I’m in transition right now, with an emerging understanding of what I’m doing next. How appropriate for the New Year. People close to me interpret my suspense as irresponsibility, or a need for direction. I’m looking forward to doing some very specific, challenging, and productive things. Until this week, I had a full-time job that prevented me from beginning, or even planning concretely how it will all fit together. I have no desire to abandon my process to adopt someone else’s plan, or to be shifted to a defensive posture. I’m developing a complex vocation and want to leverage forces that are beyond my control as constructively as possible. A friend once described it as spiritual aikido, in which she learned to anticipate and dodge, and eventually use to advantage, things coming her way that would previously have taken her out.
And the challenges are coming. Boy, are they coming. Deaths, long-term illnesses, emotional black holes, children who would prefer not to grow up, stuff and money and time pressures with a life of their own. A society that is driven by self-interest and fear. Big and little land mines that defy me to stay aware, respond with compassion and invitation, and remain focused on the big picture. Not my big picture. God’s big picture. Shalom. We’re working for shalom here. Peace and justice and health and relationship. That’s where I’m headed.
One of the reasons this isn’t just a single-facet blog is that I really want to live comfortable with integrity and complexity. The reading, the writing, the fiber art, the parenting, the pastoral work, the gardening, the activism – how can I steward all of these with integrity and live a useful life? The abundant, joyful life that has been given to me. I'm supposed to share it. To use it to advance shalom.
As we step into the new year, I’m stepping into new life. It’s all good.
Peace be with you.
Sunday, December 31, 2006
Tuesday, December 26, 2006
A little perspective
Today, I attended a reception for the family of a friend who died two days before Christmas. Ann was one of the gentlest, funniest, most beautiful people ever to walk the planet. She leaves a great husband, and two children the same ages as my two youngest. It's a little surreal, to have this happen during the holidays, while life is already so intense. My parents are visiting, my kids are all in overdrive, our house is full of noise and joy. Needless to say, the church where I work has also had plenty going on for Christmas. I feel like my time for reflection on Ann's passing has been preempted. And I don't want that to happen -- it's just too important. Her life helps keep my life in perspective.
It's not just that a particular friend, a beautiful person, is now gone. Ann is the first of four friends dealing with long-term illnesses who are likely to lose their lives or their spouses soon. All are people who should be in the prime of their lives, most with children still in school. This has given me opportunities to have meaningful conversations with people going through the most difficult transitions in their lives. I feel deeply blessed to know them, and to be able to offer whatever support I can. I'm all the more grateful for my own life, and determined not to waste it or take a minute for granted. I had my encounter with cancer six years ago, and I got lucky.
Ann's death also keeps me working through my faith, as a context for everything. It's deeply personal, and hard to explain, and I respect everyone's right to come to their own conclusions. Faith, for me, gives integrity to life and relationship and loss, and redeems the human condition. Faith helps me value experiences I would not choose, and to act with wisdom or strength I do not have. Sometimes, faith is just that thing I know that makes me get out of bed in the morning, when it would be so much safer to stay under the covers and hide. I have complete faith in the One who created all of us, who loves all of us, and who blesses us through each other. That One loves Ann, too, even if their relationship took a different shape. I'm glad. It makes her my sister.
On a separate note, I went to buy a mezzuzah today as a housewarming gift for an Episcopal priest and her husband. I realize that probably sounds all kinds of strange, but it makes perfect sense to us. (I verified in advance that she would use it if I bought it. It turns out her husband's mother was Jewish, so it was even more welcome than I'd hoped.) We have a mezzuzah on our front door, although the scroll is handwritten, in English. Today, in the lovely Judaica shop where I bought my friend's mezzuzah, the woman assisting me apologized that they only had scrolls printed by machine, not handwritten by a rabbi. I wonder what she would have thought if she'd known it was going to a Christian home. Pleased, confused, or disturbed? I hope she would see it as a connection. I love my mezzuzah -- it reminds me whose house I really live in.
It's tough to think coherently through the noise in my house. A floor-scrubbing robot is wandering around my kitchen, my father is explaining how to fix everything (whether it really needs fixing or not), and two children are stomping Dance/Dance/Revolution (which they spent the last day playing at their best friends' house). I just put on my teenage son's lawn-mowing earguards, like those airport ground crews wear -- my mom is sitting on the couch laughing so hard tears are running down her face. I really should offer them to her.
It's not just that a particular friend, a beautiful person, is now gone. Ann is the first of four friends dealing with long-term illnesses who are likely to lose their lives or their spouses soon. All are people who should be in the prime of their lives, most with children still in school. This has given me opportunities to have meaningful conversations with people going through the most difficult transitions in their lives. I feel deeply blessed to know them, and to be able to offer whatever support I can. I'm all the more grateful for my own life, and determined not to waste it or take a minute for granted. I had my encounter with cancer six years ago, and I got lucky.
Ann's death also keeps me working through my faith, as a context for everything. It's deeply personal, and hard to explain, and I respect everyone's right to come to their own conclusions. Faith, for me, gives integrity to life and relationship and loss, and redeems the human condition. Faith helps me value experiences I would not choose, and to act with wisdom or strength I do not have. Sometimes, faith is just that thing I know that makes me get out of bed in the morning, when it would be so much safer to stay under the covers and hide. I have complete faith in the One who created all of us, who loves all of us, and who blesses us through each other. That One loves Ann, too, even if their relationship took a different shape. I'm glad. It makes her my sister.
On a separate note, I went to buy a mezzuzah today as a housewarming gift for an Episcopal priest and her husband. I realize that probably sounds all kinds of strange, but it makes perfect sense to us. (I verified in advance that she would use it if I bought it. It turns out her husband's mother was Jewish, so it was even more welcome than I'd hoped.) We have a mezzuzah on our front door, although the scroll is handwritten, in English. Today, in the lovely Judaica shop where I bought my friend's mezzuzah, the woman assisting me apologized that they only had scrolls printed by machine, not handwritten by a rabbi. I wonder what she would have thought if she'd known it was going to a Christian home. Pleased, confused, or disturbed? I hope she would see it as a connection. I love my mezzuzah -- it reminds me whose house I really live in.
It's tough to think coherently through the noise in my house. A floor-scrubbing robot is wandering around my kitchen, my father is explaining how to fix everything (whether it really needs fixing or not), and two children are stomping Dance/Dance/Revolution (which they spent the last day playing at their best friends' house). I just put on my teenage son's lawn-mowing earguards, like those airport ground crews wear -- my mom is sitting on the couch laughing so hard tears are running down her face. I really should offer them to her.
Monday, December 25, 2006
Well, it's Christmas, and I'm trying to figure out whether I'm giving myself a blog. A blog is like a pet, or sourdough starter. I can't just get it, keep it and ignore it. I like the thought of tracking what I'm thinking about, what I'm doing, whether I finish what I start, and trying to give others a window into my life. This brings up issues of authenticity and healthy boundaries -- how to convey my life honestly, yet maintain reasonable personal and family privacy? True to form, I'm over-thinking this.
I have to be careful about the desire to entertain -- I use it as a smokescreen, and long ago, a counselor suggested I forgo it. I did so reluctantly, but it really made a huge difference in my relationships, making it safe for people to trust me and be honest. I want to keep that.
I have to be careful about the desire to entertain -- I use it as a smokescreen, and long ago, a counselor suggested I forgo it. I did so reluctantly, but it really made a huge difference in my relationships, making it safe for people to trust me and be honest. I want to keep that.
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