Of Fear...

Tonight is the fifth night out of my normalcy. My routines. My surroundings, which are comfortable and customary. Tonight, I sit with a cup of hot tea as the cool, Washington breeze blows sympathetically and my curly hair dries in the night air.

I should be tired, but I am not. I just spent the last 36 hours away. Camping and exploring towns and trails and asking questions about the area as quaint towns popped up as the miles wore on.

It was wonderful. Everything except for 2 AM. You see, at 2 AM I was awake. Too much coffee too late in the evening necessitated a trip to the camp bathrooms which were about 100 feet away. They were easy to spot from our tent trailer but the grounds were full of obstacles. Logs. Rocks. Shrubbery. And the possibility of God-knows-what? Bears? Creepers lurking in the dark?

I talked myself into being brave and slipped my flip-flops on over my socks and prepared to venture out. The flashlight that was left by the door wouldn't turn on, so I flipped on the flashlight mode on my phone. The trailer door squeaked as I thrust it open and my chest caught with the sharp, unwelcome cold air. I stumbled towards my destination as my heart raced.

Upon attempting to return to camp - still terrified, of course - I couldn't see very well. My "flashlight" barely illuminated the area directly in front of me. I kept running into logs and shrubs. As I walked around them, I quickly ventured off course; veering away from my intended endpoint. I mean, we're talking about a person who gets turned around in a shopping mall.

When I finally emerged onto the asphalt loop, I couldn't see our site. At all. I know it wasn't rational, but it was the middle of the night and I was temporarily lost. In a forest. And I freaked out. For a few bleak seconds, terrible scenarios played through my mind. Then I remembered the sites were
numbered, found the stake of the number I was standing next to, and realized I was three sites
over. I walked to the right and eventually saw the camper. It was like Christmas Day.

After the adrenaline subsided, I wondered why I hadn't asked for help. I didn't want to bother anyone. I didn't want to wake anyone up, not even to ask how to use the the real flashlight.

Sometimes, you should ask for help.

And the other thing I took away from my excursion? Be brave. Don't let fear paralyze.

"Hope is the only thing stronger than fear." - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games

I have always adored the truth in that quote. It's time.

Sometimes, you will end up somewhere unexpected. And that's okay.

The trail narrowed and tree carcasses lined the path. In the distance, concrete pillars could be seen. The remnants of a bridge to cross the river. Rocks and logs blocked the other entrance from the road. This path was closed. But the trail? The trail continued on, leading brave people to unexpected places.

Be brave. Be fearless.

I want to be that person.

Yes, a person who hopes and trusts. Wherever I'm led.

Untitled

I feel incredibly vulnerable today. I abhor these days. These days of forced sentiments. These days that mark loss.

Eight years ago, my grandfather, the one who stepped in when my own father split before I was even one, passed away due to complications from a hip replacement.

I received the call in the middle of the night. A call that would jolt me from my sleep. He had taken a turn for the worse. There was blood. They didn't know the source. I hung up and called my mother and brother. Instead of leaving for the hospital, I waited for them. It took them about 25 minutes to get to me and the hospital was another 20 minutes away. I got a second call - the call - as we were around the corner from the hospital saying he was gone.

Around the corner. Had I gone alone, I would have made it to him.

I regret waiting. I regret that he died alone.

I should have left immediately.

Last night I slept fitfully as dreams interfered with rest. Accusatory voices echoed in my head: "You were too late. You didn't make it. You left me to die alone."

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I cried in church this morning when we sang the words, "All my life I have been called unworthy, named by the voice of my shame and regret. But when I hear You whisper, child lift up your head..."

And I came home and cried until I almost threw up. Or blacked out. I think both. I wanted to break shit and watch all of the pieces fall and scatter. Scatter like the pieces of me. I cried for what was lost eight years ago. For the father who abandoned me. For what my step father took from me. And for what was lost this week in Charleston. And for all of the brokenness. For all of those who hurt today. It welled up from the very depths of my being and broke free, like a dam whose force could not be contained. And it was ugly and raw. It was truth.

A choice. I can stay here in this tortured space haunted by the ghosts of my past, or I can move.

And life is always moving. So, I move, too, even if I protest.

I am not who I used to be. And I hope that I am not too late.

The In-between

I was going to be brave. I had set my alarm. Picked out an outfit. But I didn't sleep well. I turned off my alarm. I stayed in bed.

I appreciate that my bedroom is at the back of the house. A small dirt area and an old wood fence separate it from a two-story apartment building. My room is relatively dark the hours after the sun blazes into the heights.

This morning, a subdued antique gold color gently bathed through the window and stretched onto the wall. For some reason, it comforted me. I hadn't realized I needed to be comforted.

It's Easter morning. It doesn't feel like Easter. I am not sure what Easter is supposed to feel like these days.

Maybe I am a hopeless nostaglic and I have a tendency to remember what it used to be like back in the day. Not sure which day, just not today.

Even though it is Resurrection Sunday, I still feel very much as if I am stuck in Saturday. The in-between day. The everything-isn't-quite-right day because they didn't know what was to come. The day of not understanding. The day of mourning.

But I will keep running, walking, crawling, limping towards Sunday.

Maybe that's the point after all. Maybe it's always supposed to feel like the in-between because it always will be until it's not.

Lately, I have been wondering what I am supposed to be doing. I have my family and my job. But what more? I don't know. It could be that just being honest and raw in this space is the more for now. And I don't have to be brave, because I'm not, really. I just have to be obedient.

And eventually find a church again. Even if I feel as if I will never belong somewhere again, because I am incapable of fitting in.

Learning to be obedient in the in-between. It'll take a lifetime of grace-covered mistakes, but I won't give up on it. On Him.

A Mandate

Today is Maundy Thursday. Some people call is Holy Thursday. I have always appreciated the significance of this day. It is a day we remember Jesus' words: " A new command I give you: love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another."

Love. The opposite of hate. 

And He washed their feet. And He washed Judas' feet. He knew Judas' heart. He knew that Judas would betray Him, but He still washed his feet. Demonstrative love. 

And that kind of love - the kind that Jesus commanded us to emulate - doesn't ask us to decide who is deserving. It doesn't call for us to only love those we deem worthy of love. Or easier yet: those like us; those who don't threaten our sensibilities. 

And I just can't. I can't understand. 

I drove by a group of protesters the other day. They were down the street from a Planned Parenthood. There were adults down to elementary-aged children holding bright anti-abortion signs with pictures of ultrasounds and others of what looked like dismembered fetuses. And I just cannot fathom all that time and energy and resources. That isn't loving others. That is shaming them. 

Oh, how I wish that these people could have found a way to truly love others instead of belittle or shame them. To find ways to meaningfully intersect where there is hurt. Where people are scared and lost. To demonstrate love to those who need it the most. To serve. A modern day washing of the feet. 

And I just can't. I can't bring myself to church anymore. It's not for lack of trying. I've tried. Maybe the wounds prevent me from really trying anymore. But, I have tried plenty. 

I feel like I don't belong. I just don't fit in. And I don't, really. 

I don't belong in straight pews with rehearsed sermons and songs. I am way too messy for all of that. 

The other day, the mister and I were in the check out line at Trader Joe's. The man in front of us had forgotten his wallet, so I told the cashier to add his order to ours. The cashier was so taken aback by this. He couldn't believe that we were paying for someone else's items. He commented that this gesture was the nicest thing he had witnessed in a long time. 

And it made me sad, honestly. I mean, what does it really say about the state of humanity that someone purchasing eight dollars of groceries for someone else is the nicest thing he had seen in a long time? 

I don't know. 

Love. A command. 

Love each other. 

Make a difference.

That is all. 

Just love. 

Pensive Ponderings...

I woke up slightly before five to the whir of the heater and a dim light coming from the living room. I groggily stumbled out of my bedroom to wish the mister a good day at work. I leaned down to kiss him goodbye and he told me that he had turned the heater up for me...So I wouldn't be cold when I got up in the morning.

A couple of hours later, when I woke up to a warm house, I remembered his words.

I am feeling particularly nostalgic on this rainy day. The first day of a new month. The clanking of the spoon in my coffee cup, quiet, dark mornings, the rain and how the water dances off the eaves, apple and cinnamon oatmeal, the sound of softly playing music in the background. All things that remind me of my grandparents. My childhood.

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I went to a memorial service on Friday for a young man my son's age. They were childhood friends from the age of two until about eleven when life pulled us in different directions. I had lost touch with his mom until I had heard about Caleb's death.

And she bravely spoke about of the struggles of addiction but also of the God who pursues into the depths of darkness. Those dark, dark places rarely acknowledged. She pondered his legacy and the purpose of his life that will continue to impact those who knew and loved him for some time to come.
She didn't ask why.

I know all about the why. The insidious 'why?' or 'what if?' It starts with one question, then snowballs into a myriad of regrets and painful memories. Of abuses endured. Of paths not chosen.

It has taken me countless years to realize that the 'what ifs' never change a single thing. What they do, however, is steal joy. I have, over the years, slowly made peace with God about those things which once plagued my thoughts. All of those things that made me feel shame have, in actuality, shaped me. They have helped carve a path for the journey ahead. What's done is done. All I see now is grace and second chances and works in progress. And daily opportunities to love and make a difference.

My life is a beautiful mess. It's imperfect. But it is a gift I don't want to squander. And we need to talk more and love more and judge less. I will be the first person to say that I don't have it all figured out, and I'm not even close to having all of my shit together. I don't think I ever will be. And maybe that's the point. Just being able to say it. To be honest and real so others don't have to feel like they are the only ones struggling.

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The heater whirs and warms this house and my heart. And I am so grateful. I can even say that I am grateful for the hard things and my own dark places, because without them, I don't think I would be able to see the impact of redemption and the hope in which it carries.

{So let's talk about the hard things, okay? You are not alone. Talking removes the stigmas and the shame. And let's love. Love those around you. Love all the people you can, while you can.}

In Which I Become an Unlikely Seahawks Fan

It doesn't make a whole lot of sense, really. I mean, I've never been into sports. I've never been to the Pacific Northwest, I'm a California girl, born and raised. But there's just no denying my adoration for the Seattle Seahawks.

My mister, as long as I can remember, has always been a fan. Back in the times of acid-washed overalls and mullets, they were his team. He bought his niece a Bosworth sweatshirt when she was an infant. I mean, who does that? And more importantly, come on, The Boz? But, I digress.

I have never really been interesting in sports of any kind with the exception of some shameful 49ers bandwagoning around 1989-1990 when I bought a t-shirt from the mall because everyone had them, and they were winning (To this day, my husband will not let me live this down!) In my defense, I did just order a Sea Believe shirt which I hope will arrive before Blue Friday.

But, last year, during the 2013 - 2014 season, I began watching the games with my mister. It kind of became our thing. And when you've been married two decades, finding new things to do together is rare and special.

So, we watched. I watched. I began to look forward to the games. I began to root for the Hawks. When the elementary school where I work had a sports themed spirit day, my sweet mister let me wear the only jersey he had at the time.

Here I am in my office with the old school Moon jersey. Represent. 

 Last year's season came to an end with the Championship and Super Bowl win. We were thrilled. 

It seemed like a ridiculously looooooong time before this year's season began. As odd as it was for me, I couldn't wait to pick up where we left off. In fact, if my mister had to work during a game, I would watch the game. Like, by myself (what?!) And I'd text him updates. I remember pondering this strange new phenomenon and wondering who am I, even. I was a fan. Win or lose, over this last season, the Seattle Seahawks became my team.

A game day in October and 90 degrees, but I still wore my scarf for a bit! 

My fangirl status became solidified during the NFC Championship Game in which I felt all the feels. When they won in OT, I cried right alongside Russell Wilson. He is amazing. I mean, he just is. He loves Jesus, he loves others, and he is humble. And Richard Sherman. And Earl Thomas. Goodness. So many men of integrity. The truth is, I couldn't like a team that was filled with a bunch of douche bags.

I have thought often about that game since last Sunday. The sheer audaciousness of it all. Pete Carroll did not give up on his team and they did not give up on each other. I admire the love and respect they have for one another. Also, the community of the 12th Man. I have a thing for genuine community and the 12s are legit.

So, I will be rooting for my team next Sunday! And through this interesting experience, I have learned that it is never too late to embrace something new, something you may have previously written off.

Be bold. Be Daring.

And Go Hawks! :)

On Grief and Hope

I had never witnessed my grandfather shed a single tear before the morning my grandmother died. Living the closest, I was first to arrive at her hospital room while she was taking her final breaths. I remember grabbing her hand and my Bible that I had left there the evening prior and reading Psalm 23 aloud. Seconds later, my grandfather entered the room.

I will never forget what transpired next. His expression was half-crazed. He looked at me and my tears. I could only shake my head ever so slightly. He looked at my grandmother, his sweetheart since the eighth grade, and then let out the most gut-wrenching sounds of sheer and utter grief. His grief pierced through my own. This man who helped raise me. This man who sacrificed for his family. This man with the quirky sense of humor and big heart. To see him so grief-stricken, it left me undone.

And that's the thing about grief. It doesn't matter if you were expecting it or not, the response is the same. When it comes to loss, there's not really a way in which to adequately prepare. Losing someone you love is devastating. I don't fully agree with the old adage that "time heals all wounds." I think with time, there is a lessening of the severity. There is an acceptance. Life continues in its fluidity. It doesn't, even if we wanted it to, remain stagnant, stationary.

I attended a funeral last week. I appreciated how the pastor talked about hope. Hope in the midst of grief. Hope from a life well-lived. A life rooted in Grace.

I have been pondering his words. Especially at Christmastime. A world full of hurting people. People without hope. Hopeless. And sometimes, even those who know, forget and need to be reminded. I know I have experienced times like that myself.

Because there is a difference. There is still grief. There is still loss. There is still hurting here in this place. But there is a Hope that audaciously stands firm in the midst of life's storms. There is a Hope for what's beyond the here and now. Beyond the struggles. Beyond this life. There is a Hope Eternal.

And that hope came down at Christmastime. For us.

"So let us sing Redemption Song,
Let us worship Christ the Holy one,
We were lost, but we were found,
When Hope Came Down,
When Hope Came Down." – Kari Jobe 

And so, I want to share that Hope with the hopeless. To pause. Look around. See the hurting, and in some small way, intervene.

And it doesn't have to be something extraordinary. A small act of service. A kind word. A smile.

You can never underestimate how even the smallest, seemingly inconsequential act will impact others and spark hope in their hearts.