Sometimes

Sometimes people call you in the middle of the night because they want to talk about faith, hope, and love. And you do and then you go back to sleep and dream in three words. Those kinds of conversations don't end. What you talk about in the night stays with you in a way other things don't. I feel faith, hope, and love swirling all around me this morning and I hear the voices on the other end of the phone mirroring back to me what I said as I tried to put words to these concepts. I keep thinking of wine. Like someone came and woke me up to go to a banquet. And there was fine wine. I don't want to forget that sometimes communion is dialogue. And it's rich, and messy, and stumbling, and careful, and free, and heretical, and gracious. I wrote a poem about faith because my prose doesn't always understand me as well as my poetry. They aren't words, faith, hope, and love. They are, each of them, an invitation. Dangerous. Bold. Enlivening. You who've been betrayed. You orphans with no name. Trust. You are invited to trust. Trust that there will be provision and you will have a name. You who've been made powerless. You strangers with no land. Hope. You are invited to hope. Hope that the future will be worth bearing for and you will have a home. You who've been torn in two. You widows with no companion. Love. You are invited to love. Love desire and know the companionship of giving and receiving.

Faith

Faith.
Faith is remembering.
'Here I raise mine ebenezer.'
Remembering happens in memory.
Memory is made of story.
Story is narrative.
Faith has many names:
 lore
 legend
 kings of old
 history
 in the beginning
 and...
 ...yesterday.
Faith is an understanding of what yesterday and all the days before mean for today and all the days after.
Faith accepts an unseen order in randomness.
Faith is the audacity to trust in the face of betrayal.
Why?
Why?
Because there's something you can't kill, something in me you can't kill.
It's some kind of light.
It's a beauty.
It has a quality of infinite.
It's creating.
Even with your treason and wickedness you can't kill this thing.
And I will leverage my life against this belief: that thing, that thing you can't kill, has a Maker.
Faith is living in this truth: that thing has always been. It will always be. It exists in the face of Evil.
It has a Name. And a Story.
Faith is knowing the glory of God, manifest in His narrative of One Death. One Resurrection. One Ascension. For all.
Faith is remembering this story as the epicenter of all stories.

A Perfect Human

Sometimes I secretly think Jesus doesn't seem all that perfect. This is an insane thought. Especially to have often and not consider. Weeding my rose garden recently I started to actually consider the heretical thought. Originally I was thinking about a quote from The Healing Path by Dan Allender, "Jesus was...so human most would not recognize he was sinless." Hello! There it is. It hit me and then stuck in and pulled at my flesh just like all the thorns around me- I've been wrong about perfection this whole time. I thought I knew what it was. I mean doesn't everybody know what perfection is? I didn't. I still don't. But I can tell you this it's not what I thought. Jesus never seemed that perfect to me because he was so human. Far more than I. Or at least more than I present. I'm not hungry. Jesus was. I'm not tired. Jesus was. It's not that big of a deal. It was to Jesus. I'm not sweating. Jesus did. I'm not lonely. Jesus was. I'm not tempted. Jesus was.

Our humanity is not our imperfection. So what am I doing? I am spending an inordinate amount of energy masking my humanity because I think that is what is required of me. Where in the world did I get the idea that Jesus didn't have needs? That needs make me weak and ungrateful? Perfection must not be having it all together all the time. Jesus sweated blood in the Garden of Gethsemane and pleaded for his fate to be changed. Jesus embraced his humanity more than anyone ever has or ever will. And he was perfect. Flawless. Without sin. Pure. Righteous.

I find myself committed to a path that is impossible and breaking my heart, but I think it is the way of God. I think it's the way of God because I think sanctification means needing less and less. But I find myself needing more and more. I become less and less self-sufficient every day and I think I'm slipping off the narrow way. I feel crazy. The more I know God the more dependent and needy I become and yet I believe the way to follow God is to shed need, as if heartache and lack is an old skin that can be left behind as I travel forward.

I forfeit my humanity and call it good. I defame his temple and claim it pleases him. My humanity is the closest thing I have to Jesus. He came and tabernacled among us. Is it any wonder he makes me bleed? Backs me into corners? Sends me to the edge? He will do anything to bring me face to face with the reality of redemption: I only need Jesus when I'm human.


To receive redemption I have to repent. That is I have to turn around and go towards the party. A good party involves no pretenses, but instead is a communal celebration in the midst of what is, and what will one day be. To go to the party I have to take off my masks, or else I stand on the edges of the room resenting the celebration instead of participating in it. To go to the party I have to engage with realities I don't much like. One set of realities are particularly on my mind: To do everything I want to in my yard I need a man. I know beyond a shadow of a doubt I shouldn't use a chain saw, but my yard desperately needs a man who can handle a chain saw. I need a man's engaged ear and steady eye when my problems grow to towering heights and become completely intertwined with one another so that I can't even see where one starts and another begins. I need companionship. Someone to talk to at the end of the day.

Do I really need those things? Is that confession really a step towards repentance? What does it mean to need? At core I know I need Jesus and I know I am called to the likeness of One who lacked, who desired what he did not have, who hoped for things not seen, step into places that were not as they ought be.

Be Yourself

Sometimes conversations just happen. Like an unexpected stream coming up out of the ground. The water flows freely. No one is telling the water where to go and no one made it start, it simply flows. I would like to recount to you a conversation that "just happened" and has encouraged me over and over each time I remember it.

I was sitting on the beach with my friend Bill and he started talking mid thought process as my friend Bill often does. I don't know what had made him think of it but he started recounting some time he had spent in a small group at a marriage conference with his wife. He described getting so frustrated when the moderator asked him to "be yourself." Bill responded, "I am so tired of that! It's something we just say. 'Be yourself, be yourself, be yourself.' What does it even mean?! Do we even know?"

The moderator responded, "What does it mean to you?"

Bill reluctantly answered, "It means doing what you love. Using your talents. Being in community with people who care about you. Doing what you're good at."

"So you think being yourself means being comfortable?"

Bill hung his ahead. Ashamed, feeling like he'd fallen for a trap. But the moderator quickly said, "No, that's a good thing. It is good to be comfortable. To care for yourself, be kind to yourself and put your self in situations where you can succeed. But where do you hide? What secrets do you keep? What are you afraid of? Where do you hurt? Where are you uncomfortable? Being in those places is being yourself.

I felt like I was in the room. Like I was Bill and as Bill spoke he became the moderator speaking to me as Bill, or Bill as me. My response would have been the same as Bill's but when I heard what the moderator said it means to be yourself I felt like I was catching my breath after being under water for a long time. It resonated. It was a relief. At some point this description of what it means to be yourself would have terrified me and I would have met it with self-protecting, defiant anger, but the more I sink into the depths of God's grace the less invested I have to be in covering myself. This uncovering. This idea of being vulnerable and uncomfortable it somehow feels right and I wonder why.

Bill goes on and begins to answer my why, "You know, I know some people would say this is heresy and totally disagree, but I think the dark places, the hidden places I think those are the places in us Jesus loves the most. There is something there." Again this resonates. I don't know if it's theologically sound, I don't have a verse to back it up but I know I have felt that. I have felt Jesus' tenderness and care and grace most acutely in the deepest, most hidden parts of my depravity. Bill says, "And I don't know why that is."

My mom sitting in a beach chair next to me says, "Because that's where we are. And he wants to be with us." Bill looks up, locking is blue eyes onto my mom's and nods in agreement. We are where we hide, and so Jesus loves that place. Not that he desires for us to stay hidden, quite the opposite. His love for our darkness, our trauma, our shame is the very thing that allows us to go to those places and not die. To be ourselves in the truest sense and not be condemned but instead received with love.  

Why?

I once heard that you shouldn't ask God, "Why?". That instead you should ask, "What?" The purveyor of this advice explained even if God told you why you wouldn't be satisfied so you should focus on what God wants you to do with your situation not why you're in your situation...Really? For some reason these words stuck with me. How many pieces of advice like this have I head through my years in Christian culture? Hundreds and hundreds, maybe thousands. Why did these stick? I remember being disappointed that God didn't want me to ask, "Why?" but figuring that was just part of learning to measure up to His standard. It turns out, though, that it was terrible advice and the standard is a smokescreen.

First of all, who decided we ought to put parameters on the way we talk to God? Ought I edit myself before I go to God? Making sure everything, down to my diction, is acceptable before I utter a syllable? I don't think that's what the author of this quote meant but it plays into a lie I have believed for far too long: there is a right way to talk to God. There isn't. There is simply talking to God and not talking to God. Jesus wants me to be the most free when I talk to Him. With my enemies I may measure my words, but with my Jesus? Trying to pray right makes me "tarry 'til I'm better and then never come at all." But talking to Jesus brings me relief and freedom.

Secondly, Jesus asked, "Why?" I heard a sermon once about mourning and lamentation. The pastor talked about how openly people in the Bible mourn and lament. Then he said what I've heard echoing in my mind for the two years since I heard it, "Jesus asked, 'Why?' ("My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?") and he knew why. I think you have room to ask, 'Why?'" I hope those words, that idea, that truth begins to weave it's way through your fear, your contempt, your anxiety, and all your "Whys?"

Incriminating Evidence

I'm getting ready to move so I have started mentally preparing for the fact that I'm going to have to go through drawers. In general I enjoy cleaning out my drawers. It's satisfying and always makes me feel lighter. But there is one group of things always stuffed in a drawer that intimidate and overwhelm me. These seem to follow me around for days after I unearth them. They suck me in faster and deeper than any Facebook newsfeed binge. I come up for air suddenly feeling like I was locked in a time vortex. These make me uncomfortable and cause me shame. Sometimes they make me smile and laugh. They bring me to tears, or even sobs. Both for joy and sorrow. Or just for nostalgia. I'm working to redefine them and decide what place I want them to have in my home, but for now they continue to feel like Incriminating Evidence. Part of me wants to throw them all away. Who keeps incriminating evidence? And yet I feel like its wrong to part with them. This question of what to do with them has haunted me through every move I've made, starting when I was 14 leaving my childhood room to go to high school in a new town and a new state. They came with me, even though I was tempted to leave them behind in the name a fresh start and clean slate. Do I have to keep them even now?

They are my journals. Hundreds of pages and dozens of books. They feel cumbersome and they seem to whisper such a jumble of messages I'm not sure if I want to hear or not. Is this how I feel about the stories that make up my life? Can I keep my stories? Can I bless them? Without keeping these stacks of well worn pages? I know the covers by heart. I know which journal goes with which year, or event. Each cover goes with a mental title, but this world of my journals is a solitary place. Only I walk into it. Only I know it's twists and turns. The finality of my written word is isolating. Perhaps it's not so much the journals that overwhelm me, but the paths they construct for me to wander alone.

I think it is not so much about, "Should I keep my journals?", but more about, "What do I want to do with my stories?" I want to share them. I want to bring them to Jesus. I want to let Him unravel the shame and guilt. I want to ask Him my questions and let others study my story with me. I want to honor who I am becoming by blessing who I have been. I want to be tender to the writer of these journals, these thoughts and prayers, these questions and answers, this pain and joy, these hopes and and fears. Just as Jesus is tender with her. As Jesus is tender with me. I hear Him even now say, "These are not Incriminating Evidence, I have held nothing against you. I have loved you. I wander the paths of your story with you. I have loved you through all and never have I turned my face away. I am inviting you to sift through your stories with Me, and with those who love Me and who love you."

...but, should I keep the journals?

Hit From Behind

11/9/12

Usually I am full of words, but over the past weeks I have been at a loss. I have watched Jamie, Mom, and now Dad eloquently and honestly update the journal with their thoughts and feelings about the accident and I have waited for my words to come. What if they never do? What if I don't have language for this? I feel it sealing off and quietly leaving me, this experience that is. But I want to catch it. I want to integrate it, or some part of me will always live in this trauma. I got a call from WakeMed on October 23rd and now I'll never be the same. I keep thinking 'First Responder'. I feel like I was the first responder to this accident. I know that the fire department and EMS were the true first responders and we owe them so much. They kept my parents alive. But I got the first call of those who know them, who love them. I was sitting in my rocker listening to the wit and wisdom of Julia, enjoying so much our conversation. And WakeMed kept calling and calling until I took it. "Your parents were out for an evening stroll and were struck by a moving vehicle. Do you want to come or should I just tell them I let you know?" I had just been with them. I went to their house after work and we ate fair left overs together for dinner. I walked down the steps and got in my car to go. I still had my door open as dad came down front steps mom calling to him did he want his sweatshirt? I realized they were going for a walk and I thought how nice it would be to walk with them, but my feet hurt and I was tired so I said bye and went home. 10 minutes after I got home I got the call. As I walked up to the emergency room I saw the metal detector and realized I had a pocket knife. Tears were streaming down my face and I felt so confused and so clear at the same time. I had one job: get there. The security guard who took my knife said, "You look like you're hurting." I said, "It's not me." as I rushed past him. The chaplain met me and took me in a room by myself. Why was it empty? There were so many chairs. All empty. The chaplain told me some friends of my parents' and my uncle were coming and wanted me to tell her what they looked like. I think I just stared at her. I repeated my question from the phone call, "Are they ok?" She repeated her maddeningly undecipherable answer, "They're talking but I can't give medical information." I'm going over how hurt you can be and still talk and wading through what I know about chaplains and trying to remember if they'll tell you if they know things are okay. Then I was alone in the room. A policewoman came in and told me they were hit by a drunk driver. The bottom fell out. The room got deafeningly silent. Drunk drivers don't slow down, they don't react, they don't see what's coming. Then I was alone again. Then a nurse brought me dad's wedding ring with blood covering it and mom's phone saying 'No SIM card' in a biohazard bag. I took it and started to cry. The nurse, "Oh honey it's ok. They're talking and your dad's cracking jokes." Now I imagined they just bumped their heads and they're sitting up in bed and just have to get CAT scans. Finally we got to go back and see them, the friends and my uncle had gotten there. I saw mom first. Flat on a bed, legs splayed like a person with a head injury. Her face was the color of concussion. Do you know that color? When someone has a concussion their face turns a certain color and it makes you feel sick and floods you with compassion. Her eyes were scared and hurting. She had dried blood coming out her nose and so much blood in her hair. Her hands were bleeding and there was blood under her fingernails. She was wearing a neck brace and was hooked up to the telemetry. She kept saying, "My shoulder hurts so bad." I held her hand and stroked her head and she said, "That feels so good." She wanted to know what was happening and where she was and where dad was. She kept asking us not to leave. My Uncle Robbie held her feet. Then Robbie was gone and next thing I knew he was standing beside the curtain at the end of the bed and he said, "Kellay you need to come see your dad before he goes to surgery." In that moment I felt the most excruciating splitting happen in my soul. Like I knew somewhere deep this wasn't supposed to happen. You shouldn't have to wrench your hand from your mamas when she's asking you to stay to go see your daddy. He was 3 curtains away. He was covered in sheets and blankets but it didn't cover the brokenness of his body. I'd never seen someone that injured. I saw his feet first and I knew they were his though one was wrapped in some kind of temporary cast and the other was bleeding from a cut. Then I saw his hand which reached to hold mine immediately. It was bloody too. He was wearing a neck brace and his face was completely red. The sight of his blue eyes piercing through his face of blood has haunted me for many nights. He was so happy to see me and told Robbie he didn't want me to worry. Robbie said, "Okay Bill, I'll worry for both of us." I held his hand until they came to take him to surgery. He kept asking about mom. A nurse said, "I want to do something" and a doctor said okay. She ran to mom's curtain and unhooked her from everything and rolled her into the hall where they were bringing dad. They put their beds side by side. They couldn't see each other because neither could turn their heads but they reached for each other's hands. They couldn't find them until I held them together. Mom said, "Oh Bill I love you precious man. We got hit by a car. Jesus be with you." Dad said, "I love you darlin. Jesus be with you. I know." And they continued that way for a time and then dad was gone. Before he left I signed so many papers for both of them. Consent for them to be treated. Consent for dad's surgery. They couldn't sign for themselves. I remember moving the pen across the pages thinking, "How is this down to me?" I am their emergency contact and I know how that happened. But how did it happen?