SMALL

:the size of the steps I am taking of late

I feel like I am finally on my way out of the desert, but instead of striding confidently to an oasis, I am trying to take very small steps, so as to not lose my way.  One small step has been taking time after breakfast with my daughters to have a tiny bite of Jesus Calling sandwiched between silence and candles.  For many (better) parents, this may seem like a very small step indeed.  But my daughters are as different spiritually as they are in every other aspect.  Want-to-get-it-right A likes devotionals that give her the answers to how to live her life the "right" way.  Want-to-never-be-told-what-to-do B hates devotionals that point her in one direction.  Can't-hold-a-train-of-thought-to-save-her-life K just needs something short.  I am most like B in this regard, so I decided that if I've been able to read the adult version of Jesus Calling for over a year and enjoy it, perhaps this would be a book to try.  It's short, meeting K's requirement.  It's direct, meeting A's.  But it's not directional, much to the delight of B and I.  So far, we are all enjoying it.  

There have been tweaks along the way.  I found out the first morning that you can't let your children eat cereal for breakfast and read them a devotional while they eat.  They can't hear you over the crunch.  A's cereal sat there getting soggy because she wanted to do the right thing and didn't tell me to wait until she'd eaten.  So we try to finish breakfast and then each light a candle.  Silence before or after the devotional was another question I had.  Each girl wanted something different, so we do silence on both ends.  (The not eating breakfast during silence helps everyone concentrate and enjoy the silence that much more.)  I'm not changing the world or my life by adding this little segment to our day, but I have desired something like this for years and this it the first small step I've taken that hasn't led me straight off a cliff with children protesting as we slide down the hill.

Small step number two is adding running back into my thrice weekly morning walks.  The stress fracture that wouldn't heal has finally healed.  (I remain certain that stubborn fracture has a great big spiritual lesson wrapped up in it, but I am equally doubtful as to what I was supposed to learn.)  I've been gradually phasing out of wearing my brace and gradually walking more consistently and for longer distances.  So yesterday I threw caution to the wind - along with a quick pray flung up to heaven - and ran for a few minutes.  My ankle didn't give out and seems fine today, but I am loathe to re-injure myself, so I am taking it slow.  Tomorrow's walk may remain a walk, with additional running left until Monday.

Small steps can be frustrating for me.  I can be slow to act, but once I act, I'd like the benefits, thankyouverymuch.  This going slowly, trusting that even one peaceful day of Jesus Calling is worth it, is hard.  My daughters aren't suddenly fighting less.  They aren't quoting scripture.  They are still exactly who they were - and so I am, sadly.  But my hope is that these tiny small steps will eventually lead us all to someplace new and lush - a place where ankles are whole and healed, where God can be felt and heard, where our eyes are open to seeing who we really are.

Maybe taking small steps instead of giant leaps will help me remember my own smallness and be thankful for it, instead of resenting the limitations it brings.  Maybe small steps will keep the fear at bay and allow me to keep moving instead of hiding under a rock (which I sometimes very much want to do).  Maybe sometimes the only step I can take is a small one and that is just OK.

HARD

8 a (1) : difficult to bear or endure

Keeping a lenten vow is hard.  This morning when my alarm went off, I did not, under any circumstances, want to get out of bed.  It wasn't the weather - the sun was already peeking up and the day promised to be a beautiful one.  It wasn't that I was sick or injured, just tired.  So very tired.  By the time my alarm went off at 5:55, J had showered and left for work.  I stumbled out of bed and into the bathroom.  There the internal debate began.  Should I dress or crawl back into bed?  Does God really expect me to be able to do this for 40 days?  Do I expect me to be able to do this?

I did actually crawl back into bed.  But after mere moments, I talked myself (guilted myself? shamed myself?) into getting out of bed and into workout clothes.  I hit the sidewalk still yawning and rubbing my eyes.  And I let myself off the hook and walked with not a single block of running.  (It seemed a small concession to make to the weariness that was enveloping my body and soul.)

Did I enjoy my walk once I woke up and persevered?  Yes.  Did I hear God's voice as I trudged along?  Yes.  Was I obedient and faithful? Yes.  Does part of me still wish I had been able to stay in bed?  Absolutely.  It was hard to do that one simple thing this morning - and there is a lot of Lent left.

I wonder if this is why more Christians don't do Lent.  Not because they believe it lacks a biblical foundation (as one friend told me), but because it is hard.  It's hard to hear God whisper something He wants you to do - something straightforward and simple - and then struggle to do it over and over for 40 days.  It's hard to face the constant tension of passivity and activity in your faith walk.  What is my job?  What is God's?  That's not always clear.

I think some denominations would argue that Lent is not a part of their particular tradition because their faith is based on relationship with God, not abstention or fasting for a marked period of time.  I would say to them that my Lent so far has very much been about relationship.  I've been listening and talking and praying as I walk and run.  I've been thinking about my friendships and what they tell me about the kind of friend I am.  I've been thinking about my desire to remain hidden and what that tells me about my heart.  I've been realizing I am much more gracious with others than I am with myself - and that I feel powerless to change that on my own. 

Starting my day with a walk or a run has not been about losing weight or physical fitness.  It's been about being willing to engage in an ongoing conversation with God about where I am in my life and the hopes, dreams and gifts He has for me.

Back in November, I made an Advent journal.  I used that journal for the entirety of Advent - for everything from planning my birthday party to recording thoughts after Lectio Divina.  I collaged in it, scribbled down quotes I liked and lugged it all over town with me.  When Epiphany rolled around, I wanted another journal to name and mark that season.  So I created another journal (and found I prefer a traditional composition book as a starting point since my epiphany journal fell apart!) and believe it's lovely to mark the year this way.  Here's a view of my journal for Lent:

On the inside cover I've copied down a Mary Oliver poem.  I've been reading Oliver's poetry for a few months now and thoroughly enjoy it.  Her love of nature and willingness to search for God and His heart in creation is moving, inspiring and challenging.  I started with the volumes Blue Iris and Thirst.  (Thirst is exceptionally good - start here if you're unfamiliar with Oliver.)  After finishing those, I checked to see what else the library had available.  I smiled when I saw the volume called Why I Wake Early.  Only days before, I'd been surprised to hear God instruct me to walk or run every morning for Lent.  So it seemed like a gentle nudging - and a kind gift - to read Oliver's words:

Why I Wake Early

by

Mary Oliver

Hello, sun in my face.

Hello, you who make the morning

and spread it over the fields

and into the faces of the tulips

and the nodding morning glories,

and into the windows of, even, the

miserable and the crotchety - 

best preacher that ever was,

dear star, that just happens

to be where you are in the universe

to keep us from ever-darkness,

to ease us with warm touching,

to hold us in the great hands of light - 

good morning, good morning, good morning.

Watch, now, how I start the day

in happiness, in kindness.

Perhaps words like these should make it easy to get out of bed each morning.  They do not.  It is still hard.  Yet I am doing it. So far.

RE-

(prefix)
1 : again : anew

Is it hard to start something for the first time?  Or is it harder to pick it back up again when you have a skill, a talent, an interest that you've let atrophy?  Three things have prompted this line of thinking:  having a newly functioning kitchen, exercising again in earnest for the first time since my January surgery, and experiencing the loss of community that came with a switch in churches.

Who knew a new kitchen would actually bring on a touch of cooking anxiety?  The first meal I made in our new kitchen wasn't terribly elaborate:  tomato tart, zucchini patties and a fruit trifle.  The primary emotion I felt when the meal came together just fine and tasted delicious?  Relief.  I didn't realize until relief surged through my body that I had been afraid I had forgotten how to cook.  This may sound ridiculous, but when I stopped to think about it, it had been many months since I'd been able to regularly cook. 

The New Kitchen's Inaugural Meal

The kitchen renovation kept me from cooking for four to six weeks - no surprise there.  But prior to that, my surgery in January had completely halted all cooking from me for a similar span of time.  Between the surgery and the renovation lay a lovely experiment:  food swap with three other families, which resulted in me cooking only once per week, albeit for four families.  So it had been approximately six months since I last cooked everyday meals for my family.  No wonder I was relieved to still have some culinary skill.

A graph of my work outs would have a similar gap.  Prior to my surgery in January, I worked out fairly regularly (2-3 times weekly) if not strenuously (yoga and walking were regular components).  Post surgery, it was several weeks before I could walk without assistance, much less exercise.  My surgeon, while skilled in her field, did not give me a good indication of just how long it would take for me to resume normal activity after having three tendons cut.  For a long time, when I tried to work out, it was simply discouraging.  My leg would hurt after each work out - and not in a good, achy, post-workout way - it was more of a searing pain, ice this now kind of way. 

So I stopped trying for a while.  Then, a few weeks ago, I realized how envious I was of the various people I see walking, jogging and running along our neighborhood sidewalks.  If my desire to work out had returned, it was worth giving it a try.  For the month of July, I've been moderately consistent and while I have a long way to go, the desire is there.  But it's hard to admit I now get tired after three minutes of running, instead of a mile of it.

No way am I posting a picture of me running

I would estimate we're in about mile 2 or 3 of the marathon task of finding a new church home.  Summer being what it is, we're in just about the same place we were in May, when J said, "We've determined that we like the Sunday morning experience.  Now we need to find out whether there are people we could actually be friends with."  We've been in this place before.  When A was born ten years ago, I would say we had very few true friends.  We hung out with co-workers quite a bit and saw a few friends from college days, but all in all those were pretty lonely days.  No one brought us meals to celebrate her birth.  Almost none of our friends had children, so there was nowhere to turn for advice. 

Carrying it all alone

 The difference between then and now is that now we know what we are missing.  I know that I'm lonely and miss the friendships - both close and casual - that I had at our old church.  I don't think this loss is without purpose because I continue to feel peace in our decision and I feel that God is working behind the scenes to use my sense of being alone for a purpose he knows.  But that doesn't make it easy.  It doesn't make it easier to once again engage with a group of people we know nothing about.  It doesn't make it easy to make small talk with strangers at an event (not my strong suit).  It doesn't make it possible for me to have enough inner dialogue to think through an issue in my own head like I could by talking it out with a friend.

Naming 2010 the year of change has been more apt than I knew back in January.  Change apparently brings not only new things, but old things in a new way.  In some ways, reestablishing my culinary skills, relearning to pace myself on a run and returning to a lack of community should be reassuring.  I've been here before and can relearn what I need to.  But sometimes I just want life to be easier than it is.