "Levi, Mommy said to come. You need to come to me right now."

I paused and tried counting in a warning tone, a trick that always works with my older two, "One . . . Levi, you need to come to me," I said as I waved my arm and patted my leg invitingly, "two . . . three."

He stayed put, though, so obviously relishing the part he played that I nearly laughed. The posture, the attitude, came naturally, and he was trying it on, like a hat or a shoe, trying on what it felt like to be separated, to be naughty.

I watched him sitting there and I felt stuck. I knew Isaiah would read it as a betrayal if I set him down to deal with Levi and I knew I couldn't let Levi stay where he was, so small and distant.

All at once I tightened the grip of my left arm, which was wrapped around Isaiah, stood up and crossed the room to where my wayward son sat playing his part there on the carpet. Bracing my legs wide like a weight-lifter, I leaned down and wrapped my right arm around him, pulling him half-way up my body and hobbling back toward the couch, a boy in each arm.

He didn't resist me and when we sat down both boys laid their heads on my chest and I wrapped my arms around them like two great wings of love and we were restored to each other once again.

There is a width and depth to parenting twins that's changing me. As their wills and battles intensify I find myself often kneeling and gathering them both, wrapping my arms around the one who hit and the one who was hit for they both need me, equally. My love is growing in breadth even as my body did in carrying and birthing these boys, so that it seems like that capacity that was born in me in gestation is stretched and expanded daily as I lift and love and hold these two.

As I sense this expansion in myself, I can't help but think I am coming to know the expansive, gathering love of God in a new way. The same love that Jesus said drove the father outside of his house, not once but twice, as he sought to gather in both the prodigal and the older brother. The same love that Paul says we are being rooted and grounded in even as he prays that we might somehow come to comprehend its "the breadth and length and height and depth (Eph. 1:17-18).

This is the love of God, wide and expansive, embracing and gathering. We all, like so many sons and daughters, find ourselves in a distant land from time to time and it is God's will that we would all be gathered in to the arms of God. And as we are gathered and learn to "bear the beams of love*," we become gatherers too, willing to go the rest of the way.

* William Blake
This post is linked with Imperfect Prose.

If You Get Lost

My oldest son worries about getting lost.  He’s the middle child, so I guess it makes sense, bookended as he is by his sister and twin brothers. 

One morning as we dropped his sister off at school and headed toward the other side of town to pick up his friend for preschool, I rounded a corner with a little more oomph than usual and he noticed, asking, “Boy, Mom, are you having fun driving?” 

“Yeah,” I said, “driving is fun.”  Then I added, “Do you look forward to driving someday?  Do you think it’ll be fun?”

“No.  Well . . . I guess so, but I worry about what to do if I get lost,” he says, his little voice traveling the distance from the back of the van; that little voice that's filled with not-so-little worries. 

Sometimes if we’re driving somewhere new or happen to take a different route home he pipes up to ask whether I’m lost or not.  Usually I’m not, but I do have a more intuitive sense of direction and have been known to, on occasion, make my way toward a new destination via slowly decreasing circles comprised of wrong turns and false starts.

We’ve tried explaining maps to him, how they show where you are and how to get to where you want to go, but it’s all a bit too much for a four-and-a-half-year-old to take in.  Besides, I think what he’s expressing is more of a feeling, a fear or anxiety, rather than a desire for concrete information.  What he really wants to know is if he’s going to be ok and whether he’s in good hands and can relax.  

When he does relax, he sits leaning forward, staring out the window, letting his eyes glide along until they come to rest on whatever thing he happens to be obsessed with at the moment.  From the time he could talk, he fervently pointed out every piece of construction equipment within eyesight as we drove on long trips up 81 or out across the PA turnpike.  This past summer, he found and exclaimed over every “peltic” cross in Carlisle during our many trips through town.   

That morning as we slowed and I put on my blinker and pulled around yet another corner, I said “Well, if you get lost, you stop and ask someone where you are and they’ll help you figure out how to get home.” 

That was it, and, for once, the simple answer seemed to satisfy. 

We all have times when we feel lost, confused and uncertain of where we are or where we’re going.  Maps can be helpful, but sometimes you just need to pull over and ask for help.  Sometimes you need a living, breathing person, someone who’s right at home in the place where you feel most lost; someone who can reorient you, holding your hand and heart long enough that you can begin to hear again the voice that calls you toward Home. 

*   *   *

Ever feel like you're lost and in need of direction, but you don't know where to turn?  I'd like to highlight my friend Tom Kaden's ministry, Someone To Tell It To.  Tom Kaden and his business partner, Michael Gingerich, started Someone To Tell It To as a non-profit counseling ministry which "specializes in offering support to those with life-threatening health concerns, especially those with cancer, to families liivng with disabilities, and for those searching to find meaning and purpose for their lives." 

The exciting part is that Tom and Michael are available to provide support locally or long-distance as they provide their services through which-ever means works best for you.  If your interested in finding out more, click on the link above.  Tom and Michael also host an excellent blog with quality writing and a depth of spiritual insight, which can also be accessed via the above link. 

*   *   *

This post is linked with Playdates With God and Hear It On Sunday, Use It On Monday.

I want to explain how it feels . . . (this thread, these crumbs)

(this picture was found here.)

This Thread, These Crumbs

I want to explain
how it feels -
it seems to me
that my life is held
together
by an unseen thread,
a shimmering strand
of gossamer, perhaps.

And as I pass through each
moment in time and space
I am forever looking for signs
of its Presence.

Like Hansel and Gretel
I walk hunched over,
peering through each day,
seeking, searching
for those elusive crumbs
that lead through
these dark woods
toward Home.

She Stood in the Doorway

Earlier this week, Emily Weirenga posted a link-up around the question, "Would you be friends with your younger self?"  While not a direct answer, you can read my thoughts below and visit this link to read how others responded.  Enjoy!  And, what do you think, would you be friends with your younger self?

*   *   *   *   *

We had two children at the time, ages two and four, and were making the difficult and exciting transition to me working part-time.  Within a week I would begin as Associate Pastor at our church and we were scrambling to get things lined up and adjusting to the title "pastor" that matched the calling I'd felt for so long. 

It was one of those mornings when I was running late and harried, scrambling in mad circles around the house, watching the day fall apart before it even got started.  I was working frantically to get my oldest ready for preschool, while also searching for the car keys when the phone rang.  

Seeing it was the babysitter, I quickly grabbed the phone.  I had called her the day before, explaining that I would be preaching the following Sunday and wondering whether she could free me up for a few hours of study and preparation.  She said she’d have to get back to me and I was eager to hear her response. 

To my surprise, she asked if she could stop by to talk for a few minutes.  I explained that we’d be leaving soon, but that it was fine if she could get there quickly.  It was a strange request and even in the midst of the hectic morning rush, as I continued to plow through drawers and coat-pockets, searching, I felt a shadowy anxiety that had to do with more than missing keys. 

She appeared at the screen door right around the same time I resigned myself to having to walk, or rather run, my daughter to preschool.  She walked in to the middle of our chaotic morning and stood there at the threshold of our home, tall and willowy, with her long hair that hung down below her waist. 

I don’t remember word for word what she said, but as we stood face to face in my living-room, the sunlight streaming in and the children swirling at my feet, she said she hadn’t wanted to tell me what she had to say over the phone.  The fact was that while she really enjoyed my kids, indeed, loved caring for them, she wouldn’t be able to babysit for me while I was preparing to preach because she didn’t believe in women preaching.  She would be happy to babysit other times, but didn’t want to support this activity that she disapproved. 

I stood facing her directly and tears poured down unbidden as she spoke.  I felt, of course, the rise of anger, the “how dare she come into my own house and speak to me this way,” but beyond that, empty and exasperated as I already was, I felt clear and simple pain.  It was as though her words were a lance that pierced an old and heavy wound. 

I don’t know what she expected, maybe that I would scream and shout or throw her out and, if I’d had my wits about me, a mighty slap across the face would’ve been a wonderfully dramatic if not also regretful choice. But I stood there and took it because even in the midst of the pain, I saw myself in her. 

I saw the young woman who memorized entire books of the bible word for word throughout high school, the one who spent her weekends traveling with a bible quizzing team, the one who explained to a feminist friend how the seemingly biblical subordination of women was ok. 

I saw the courage and conviction that comes so easily with black-and-white thinking, with the clarity and purity of youth and I felt compassion for her, even as I stood reeling from her words.  It was as though my own self stood there in the doorway, speaking from across the years and, in a strange way, I couldn’t help but love her for it.

*   *   *   *   *

There’s more to the story, of course, like how that confrontation resulted in an important conversation with my Dad around me being a woman who would soon be a pastor.  Or how the piercing of that wound was a blessing in disguise that awakened me to the reality that I would be working in a very conservative community; this pushed me to have a clarifying conversation with my soon to be employer while also awakening me to my own need for healing. 

I continued to hire her as a babysitter when I was not involved in "illicit activities," trying, I guess, to be the bigger person.  And she continued to be available (maybe also trying to be the bigger person?).  Having been caught off guard by her judgment, though, I worried when she came to the house.  I couldn’t help but wonder what other transgressions I might be making in her eyes – what would she think of the books I read or the beer in the fridge?  I refused to give in to the temptation, though, to hide these things.    

I was tempted, too, to leave things lying around that might, somehow, “enlighten her” to my way of thinking and I wondered if she might not harbor hopes of doing the same.  As time went on I joked with my husband that we were two determined women intent on arm-wrestling each other into our own little definition of the Kingdom of God. 

*   *   *   *   *

There will always be the need for young women like her, women who stand tall and straight with such clarity and conviction, if only for the way they lance the boil of old hurts, bringing to the surface yet again the fear and pain of coming into being. 

Time has a way of changing and deepening conviction, time and pain and the relentless and fierce call of God.  For this change in me, I am grateful, and for the seed of compassion that allowed me to see my younger self, again, with love.

When Winter is Gray and the Fog Rolls In

"Anger is the cloak sadness wears." - anonymous

It was one of those gray, soggy January days.  Ice and fog wrapped the world in a cold mist and I had been trapped at home nursing sick children for over two weeks.  So I piled the kids into the van - as though crowding together into an even smaller space might somehow help – and pulled away from the curb with no clear destination.

A plan started to emerge as I drove and we headed out of town and onto back roads toward a large greenhouse that also boasts a store and kid-friendly restaurant.  There would be a large, warm room full of plants, a fish pond, bunnies and a train and the promise of hot dogs for lunch.  I figured what we all needed was a glimpse of green and flowers and a taste of spring, a glimmer of hope to get us through yet another winter day. 

We drove on wet roads over rolling hills beside the wide and resting fields of winter.  I told the kids we were going on a surprise, a secret trip and things started to feel a little more hopeful.

I came down a hill to a large, familiar intersection with a traffic light that turned red just as we approached.  I braked, stopping and looking in both directions, before putting on my blinker and swiftly turning to the right.  We were almost there, close enough that I could already feel the hope of spring and warmth and relief that I hoped the green-house held.   

I noticed the “no turn on red” sign just as I was turning and heard the honk of the car behind me.  No one was coming, though, and the kids were shouting and pointing to farm equipment in the fields, so I thought, “ooops,” and kept driving. 

Looking in my rear-view mirror I noticed that the car that honked had turned right too and was following close behind me, aggressively close and as I slowed to round another corner I worried I would be rear-ended.  The car stopped just short of my bumper, then turned, following me, and I started to grow concerned. 

Fifty feet or so more and I turned again into the greenhouse’s parking lot and my suspicions were confirmed as the car followed and parked too, somewhere behind me.  I sat waiting for a minute, fearing a confrontation.  I had all four kids in the van and the last thing I wanted was to expose them to a shouting match, or worse. 

Just when I thought I was safe, a woman appeared in my window and I automatically opened it.  She stood there, leaning forward, aggressively – an older woman with short, messy gray hair.  Her face was in mine as I looked up from the automatic window button and she threw her words at me like one might throw a drink at a party, “Don’t you follow traffic signs?” 

The question was all accusation and meant to catch me up short, but I was already caught up short, which is why we’d left the house in such a hurry and I simply didn’t have anything to hurl back at her. 

My face was filled with sadness and exhaustion as I replied, “It was a mistake.” 

“That’s why I honked my horn,” she spat back at me.  

I looked at her and said again in a pleading tone, “It was a mistake.”

“We lost two children in that intersection,” she said.  Then, quickly, she spun around and sped back to her car, her long black sweater sweeping behind her. 

Winter filled my heart and fog rolled in. 

I recognized immediately that her raging anger was a stiff mask that hid great pain, something I doubt I would’ve noticed if I hadn’t also been in pain. I also guessed that she was probably lonely and afraid, as I was, and frightened too, perhaps, by the depth of her rage. 

The kids asked what was going on and I brushed the interaction aside, but something had been stolen in the moment.  I thought, as I unloaded the double stroller and snapped it into place, that I would’ve liked to invite her to have lunch with us, but she was long gone and not, I suspected, in the mood for company.

Later, I wondered what she saw as that window rolled down, I wondered how she felt as she walked away, and I wondered whether my words, repeated twice in my own exhaustion and humility, were what she needed to hear, “It was a mistake.” 

This post will be shared with Playdates With God and Hear it on Sunday, Use it on Monday.

Remembering (we are held)

I sat in the living room last week rocking my poor, sick, sleeping boy and watched while his twin brother explored a small wooden chair.  He walked diligently to the book basket, chose a board book, then toddled quickly over to the chair.  Placing the book on the chair, he lifted one little knee and, after maneuvering the book to make room, pulled himself up and turned, settling into a seated position with a look of great satisfaction. 

There he sat, fuzzy-headed and plump, like a ripe peach, his short legs sticking straight out.  Glancing at me with a look of triumph, he opened his book and “read” briefly and with great volume.  Then, with a swift movement, he slipped himself off of the chair, and went running on his little bare feet to get a new book. 

He repeated the whole process again and again with a different book in hand each time, as though neither “Trucks” nor “Things That Go” were proving to be quite the literary adventure he'd hoped they would.  Stand, climb, turn and sit, then, repeat.  Sitting and standing are a pleasure for him and he repeats the movements over and over as though swirling the feeling of it all around inside of his little body until at last the feeling fades to ordinary, like so many other firsts tasted and mastered in his short eighteen months.

*   *   *

And while I'm thinking of it, a strange thing has happened several times now during my monthly retreat – at some point I've found myself acutely aware of the reality that the chair I am sitting in is holding me. 

Every time we sit, we are being held. 

But most of us, most of the time, have stopped feeling it.

*   *   *

Earlier I sat in the pediatrician’s office with the same sick child whose limbs hung limp as he fought a raging fever.  Between the bustle of nurse and doctor, in the midst of the bright light and noise, he lay slumped against me, belly to belly, his heavy head pressed, unmoving on my chest.  His fine, blond hair was sweaty and his cheeks fiery red with heat.  His eyes ran and he breathed in short, panting breaths; his small mouth hung open, pressed against me. 

He smelled like sweaty, sick, drooly baby or I smelled, for I’d lost the ability to distinguish between us.  Finally he raised his flushed head, squinting his eyes in discomfort and I noticed that the whole front of me, two t-shirts thick, was soaked through with spit. 

I pulled him back toward me and curved my body like a hammock and we rocked and I sang and he hung on for dear life between the Dr.'s probing exam and tests for the flu and strep throat. 

As I sat there, turning my body into a living, breathing home for him, I wondered if God doesn’t also do this for us.  God curving, bending into a mighty ocean of a lap, a wide, swinging hammock of rest; God, like a chair that holds us.

*   *   *

God holds us, my friends, even when we’ve lost the ability to feel it, even when we’ve outgrown the desire to be held.  God waits like a hammock swinging in the breeze, like a mother’s lap that sways full of life and breath and song.                  
 

This post is shared with Imperfect Prose, click over to read more posts on the topic of Mother.