Love is Vertigo (a falling, floundering thing)

Christmas morning 2010, the Corvette we found for $25 on Craigslist.

I turned to see my two and four year old children driving their little yellow Corvette through our small, cramped living room.  I was standing in the doorway between rooms interviewing a new nanny when I looked up to watch her watching them drive by.  We were moving our older two out of daycare and hoping to have a nanny provide care in our home – the news that I was pregnant had finalized the decision. 

The incredible discovery that we were expecting twins had turned our world on its head the week before so that as I stood there talking, it felt to me that our world was tilting, spinning out of control.  In that moment, the picture of our children driving through the house struck me as both absurd and entirely appropriate. 

It was then that I knew we had fallen or were falling, though toward what I did not know.   The incline was steep and the sensation would not end, still has not ended, even now some two years later.   What I could not understand then that I do now is that what we were falling into was love, a deeper and wider love than we knew was possible. 

*   *   *

When I started dating the man who would become my husband we would sit on opposite sides of the college cafeteria with our different groups of friends and make googly eyes at each other from across the room.  Whenever our eyes met there was a spark of electricity that spanned the distance and threatened to throw us off of our chairs if we didn’t glance away with speed. 

Later, when he studied in Oregon for a semester and I traveled out to visit, we spent an evening in Portland exploring and all I remember is sitting together on a bench in the midst of the city.  I looked into his eyes, two deep and gentle brown pools and felt myself falling, head-long, heart over heels.

*   *   *

When my daughter, my oldest, was born after months of waiting and reading, planning and anticipation, they placed her in my arms and I looked into those small dark eyes and felt a sudden and surprising moment of recognition.  It was an aha moment, a coming home and we sank into each other like two lost souls, like two lovers clinging as we plunged into life together.  I fell hard, as I have for every baby since.

*   *   *

Just recently, I was interviewing yet another babysitter and the moment she walked in the door, my four year old pulled her into the hallway to see our new climbing wall. 

“A climbing wall . . . in your hall,” she said, “interesting.”  

I felt the same old sensation, the realization that we had fallen, are falling still, head-long into our love for these lives that have sprung up among us.  We are off-kilter, leaning hard into love and our home and our hearts are showing the expansion, the wear-and-tear of it all. 

Love, my friends, is a falling, floundering thing.  To love another, to be in and for love, is to consent to live continually off-balance.  Love is a leaning, plunging leap, a heart-pounding lunge that leaves your stomach in your throat and the only danger is that we would come to prefer the safety of solid ground over this sensation of continual plummet. 

To me, this is the only way to explain God coming to live among us, God looking, leaning down toward humanity.  God so loved the world that he leapt and fell in among us and in his falling for us he freed us from the fall, for the fall, and the taste is born in us for love – for leaping, falling, floundering, foolish love.

 

Time to put it into reverse, having reached the other side of the room.

I Thirst (Following Jesus in the Desert)

Toward the end of our time together, I mentioned to my spiritual director that I was considering what kind of practice I might embrace for Lent, but didn’t really know where to begin.  She grew animated and explained that Lent is a time to join Jesus in the desert and as she spoke, reflecting on the passages in Matthew and Mark, I felt my mouth going dry. 

When I arrived that morning I was thirsty, having downed a good bit of coffee and a little milk with breakfast, but no water.  But I’d already asked to use her bathroom and felt on some sub-conscious level that asking for water might be too much.  So as we sat talking and praying together in that sunlit room filled with windows and plants, as my spirit was fed and nourished, my body was thirsty. 

As she spoke about the desert and the call for us to follow Jesus there, the dryness in my mouth became pronounced and the heat from the gas fireplace beside me grew to feel like the harsh light of the mid-day sun.  I felt the dryness of sand growing in and around me, as though the room itself was being transformed into the desert.  And in the midst of that, a panic arose in me and I said with urgency, “I don’t want to go into the desert.  I feel like winter itself has already been a desert and I can’t handle any more.”

These last few weeks since advent and maybe even before then, have felt barren and empty to me.  There's a dryness to parenting four young children through winter in this small dry house where we fill three humidifiers multiple times a day.  Each day is a barren stretch from the time my husband walks out the door ‘til the moment he comes home and I hold my breath and plod along, parched and weary, too often running on empty. 

Maybe I’m being melodramatic.  Maybe.  But as we talked, my friend suggested that there are many ways to enter into Lent and that maybe I could take on the practice of documenting the desert by simply being aware of the desert.

So I am.  And, as far as I can tell right now, it’s dry and empty and I thirst. 

*   *   *

I picture Jesus standing on the outskirts of everything, his feet sinking into the steadily warming sand as he looks back, his arm outstretched toward me.  He is silhouetted, enshadowed, by the glare of the unknown, the open, empty expanse of the desert, and I'm hesitant to enter it with him. 

But as I pause, holding back, I’m reminded of the blossoms of the desert, those flowers, rare and colorful that thrive in the heat and sand.  As he waits, something in me shifts and it's the possibility of beauty and life even there, where it should not be, that lifts my feet and moves me forward and for now, this is enough. 

 

Christ in the Wilderness - Consider the Lilies by Stanley Spencer

 

What practices feed your spirit and nourish you during Lent?  What questions or hesitations do you bring into this season?

 

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.