Deeper sorrow, deeper joy

I know how to hide my feelings from myself. I’ve had practice telling those miniature white lies about how I don’t mind or that I’m unconditionally happy and galloping through life without unwanted feelings lassoing me.

My body gives me a jolt now and then: a wrinkled forehead glimpsed in the mirror, indigestion, weight loss, fatigue. But look on the bright side, I think. I don’t really feel that stressed, weary, cranky, or conflicted. I am living the ideal life. Who in their right mind wouldn’t want to be me right now?

What I don’t remember is that shutting down my “negative” feelings also shuts down my capacity to deeply feel joy.

Earlier this month, I realized that wedding planning all day on my day of rest was not a sustainable pattern. So on my next day off, I forced myself to rest, really rest. I wrote “read” on my to-do list and that was all. As evening came, I transitioned into watching Call the Midwife. Two episodes later, I shut down my computer and cried. It was as if feeling vicariously for almost 2 hours helped to release my store of pent-up feelings.

This is where I want to be: feeling. Even if sometimes it means feeling an aching loneliness or feeling downright scared at what looms ahead. When I open my heart to feel, I experience the richness of the ups and downs of a life fully-lived. Because joy is right there too, every bit as deep… deeper even, but I can’t notice it when I’m only skimming along the top of life.

This season of life is filled with lasts and goodbyes as I prepare to leave Spain in 3 1/2 weeks. “Another last,” said my teammate when we dropped off my final guests. My guests and I had had a marvelous time, exploring and talking, processing and laughing. Their leaving set me into motion, clearing out my house and closing up my life here. It aches, but not all aches are bad.

I’m also filled with energy as I think about trading this life for several months with family and friends in my home community. And then there’s the dizzying delight of marrying J in three short months.

God meant the sorrows and joys of this season to be felt rather than ignored. So today, I choose to stay in this vibrant sense of being alive.

And can it be…?

It’s my responsibility to choose the songs for our Sunday sunrise service. The Easter Sunday selection often falls on me, I think, or maybe it’s just a reflection of how many years I’ve been in Spain to have the selection fall on me (or a reflection of my age and coinciding inability to remember).

There is an overwhelming number of songs to choose from. The traditional hymns that make the male voices boom, “Up. From. The grave. He. Arose!” to some of the newer songs that encompass Jesus’ life and passion. I only get to choose a few, but that doesn’t stop me from snooping through other people’s Spotify playlists.

What are some of your favorites? And why?

One of mine (one of many) is “And Can It Be, That I Should Gain?” by Charles Wesley (1738). The lyrics are powerful, the music beautiful (especially with an organ!). The hymn starts with questions, evoking shame and guilt.

And can it be that I should gain
An interest in the Savior's blood?
Died He for me, who caused His pain?
For me, who Him to death pursued?

The hymn goes on to share the mystery and grit of the Savior’s death followed by the hymn writer’s own testimony of freedom and life from the living “Christ my own.” Yet, through the entire song, we are pulled back to the refrain:

Amazing love! how can it be
That Thou, my God, should die for me?

A reminder of our helplessness before God without Jesus’ death and resurrection for “Adam’s helpless race.” A reason to celebrate Resurrection Day with gratitude.

Photo by Henrique Jacob on Unsplash

Little 2015 “poems”

In 2015, I challenged myself to a one thing every month. One month, the challenge was to write a poem a day. The challenge was that: a challenge and most of my “poems” turned into tiny definitions using the same rhythm: 8/6/7.

I found them a few months ago while I was looking through my old journals and decided to pull out several to share with you. They’re not artistic, but they’re fun. And maybe I’ll inspire you to write your own! If you do, share them in the comments section below.

Flowers
Sweet thoughts shrouded in timely death:
Bliss to those remembered;
Tear drops to those forgotten.

TV
Exclusive members only, but
Please show brain parking pass.
Night is full of undreamed dreams.

Music
The heart’s expression put to dance.
Tones that beckon listeners.
Message in a bottle, found.

Music 2
Listening to another’s heart
In catchy rhyme and rhythm
And wishing you’d thought of that.

Blank Pages
Rolling stretches of nothingness
Packed into neat, white squares:
Deserts in languished places.

Clocks
Ever-present competitors
Daring life to vanish
Before we decide to dance.

Childhood Memories
Poignant traveling of the mind
That pinches can’t awake:
Bitter, sweet, and bittersweet.

Death
A monster posed to frustrate life;
Yet, mingled with heaven
Will strangely bring relief.

Heartbreak
Initial tears have disappeared;
Descends the selfish numb—
It’s only I who suffers!

Books
For a stolen moment letting
Reality fade and
Becoming who you are not.

Trust
Relinquishing every control
To one you believe in
Though sometimes you feel equipped.

Photo by Zaini Izzuddin on Unsplash

Repetition at the sea

My favorite part of the beach is feeling the immenseness of God while seeing the careful details of His creation–a tiny shell, a delicate strip of seaweed. And all of the while, the waves rhythmically pummel the grainy shore.

In his book Orthodoxy, G. K. Chesterton writes that maybe God is like a child in the way He enjoys the repetition of His creation. It’s not that He is stuck in a rut or that He even has a factory that stamps the same design on daisy after daisy. Instead, He delights in the repetition of His creation like a child, “[exulting] in monotony.” “For we have sinned and grown old,” writes Chesterton, “and our Father is younger than we.”

I think about this as I pick smooth pieces of broken shells out of the sand around my towel. The sea creeps closer. Then the wind picks up and I turn my back to it and watch people walking their dogs along the walking path. On top of the mountains swelling beyond the port, are caps of brilliant snow.

The roar of look-alike waves settles something so deep in me that tears prickle behind my eyes.

Just that week, darkness had threatened with a roar, but the roar of a starving lion rather than a roar of majestic waves. And for a few awful moments I had felt its breath on my neck, breath that smelled of despair.

Will the lion come back? My heart races to even consider it. Please no, God. Not again. But, if I’m honest, there are tired days I want to let myself be consumed, as if stopping the struggle could bring relief.

I pack my things–my damp towel, the handful of broken shells, and my sunglasses. As I walk to the bus stop, the salt from the ocean spray still clings to my lips. I lick them. And then I lick them again. The salt remains. I smile, imagining that I smell like the sea.

My heart has quieted. Perhaps it was in the faithfulness of the Father’s repetitive creation. Or the delightful majesty of ocean and mountains. Perhaps. But even in the bitter wind, His Presence is here.

Ireland- part 3

Our Country Cottage Oasis awaited.

Both my friend and I were looking forward to having a place to base from for the next couple of days. A charming little cottage with great reviews and maybe even a fireplace. We had put in an order for a sturdy drizzle so we could curl up in snug armchairs with tea and a meaty book.

We found out by accident that our hostess, who lived in the cottage, wouldn’t be there to welcome us. No problem, we decided. Surely someone else would be there.

We wound through the countryside to a charming tree-lined walkway; though, admittedly, it would have been more charming had it been daylight. But we found the gate and rumbled our suitcases up the gravel driveway.

When no one answered the doorbell, we hesitantly stepped in the unlocked door. A draft sailed down the hallway to greet us. Although the entryway was dark, a welcoming glow was coming from one of the rooms. We removed our damp boots so not to leave tracks and headed toward the light. It led us to a cluttered sitting room with a pair of ghostly pink slippers residing on a carpet thick with dog hair.

We shuddered. Surely that wasn’t our room. But the rest of the cottage was dark and silent. Were we even in the right house? We tiptoed around, trying in vain to forget every Agatha Christie novel we’d ever read, because this was assuredly the perfect place for murder. “Foreign guests lured to countryside cottage…”

We found our room, at least a room that resembled the photos on the airbnb page. But could we be sure? The trash was overflowing and used towels hung on the back of the door.

My friend tried in vain to shut the patio door, the source of the draft. I set down my luggage, preparing to make myself at home. It was then that I began to notice the depth of the grime. It was also then that I began to lose my composure. We shot our hostess some questions: “Key? Washer and dryer? Wifi password?” but left out the most pressing: “Were you really expecting us? Because it sure doesn’t look like it!”

We left to grab a few groceries and, well, to evaluate our situation. Then we ate in one of the grimiest first-world kitchens I’ve ever seen, washing everything before and after we used it. A powerful odor wafted from the refrigerator, which we hoped were just the aging strawberries. I gnawed on cucumbers and broccoli, glum.

My poor friend was trying to make the best of the situation while I broke down bit by bit.

“Go take a hot shower and you’ll feel better,” she said.

She hunted down relatively clean towels in the overstuffed wardrobe in our bedroom. I went to the shower, hauling my entire suitcase with me so not to gather any extra filth by setting my clothes on her crowded bathroom furniture.

Soon, my friend heard a bellow, which happened to be the last of my expectations oozing out and spiraling down the shower drain. There was no hot water. Nor heat, as we soon discovered. We buried ourselves under blankets of questionable cleanliness which my friend had also dug out of that same overstuffed wardrobe.

My wounded sense of justice was still sending off flares when I fell asleep in a bed that was actually pretty comfortable.

My friend chose to believe that our hostess was grief-stricken, since she had mentioned she was at a funeral. Actually, over the next couple of days, even with socks laden with dog hair, we made quite a few excuses for her. She was a very nice lady, after all. Even if she did forget to clean her house. Or which amenities she had listed on her airbnb page. Or that we needed hot water and heat in an Irish November. Or that the last guest (or maybe the one before) had left a liter of milk and hummus in the window sill.

We began to refer to our country cottage as our “Hairy Haven,” a generous term for a place that wasn’t a haven at all. Although, it wasn’t a total loss for it did provide a space for bonding and quite a few opportunities for memory-making.

But there would be no curling up in front of fireplaces here. And so we slayed our dreams.

Photo by Oliver Hale on Unsplash

It’s easy to forget

"Hey! Hey!"
I turn to wave,
his kiss still wet on my cheek.
I can, in these moments, 
forget that dogged darkness from the womb, 
the dark that swallows him now.
Life feels so much like life
when his eyes still glitter hope. 
So it's easy to forget.
Or not to remember. 

And then I do,
and I want to run back
and snatch him 
from what his family and his god
demand of him.
Because who will he be
when he reaches the end of his hope?
The end of his life?

"Hey! Hey!"
I turned around again
to see him looking over his shoulder
as his mother's hand leads him away.

Photo credit: Scott Szarapka on Unsplash

I wish I knew you

Maybe you think I don’t notice that bruise on half your face. You light the room with a smile and a dignified calm.

But I wish I could grab him by the throat and not let go until I know that he will never touch you again.

Except with love.

But how can I know unless you tell me? And how can you tell me unless you trust me? And how can you trust me when you just met me and he calls your phone and you need to go before we even know each other?

We say goodbye with an embrace, two kisses, and a few besides.

Then I stand and watch you walk away, wishing I knew the you behind that sparkling smile.

And that black eye.

Photo by mostafa meraji on Unsplash

You killed the Christ

On a recent read through the book of Acts, I was startled by the apostles’ boldness. “You killed the Christ,” they told their audience more than once.

The varying responses to this claim are fascinating.

Peter gave his famous sermon at Pentecost which ended with “…this Jesus whom you crucified” (2:36). The response of his listeners? “Now when they heard this they were cut to the heart, and said to Peter and the rest of the apostles, ‘Brothers, what shall we do?’” (2:37). They were cut to the heart. Convicted. And they wanted to know the steps to restoration.

Later, Peter and John made a similarly blunt claim (4:10). Their boldness astonished the religious leaders, who told them not to talk about Jesus anymore (4:18). Shhh. Now, just run along and don’t disturb the peace.

But the apostles didn’t stop being bold, which landed them in prison. “…you intend to bring this man’s blood upon us,” complained the high priest (5:28). But the apostles answered with yet another claim that the leaders had killed Jesus “by hanging on a tree” (5:30). When the council heard this, they were so angry that they wanted to kill the apostles (5:33).

Then courageous Stephen proclaimed before his accusers, “…the Righteous One, whom you have now betrayed and murdered…” (7:52).

But by now, the religious leaders had had enough. “Now when they heard these things they were enraged, and they ground their teeth at him” (7:54). And then they stoned him to death.

Each time the apostles spoke these words, their hearers had the chance to respond to the burn of the Holy Spirit’s conviction. Some were cut to the heart. Some tried to quench the Spirit’s voice. Some were enraged, gnashed their teeth, and murdered.

What about me? What about you? How do we respond to conviction?

Photo by Henrique Jacob on Unsplash

Lord of the shadows

Something about the book begs tears. I don’t know what it is exactly; there’s no paragraph or even chapter that particularly resonates. Perhaps it’s the undertone of sorrow mingled with hope in everyday sacred moments.

“God, where are you?” And I set aside the book and turn off the reading light to stare into the shadows of the 9:30 world. “Please meet me here.”

He does. And I have my own mingling of sorrow and hope. Of homesickness and gratitude. Of reluctance and awe.

And, refusing to turn on the light, I stumble in the shadows to make a cup of tea, fumbling for the tea kettle and spilling leaves from the tea ball. Strawberry cream. I found it at the market today. It leaves a thick aftertaste of comfort although it’s new to my palate. I sip it from the robin’s egg mug I found while shopping with a new friend. The mug makes me think of her, this new friend full of intense questions ever since our first encounter. She is working hard to please Allah. “Please meet her too.”

Down below, are voices. Arabic. I peek over the balcony to see two men and one woman leaving the nightclub next door. But no, only the men are leaving, caressing the woman’s hand in parting. “See you on Saturday,” they say. She tugs up her blouse neckline as she returns to that dark doorway that heaves its sweet and sick breath. “Oh God, please meet her there!”

With the light on, now I can see God was in the cooling rain this morning. In the huge, toothless smile from a friend’s husband who pretended to steal my market bag. In the husky greeting from a melancholy neighbor puffing a cigarette on the front stoop. In a phone call from a chatty acquaintance-turning-friend. In the final save of a document that took countless hours and headaches to create.

As I finish my cup of strawberry cream tea in the lamplight, the shadows have faded. But they lurk. There will always be shadows, I think. But even in the glow of the light, there is comfort knowing that He is Lord of the shadows too.