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I’ve used this quote from a poet, Cheyenne Gallion, quite a bit lately due to a series of unfortunate events, all of which I will not divulge here. We spent most of January scrambling to get our Honda fixed (hit and run in November) so we could get it inspected before the end of the month. Chris and Craig replaced a fender and light casing and also discovered our frame was bent. They used a wench to pull back into place and Voila’ inspect able car. We felt blessed. Two days later, Chris borrowed his mom’s car, so I could use ours, and he received a ticket for no inspection on HER CAR. She had been so busy helping her mom care for her step-dad during an illness, she’d forgotten. A week later a hose disintegrated on our car so Chris pulled over to a gas station. He left the car, and rode his bus to the job, waited for me to come get him. We had a beer and hot dog in the parking lot and commenced to fixing the little booger. Twenty bucks for a hose didn’t seem bad, but then we were able to help a nice stranded woman out, and she ended up giving us our twenty dollars back. We tried to refuse, but she insisted. Her husband had recently died and since then, she said “It has been one thing after another. Please let me bless you.” I like the supernatural-ness of mutual blessings. Later that night, after a party with friends, we headed to the store for some school supplies,--me in Chris’ mom’s car, Chris following in ours-- when I saw him get creamed by a huge truck, that never even slowed down, just kept driving like our Honda was a mayfly or something. Chris, aka Crash Knievel, was fine. This made his fifteenth wreck, eleventh one that was NOT his fault, and third hit and run. We were upbeat that night, even though we felt weird. "What is God teaching us?" we asked aloud. “Are we missing something?” It has been our experience that just when we are on the precipice of major movement in our lives we’ve been thwarted by distractions, some of our own making and some not. Many people look at these situations and say, “How unfortunate. How unlucky.” We used to say that, but not so much anymore. We’ve seen what the work of our hands can do--some impressive, fruitful stuff; some selfish, painful sin. Either way, we’re trying hard-core to let our work be His doing. Not everyone understands this, especially my dad. He wasn’t the happiest man, when we sold all our belongings and cashed out our savings to pay off what little bit of debt we had, quit our safe jobs and move HIS grandchildren into a school bus. How could the kid who had it all together, let it all go? Easy. God said so. But not everything is that easy. During a still quiet moment the next day, I asked God what I could do. How could I help my husband who was feeling a bit beat down? How could I keep from feeling the same way? "I have nothing to offer in this situation, God. What do I do?” “Call your dad and ask him to fix the bus.” God says to me. “Uhm, that has nothing to do with our car situation.” “You asked. I answered. Be humble.’” With fear and trepidation, I called my dad, who loves me to death and would do anything for me MOST of the time, but I hadn’t wanted to ask him. Did I mention my dad was a diesel mechanic and the bus hadn’t been running for two months? Did I mention my dad has a really bad temper and that I cringed as I dialed? I called anyway and he came down that same weekend. We had coffee and lunch. He fixed the bus in thirty minutes and he genuinely enjoyed hanging out with us on Jubilee. I think he might have even fell a little bit in love with her motor and more importantly, it felt like something else was fixed between us all. We still aren’t sure exactly what God is doing with us. The hardest part, besides repairing our marriage, has been figuring out what we do now. And we know our family and friends are watching. They were nervous at first, afraid they wouldn’t see us very much or that we might fall into harm’s way. They’ve seen us so much more now that we have more time and mental energy. They feel better about us going, even anticipating what might be ahead for us. And we are, too. Anticipating. Setbacks and blessings continue to remind us to ask as humbly as we can, without selfish ambition, ‘What are you showing us, God? We want to know the way.”
Going With The Flow I have the ability to make all machines, zoom and spin in my presence, pipes burst, water overflow, computers crash, printers go “offline” (Do they do that anymore?), cars sputter and die slow pathetic deaths, . . . etc. This is not me bragging about how cosmically electric I am. It only takes a short while hanging out with me before you come to believe I possess a strange hum, an odd aura, thousands of wonky amoebas . . .
So it should be no surprise when I describe a weekend in my life:
The weekend before the unveiling of a book I helped edit for Longview ISD, I decided to let my sister-in law, who’s in beauty school, first bleach my bangs white then dye them a dark, almost unintelligible purple. I had wanted purple streaks for a while, and she had just successfully colored her own bangs two nights before, not to mention a three of her friends, so I let her. My bangs looked like a bad tie die job. We had to settle for hot pink. Way more noticeable HOT PINK. Longview, never knew what hit’em.
The very next day a few hours before a performance, my kids and I gathered the ingredients for lemon bars to make for a youth group bake sale. We were out of powdered sugar, so I walked to the store. When I came back a heretofore unnamed child we’ll call, uh, mid-kid, used regular sugar instead, even though he’s made this recipe with me a bunch of times. Seeing the look on my face, he switched into angel child, an ability he gleaned from his father, and assured me it would be fine, just fine. I assured him he was about to get a chemistry lesson. We cooked the hardest lemon bars known to man. The third little piggy could have built a lemon-scented house with those things.
That night we performed at Swirl-A-Bout with Mad Swirl and various other artists. I had been asked to write a poem for the fire dancers’ finale. Chris and I had been struggling over the order of the show and he said what he always does when I crave the tiniest bit of structure: “Why can’t you just go with the flow?” My usual response: “You mean why can’t I go with your flow?” was replaced with: “There are six different acts going on tonight and I will go with all their flows if someone will just give me a hint as to what their flow might be before hand. This is not an open mic-It’s a paid event in an art gallery. . . blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.” “You don’t have to do it,” he assured me kindly, which in my mind sounded like, “We don’t need you.” In his mind, “No pressure if you want to bow out.” I rarely bow out of anything. When I do, it’s messy. Chris left to mingle with the artists. I stewed in the car where I watched the dancers and fire eaters and visual artists go in and out drinking wine, smoking American Spirits and chatting, the girls with their dark red lipsticks and black shocky bangs against their pale tattooed skin, when I realized the poem I carefully crafted for the fire dancers finale didn’t fit. I rewrote it in the parking lot, going with my flow of anger and abandonment while working in some carnivalesque images. The dancers loved it.
That night, at two o’clock in the morning, two days before we were to sell our Honda so we could get a mini-van, the hood of the car flew open and folded in half as we entered the Mix Master. Chris had been in a hit and run (his third hit and run, fourteenth wreck (but that’s another blog altogether (btaba)) when He swears I said, “That’s what you get for not fixing it in the first place.” I swear, I am not that stupid. I said, “That’s what WE get for not fixing it in the first place.” Chris’ little sister, the same one who dyed my hair, can put her own Honda back together with her eyes closed. She’s like Michelle Rodriguez in the Fast and the Furious, only meanerJ She assured us we only needed a little wrench and the parts from Certa-fit. But we procrastinated because, well, you read the first paragraph. These things usually don’t go well. I said WE! Nevertheless a frozen quiet spilled over the car as we realized we were not going to be able to sell anything and we would be stuffing our kids and their friends into this car for the next few months, hoping the front end didn’t shimmy off onto the highway. The next morning Chris and I lay in bed before church making jokes about the car, the lemon bars, my pink hair and making up for the tension from the night before. Later in church, I had that sick feeling I get between my rib cage, when I have thought or hoped or assumed my flow was in tune with God’s flow and He’s telling me it isn’t. I pray to always be in it, but half the time I think I’m taking off into the stars like a spaceship, when I am really just a spinning pinwheel, fooling myself with my own flow. He thumps me . . . a few times, gently reminding me to, “Be still and know My Flow.” (No really, that’s what he said:)
This might be cheating, but here's a link to some thoughts of mine on a book I read recently. Yes, it's a different blog altogether, but maybe this emphasizes the 'diaspora' aspect of this blog?
A nice touch or sophistry? Discuss.
"So on the seventh day, He rested from all His work. And God blessed the seventh day and made it Holy..." - Genesis 2:2-3
Since the summertime, my husband and I have taken a rest from formal church-going. Various factors in our lives led us to this point, and perhaps some would say we sin in doing so, although I sincerely hope not. However, we have not deserted the universal church--the fellowship of the brethren. And I find that in foregoing church proper--the sermons, the Sunday outfits, the obligatory over-the-church-pew handshakes, the little plastic communion cups, the bad music--I have found better rest on Sunday than I have in many years. Rest and healing, which we both needed.
Those of you who know Martin--which, now that I think of it, is all of you-- know that he is a rebel, but a rebel for Jesus. He seeks truth, not just to know it but to live by it. Since I am his daughter, and know him at his Sunday afternoon sleepiest and Monday morning grumpiest, you know I mean what I say. The point is: well, it is Sunday morning, and we are at my father's house, resting and worshiping. My mother and father, myself and my husband, my brother, and my daughter, and a few close friends. A handful of rebels for Jesus, seeking rest and fellowship.
I am as sensitive as any to the unbearably tacky and overly sentimental, so please forgive the pseudo-poetic format, but I feel moved to describe how I feel about this.
The pale winter sun filters through naked trees. Worship has finished. Voices lighten with conversation, laughter. My little brother jumps up, happy to be free. My daughter rests at peace in her grandmother's arms. Three men--father, husband, and friend--play jazz in the living room. Doorbell rings: friendly voices, greetings, hugs. Fellowship flows into lunch. Food passed around a table. Chicken, vegetables, hearty fare for hungry people. Chink of dishes in the sink. A Christmas toy brings smiles to adults gathered around the table. Feet on chairs. Whir of the microwave. Cups of coffee passed from hand to hand. Creamer? Sugar? Peaceful, interested conversation. Friends and family sit close, heads leaning in.
Church is worship. Church is communion. Church is laughter. Church is food. Church is conversation. Church is family. Rest, rest, and rest is church.
Like I was telling a brother today, there aren't many things in life that can test the mettle of one's faith like death. So, to continue what I started in "A Whiff of Heaven" I went back to the Darlene G. Cass Women's Imaging Center on Tuesday of this week to get my cyst aspirated. If the fluid was too thick to aspirate they would then switch to a bigger needle and do a full-on biopsy (think geologic al core sampling). Well, you can imagine my relief when I saw the cyst on the sonogram monitor begin to deflate like a slowly collapsing balloon. The doctor (he turned out to be a brother who attends PCPC) told me that the fluid would be sent off to a lab and the results wouldn't be known until later on in the week. In less than 30 minutes, what had taken years (?) to develop within the inner recesses of my flesh, was now gone. Zip. Nil. Nada. But hold the bus. The fluid could potentially be packed with tiny psychotic cells hell bent on taking down its human host; i.e., me. Wow. Could this be it? Could this be how the Lord takes me out of this world and into the next? Is this the moment of truth when I actually get to find out if what I've believed for over 30 years is actually true? I can honestly say (and I'm not saying this because of supernatural courage on my part) that I was somewhat disappointed when the doctor called me yesterday and left a voicemail telling me the good news that the cyst was benign. Big sigh. I guess the Lord will take me another day in another way. Blessed is His name.
Aging Epics
From mother’s breast to death’s cold endless reign, Children run to taste the fruit of eden, But bitter is the taste of life’s first pain, Only sorrow fills the place of heaven.
O if man could only see his shadow, Surely he would scourge the darkened image. For letting dawn’s light waken cock’s to crow, Only burdens sanity’s self-scrimmage.
Would death find peace for those who yearn for it? May it never be—for death finds fire. Nor does splurging non-chalance soothe reaped guilt. Its truth hardens hearts mirage of mire.
The nonage of man seeks his entity; Yet aging epics fail maturity.
Have you ever been so hungry that you ate so fast you never even really tasted what you were eating? I love people. Weird segue I know, but hang in there and maybe it will make sense. I love how people get excited and flap their hands so hard they knock their drink over then turn a bright shade of red as they try to scoop up an ocean of soda with the tiniest bit of napkin. I love how a girl will move the same piece of hair out of her face thirty times before she digs in her gigantic purse to find a clip, but instead finds her new tube of drama queen chap stick, smoothes it on her lips and goes back to moving the hair out of her face at least thirty more times before she remembers she needs a clip. I love people who scream way too loud at football games. I love people who play soccer even when they’re “old.” I love songwriter’s who make me laugh. I love visual artists who use junk. I love people who cook fried foods and eat them! I love the cadence of certain people’s prayers and I treasure up the sounds of their voices in my heart. I love people a bit on the crazy side and I seem to attract some of the most broken. And if I talk to you for over, oh, say . . . ten seconds, you are my friend. Period. Which means I must love you. There is nothing wrong with loving people, but the way I loved in the past was a bit wonky. People didn’t go into my heart the right way and I developed a strange sense of responsibility. I was responsible for everyone and everyone had the same level of priority. For many years, I ran around crazy-eyed, stuffing people, with all their glorious intricacies and destructive tendencies into my heart. A friend said maybe I was starved. That maybe my co-dependent cycle of spinning, self-sabotage was the result of pouring out what had never been given to me . . . stability, sanity, love. That the whole time I thought I was loving by “helping, rescuing, fixing” was just an attempt to be . . . loved¾truly. When I finally hit a wall and the spinning stopped, I could barely move. I didn’t know how to go about in the world, what my motives were, what love really meant. I stopped using the L-word for a while. I didn’t trust it. But I was still surrounded by people. My friends and family made sure of that. SO, what was I to do? My friend Judy who loves to be around people once opened and closed her hands like the claw in that pizzeria vending machine game while saying “people, people, people.” She was hungry for them. And I knew exactly what she meant. Only, it seemed to me, she new how to nourish people and be nourished by people, while I had just been on a hard-core binge. But I couldn’t stop loving people just because I was doing it wrong. I just had to scrap about nine-tenths of the ideas I had about love and start from a sorta scratch, continuously reminding myself that God loves me, even if people don’t. So now, I am in be still training. Not tame, but still. When I’m still I can listen to God and He teaches me. One of the things He is teaching me is that his treasures are meant to for me to receive as a blessing, not for my indulgence. That any blessing He bestows on me, is just that, a blessing, not to be devoured hungrily in place of His love, but to be enjoyed as a result of His love. Oh, the love of Jesus.
Well, I've come full circle. I ran with my own challenge to see my life through the lens of God's goodness and as a result added new words to the lexicon of grace. There is a fog (I think it's referred to as a "veil" in the good book or, according to Joe, a "brain cloud"), that fills my mind, keeping me from seeing things the way God sees things. I call good evil and evil good. I see pain coming my way and interpret it only as a malevolent force of evil, failing to see the good intent of God. If a good atheist read my thoughts over the last week, s/he could easily conclude that I closed my eyes to what was really going on and chose to live within a delusional state of mind where I only saw what I wanted to see. So be it. In the end, it seems that all insight can't help but be subjective and prone to corruption. The gospel doesn't deny the corruption of all things. It doesn't baby us, telling us that we are really good children who will live pain free lives if we only believe. The Savior revealed the path by walking it himself, showing us what to expect. Yes, we believe in the pie-in-the-sky resurrection, but before that comes the blood-on-the-ground cross. The atheist is impacted by evil and comes to the natural conclusion of a godless, meaningless existence. I see the evil and, by the grace of God alone, come to the conclusion that grace abounds even more the way light appears brighter when it is surrounded by darkness. Pray for me as I pray for you to taste and see the movement of grace in all the varying facets of life—in sickness and in health, for richer, for poorer, for better, for worse, in sadness and in joy, to cherish and continually bestow upon him our hearts' deepest devotion, forsaking all others, keeping ourselves only unto Him as long as we shall live.
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