JOY

1 a: the emotion evoked by well-being, success, or good fortune or by the prospect of possessing what one desires : delight

What do you think of when you hear the word joy?  Do you have a mental picture that personifies joy? When I think of joy, I get two images.  One is of a person standing in the rain, arms stretched out, face up to catch the raindrops, laughing.  She may be wet, but her joy is not dampened.  The second image is of a person getting on in years - her hair is silver, her face creased.  But she is engaged and interested in those around her, listening intently, delighting at each new thing she sees, hears or experiences.  Laughter comes quickly to her and she nods along eagerly as others share their life and views with her.

For a while now, I've thought joy isn't really something for me.  Last fall, I went away for a weekend to hear Richard Rohr and Russ Hudson talk about Grace and the Enneagram.  As I was preparing to leave for that, I was thinking about two other women in my life that are also Enneagram Nines.  I could see some similarities between each of them and me, but they are both funny, lighthearted people in a way that I am not.  I shared this observation with a friend during the conference and was able to articulate that I feel like I'll never be able to be joyful - I'm just too scarred, too wounded to ever recover the joy you see readily flash on the faces of children.  I cried as I told her this, both out of sadness for this thing I do not have and out of fear that I am not worthy of joy.

Before Lent, I was talking with a friend who said she longs for joy.  She longs to enjoy her children more, to delight in them and alongside them.  To this end, her Lent was about learning to stop at regular intervals in her day.  She was learning to make space for joy.  

I don't actively long for joy like this friend of mine.  If anything, I long for peace and contentment, things which I suspect are vague shadows of joy.  I settle for these rather than risk seeking the real thing and falling short.  Yet I think peace and contentment are companions on the road to joy because I envision joy as more pervasive, more persistent, less mutable than happiness.  I imagine joyful people have an inner peace and contentment that their circumstances can not ruffle and can not take away.

I picture joy as something nearly tangible, something you can grab and hold on to and feel it alongside you, underneath you, beside you.  And when I think of it this way, I wonder about how closely joy and the Holy Spirit are interconnected.  Because when I think of the Holy Spirit, it's as a swirling, comforting presence all around me.

The Holy Spirit is the aspect of the Trinity that I most long to be like.  I don't want the responsibility or inspired devotion of God the Father.  Nor do I long to be the ever present teacher that Jesus is.  But a soft, encouraging presence that points others to God, to truth, to beauty?  These are traits I want to embody.

Last night as we sat around the dinner table, we discussed the transition from Lent to Eastertide.  We talked about what we learned during Lent and what we hoped to delight in during Easter.  I asked these questions before fully thinking through my own answers to them, so it wasn't until later that I realized that while my Lent did not go as expected, I did make very real progress towards beginning to identify the desires of my heart.  And if joy is evoked by the prospect of possessing what one wants, perhaps this is a good first step towards joy.

Easter day did leave me feeling oddly lighthearted - not as a result of any one experience but from thinking about a series of small truths seen together: truths like the realization that love must be very strong indeed to have defeated death and that our biggest blessings often come just from lingering near God, not from any activity on our part.

Maybe this is how joy is found - by following the trail of breadcrumbs God leaves for us, each one leading us closer and closer to the realization of how much He loves us and how immutable that love is.  Because when we grasp that His love for us cannot and will not change, joy is the only possible response.

UNMET

: my expectations for Lent

In almost every way, this Lent has not been what I expected.  That began early, when the timing of Lent snuck up on me and I didn't feel led towards a specific, easily enforceable discipline.  Instead of something straightforward like, "Give up caffeine," or "Walk every day," or even "Pray the hours," I felt a need to open myself and be receptive to the idea of being led daily to the well I needed to drink from.  This idea was a little scary to me, but I wanted to be responsive and receptive, even in my fear.  So I was blindsided, hurt and left reeling when I posted about Lent and received a snarky comment about Lent being a time for penitence.  The implication was that my discipline of seeking creative and restorative outlets was selfish and inappropriate.  That, combined with a reticence on God's part to direct me, left me stumbling through Lent rather than following along, walking near Jesus' side.

Perhaps the stumbling along can be traced back to the first whisper I heard to write during Lent.  Because I have done many things over the last forty days, but very little writing.  Taking a step away from writing has been somewhat unintentional,  yet I've been aware of the slippage and allowed it to happen.  Like a workout routine left undone for too long, it became easier and easier to not write.  I certainly had plenty of other things to fill my time and my soul gradually quieted and stopped asking questions that needed to be processed in writing.

But even as that form of communication quieted, longer form writing ideas pursued me - everything from an idea for a novel to an idea for a children's book series.  I have not written one word towards giving birth to either of these ideas, yet they circle in my mind and leave me fearful and frozen.  That's what fear does to me - it freezes me.  My mental and physical muscles clench and I feel unable to fight or flee, regardless of what they tell you adrenaline is for.  So the blog sits for days, then weeks and my writing muscles atrophy, then stop even asking for the release of exercise.  Thankfully, it was in just such a moment of fear induced frostbite that I went on silent retreat.

The Ghosts of Leah and Rachel

As my retreat began, Leah kept circling in my mind.  Maybe you've heard of her?  She's the one who married Jacob, when he intended to marry her sister, Rachel.  Her father tricked Jacob into marrying her, probably because he thought this was the only way he could marry her off.  Jacob never really loved Leah and I've always thought her story was a sad one.  She was on my mind because I had read about her in the Jesus Storybook Bible to my daughters.  Here's how her story ends in Sally Lloyd-Jones' rendition:

One of Leah's children's children's children would be a prince - the Prince of Heaven - God's Son.

This Prince would love God's people.  They wouldn't need to be beautiful for him to love them.  He would love them with all of his heart.  And they would be beautiful because he loved them.

Like Leah.

Leah wasn't loved because she was beautiful, she was beautiful because she was loved.  God blessed Leah in a way the world saw as blessing - he gave her children.  And not just children, but sons.  There was no greater gift, no more sought-after role than to give birth to sons.  But at first, Leah misinterprets God's blessings.  Each time she gives birth to a son, Leah thinks this will make Jacob love her.  She says, "God has seen my misery, now Jacob will love me (Reuben).  God has heard my cry, now Jacob will hear me (Simeon).  God has given me three sons, now Jacob will connect with me (Levi)."  And that does not happen. 

Jacob does not love her.

Not ever. 

But finally, Leah sees that someone does love her: God.  So when she gives birth to a fourth son, she says, "I will praise God (Judah)."

Judah is the line of Jacob's family that Jesus will be born into.  It's to a town of Judah that Mary will travel to give birth.  And Mary, like Leah is blessed by God.  But she's blessed in a way that the world would never, ever expect.  She's blessed with an out of wedlock baby, a son who leaves her to fulfill his ministry and who she ultimately watches die on the cross.  While Leah may have been blessed in a way the world acknowledged and valued, Mary's blessing from God was not what she - or anyone else - was expecting.

But both were blessed.  God loved Leah and Mary, even if the outward signs of his love were vastly different.

My expectations for Lent have gone mostly unmet this year.  I haven't felt closer daily to Jesus.  I haven't had an outpouring of creativity or seen with clarity a habit I need to break.  But even if my expectations have gone unmet, I have been met.  I've been met by the Holy Spirit, who hovers in and amidst my pain and confusion.  I've been met by Jesus when I've had the space and grace to invite him in.

I have been met with Leah and Mary and how their stories help me see my own story more clearly and more compassionately.

Whatever expectations, hopes and dreams you have that are unmet, may you meet Jesus, especially on this cold, dreary Easter weekend when we are reminded of how much we all need Him.  And may meeting Him propel you to action and move you out of the place of fear, than can keep us locked in and frozen.

MAGNET

2: something that attracts

For hours, I have been trying to do something other than sit down and write this post.  I've cooked.  I've done laundry.  I've watched a TV show.  But the words keep circling in my mind and I feel the pull to put the words down, even while I don't want to.  (This, by the way, is the thing that stinks about Lent this year: when I feel that pull to write and ignore it, I feel like I'm ignoring God.) So I will write, despite my misgivings, despite my fear, despite my shame.  I will write with the caveat that if you are one of my readers who judge me for homeschooling, please just click away right now and don't read this post.  Or if you are a fellow homeschooler who judges me for thinking a return to school might factor into our future, now might also be a good time for you to depart.  Because I'm feeling enough shame without having others heap it on.

The last few weeks have been an emotional roller coaster.  On January 12, our public school system held their annual lottery for admission to a variety of magnet schools.  We only entered one child for one school this year.  A is entering 8th grade next year, which means her chances for getting into a magnet were slim.  Plus, who wants to join a school in 8th grade after everyone else has already been there for three years together?  But B is entering 7th grade and is therefore eligible to apply to a math and science school.  On lottery day, she came in 77th on the waiting list.  Then the roller coaster began.

I initially thought 77th on a waiting list sounded like it would never happen.  Then I noticed that not a single seventh grader was admitted via the lottery.  Were they all going to a waiting list, only to to pulled off later?  After checking with some friends, I heard encouraging news: each class has roughly 200 students and 100 of those spots are filled by students from a feeder school.  That made 77th sound pretty good.  But why would everyone go to a waiting list?  I thought I had uncovered the answer to that mystery when I heard from someone whose son attends the feeder school that current sixth graders are given one more opportunity to get into the magnet school if their grades on this year's standardized tests allow them in.  That meant a long wait (until late spring or early summer), but I still felt good about B's chances.  I had been mentally preparing to have her back in school next year.  Until yesterday when I ran into a friend who is now a guidance counselor at the school.  We haven't seen each other in years, so I didn't even know she was working there until I noticed her t-shirt.  I mentioned that B might be there next year and when I told her our lottery number, she broke the news to me: no students will come off the waiting list this year.  They are only accepting students from the feeder school, none from the population at large.  So if you didn't win the lottery two years ago and end up at a magnet school back then, you are out of luck.

I am so thankful that I ran into this friend.  I can't imagine how devastated and befuddled we would have been to have received this news just weeks before school starts.  And my friend couldn't have been kinder in the way she broke the news to me.  She even commiserated with me that the school system has not and will not be informing parents of this.  From their perspective, we are on a waiting list.  We should have no expectation of getting in.

Yesterday I was shell-shocked.  Today I'm more angry than shocked.  I'm angry at a school system with nearly universally weak middle schools that forces me into feeling like our only option is to try for a magnet.  I'm angry that they don't respect parents enough to explain the situation - thinking that it is perfectly acceptable for a family to wait months with no clear information.  And I'm angry with God for leading me down this path and then yanking the rug out from under my feet.

Last year, we didn't lottery for spots for any of our daughters, but this year I felt oddly compelled about putting B in the lottery for this particular school.  And when I thought our chances were good, I started reconciling myself to the idea and was able to see that in many ways I am not the ideal teacher for B.  She pushes back so hard in everything and I don't want to be the one who pushes her. I want to be her safe place, not her taskmaster.  She and I discussed this shortly after the lottery.  B wasn't excited about the idea of going back to public school, so she offered a solution that she would try not to push so hard so that I would keep homeschooling her.  A sweet offer, but not something she would be able to sustain for very long.

So now that I've reconciled myself to the idea that she should go to school, I find out she can't go back to school.  I feel like saying, yet again, to God, "What the hell?"  And when I look at the families who do win the lottery, for not just one child, but multiple children, I feel like God is looking at us and saying, "Nope.  Not you.  I don't love you enough to let your children go to a good public school.  You are not enough.  Go sit over there."  Because it seems outside the realm of possibility that God's best for my children is me as their teacher.

I actually love homeschooling them.  I love teaching them things like how to create ordered pairs from a two variable equation and graph a line.  I love showing K that her cursive is better than my own.  I love the way she wants a bonus spelling word every day: "Give me a really hard one," she says.  I love getting to spend time with my children.  Because in less than five years, A could be off in another city, pursuing a career.  (Am I the only one that finds that scary? Five years?!)  So it's not that I don't want them around.  Or that I don't enjoy the teaching.  It's just that I don't want doors closed to them because of my own failings.

Maybe that in itself is naive.  There are already doors closed to them because of who they are and who I am.  Doors start closing for most of us the minute we're born, even though we'd like to believe anyone can do anything in our country.  That simply isn't true.  We are limited by our socioeconomic status, our race, our gender, our abilities, our work ethic.  But it's one thing to see my own life options narrow as I make choices.  It's entirely another to see that happen to my children.

Alongside my anger with God for not deeming us worthy of good schools is an anger at our school system for using magnet schools as an excuse to not make every school in our system one that parents want to have their children attend.  If magnets attract, shouldn't all schools be attractive?  But they aren't.  They are gloomy, sterile and sometimes downright scary.  I know their job is a huge one - to educate such a disparate population while making sure no child is "left behind."  But perhaps instead of concentrating middle class educationally talented children at two high schools by attracting them like metal pilings to a magnet, they should work at attracting families to the system and keeping them there, in all of the schools throughout the system.

I know this is a pipe dream.  I know it won't happen in time to change anything for my children.  But the other thing magnets do?  They polarize?  That attract like to like and push differences away.  Is this really the approach we want our schools to take?

As I shared my frustration with J earlier today, he was able to be much more positive about the possible reasons for B not getting to attend a magnet school.  (Admittedly it's not difficult to be more positive than, "God doesn't love us.  That's why this happened.")  He offered a range of options from God protecting B from potential dangers to God asking J and I to confront our own biases about education and how that should play out for our daughters.  I'm not able to see this glass-half-full yet, especially when I feel like God has turned his back on me in the last six months and left me standing in the desert gasping for air.

I don't know how to end this post other than to acknowledge that even as I try to work through my anger with a God who seems to not care a whit for me or my family, one of my daughters ran downstairs to tell me that a song we know was playing on the radio.  We came to know this song after a friend read a post of mine and brought me the CD.  At that time, the CD hadn't been released yet, but she thought one song in particular would encourage me - a song called Not for a Moment about how God doesn't forsake us, not for a moment.  So while I'm reluctantly fulfilled a lenten discipline by writing about my wounded heart, God is reminding me that even in the dark, he will never leave.

LIBERATE

1 : to set at liberty : free; specifically : to free (as a country) from domination by a foreign power

Yesterday the girls and I went to see the Emancipation Proclamation. (If you live in Nashville, I highly recommend you go.)  Before we went, I looked up a bit about the document online.  I found this article on the National Archives website and read it aloud to the girls as we sat around the breakfast table.  It was good background for all of us to understand the limitations of this document that proclaimed freedom for some, but not all.  Yet the thing that stuck with me was this sentence: "Moreover, the Proclamation announced the acceptance of black men into the Union Army and Navy, enabling the liberated to become liberators."

Did you catch that?  "enabling the liberated to become liberators."  What a gift: allowing freed slaves the opportunity to fight for the freedom of others.  Because freedom, once gained, begs to be shared.  I find this a powerful concept to ponder and explore on Ash Wednesday, especially since today's second lesson included a favorite passage reminding us that we are God's ambassadors.  If I'm God's ambassador, what country do I represent?  An enslaved one, held captive by lies?  Or one that is filled with light and truth?

We all need to be liberated from something.  Whether it's an addiction, a fear, a deeply rooted sin, a predilection for numbing the pain in our lives with screen time or the belief that we don't matter, we are all either enslaved or liberated - or both.  Having one set of chains broken often leaves us passionate about the areas of our former enslavement.  Once free of shame, we want others to see and name that demon for what it is.  Formerly blind to the prison of objectification, we long to help other women see that they are more than the cells, ligaments, tendons and bones that comprise their bodies.  Freedom begs to be shared.

But when we are trapped, we can resent the freedom of others.  Addicts cleave to addicts, whether the addiction is alcohol or pessimism.  Emotionally unhealthy people surround themselves with others in similar circumstances, if only to better shroud their hurt and pain.  I am certainly guilty of surrounding myself with people like me.  Currently, that means I want to be around friends who are self-aware, who know their own strengths and weaknesses and aren't afraid to share both.  I crave time with women who walk with a limp from the ways life has broken and bruised them - but not defeated them.  I want friends who wear their scars proudly because scars do not form on the dying.

That hasn't always been the case.  For many years, I didn't see how broken I really was.  I went through life shoving all of the hard feelings and hurts deep down inside.  I wanted to be around people who didn't go too deep, who were content to watch a football game with me, but never push past the surface level.  That got lonely.  And I grew restless, tired of the same old me.  I wanted more and sought people who want more.

I'm not sure whether I could qualify as liberated yet.  There are still chains encircling me, many of which I don't even see holding me back.  But I will tell you this, I long for freedom for myself and others and I am thankful for the blinders that have been removed from my eyes.  I hope my daughters are never enslaved to the idea that they are not enough.  I want mothers to resist efforts to shame their parenting, who instead revel in not having it all together, who can laugh over their inefficiencies and flaws.

Last night a friend who is walking a long, dark and muddy road shared her story.  There was pain, anger and bleeding, but also hope: hope for a deep and lasting healing.  And I saw in my friend a liberated woman who will tell her story to liberate others.  There is nothing more beautiful than claiming the pain in our lives and using it to sow seeds of beauty and freedom.  May we all have the courage this Lent to face, walk through and embrace our pain in order to be both liberated and liberators.

LENT

: the 40 weekdays from Ash Wednesday to Easter observed by the Roman Catholic, Eastern, and some Protestant churches as a period of penitence and fasting

If you don't come from a faith tradition that follows a liturgical calendar, the idea of church seasons might seem odd, useless or even suspicious to you.  (I once had a friend tell me she wouldn't consider observing Lent until someone could show her the Biblical precedent for it.) Yet the longer I participate in a spiritual life structured around the liturgical calendar, the more I realize how well it suits me.

Lent snuck up on me this year: this week is chock full with Shrove Tuesday today, Ash Wednesday tomorrow and Valentine's Day Thursday.  By the end of the week, we won't know whether to celebrate or contemplate.  Which is perhaps the very value that the church seasons bring us - reminders to pause and reflect on both the beauty and the pain of this life.

A friend posted an Abraham Lincoln quote on Facebook today.  It read, "Life is hard, but so very beautiful."  The same could be said of Lent.  I often find it hard from start to finish.  I want to choose the right discipline - one that is meaningful, one that will change me, one that is what I need, not what others are doing.  Once chosen, I want to embrace the discipline, however difficult that may be.  Last year, I committed to take a morning walk every day of Lent - and we promptly went to Green Bay, WI the second week of Lent.  So I bundled up and walked anyway.  The year before that, I gave up caffeine, which was even harder than a morning walk in Wisconsin.

I've had the most success with Lenten disciplines when I've prayed and asked God to show me what to give up or take on during Lent.  So when I realized ten days ago that Lent was fast approaching, I was worried.  I smile a bit at myself about that - do I think God can't answer quickly?  That I'm going to catch him asleep on the job?  That I must get my request in with a two week minimum? I think it's partly that I don't trust myself to hear well or quickly, but there is also an element of my faith that thinks I need to give God time to get around to answering me. 

My worry did not abate when I prayed about Lent and the first thing I heard was, "Write."  Write what?  Write everyday?  How?  When will I find the time?  

But as I explored this thought, I realized how bereft of creative outlets my life has become.  I don't blog as often as I'd like.  My journal is filled with white space.  I rarely take out my collage materials.  I haven't made anything at all since Advent projects with the girls.  More than just writing, I see in my life a need to create and to make the space for that to happen.  If my daughters will live what they see modeled, they aren't going to be taking very good care of themselves in two or three decades.  I need to put on my oxygen mask first if I want them to know, use and flex their creative muscles.

So I had the first piece of the puzzle: something creative.  As I thought and prayed and pondered some more, my mind kept circling all of the various pursuits I am currently neglecting.  Productive things like writing or art, but also restorative things reading and taking long baths.  As I thought about all my heart was aching to do, I realized that might be my discipline: to create space to fulfill my heart's desires.  The beauty and pain of this will be the need to constantly rely on God to show me my heart's desire for that day's allotted time.  Because while some of you may know immediately the desires of your heart, I have done an excellent job of burying those desires deep within me.  It's like an excavation project to get to them.  I can tell you what any of the immediate members of my family want, but when asked what I want, that requires a long and thoughtful pause before an answer emerges.

I am approaching tomorrow's start of the Lenten season with some trepidation.  Does my discipline sound more self-serving than God-honoring?  (My daughter B wanted to adopt a "Lenten discipline" of eating dessert after every meal.  I gently re-directed her.)  Am I willing to face my own desires with eyes open?  Can I bear the pain of seeing desires that will go unfulfilled (since this is why I hide them away in the first place)?  Most of all, will I emerge transformed at Easter?

Because that's what I want: transformation.  I want to listen and see with a willing heart, a heart willing to walk through pain for the beauty.

The word Lent comes from lengthen because it arrives at the time of year when the days are growing longer, stretching out to give us more light with each sunrise.  I want my heart to stretch and lengthen and be grown this Lent.

TRUST

1 a : to place confidence : depend

Do you trust yourself?  When faced with a big or small decision, where do you turn?  A spouse?  A friend?  Or the small, quiet voice inside you?

Several years ago, I had a Christian friend tell me that she did not trust herself.  "My heart is sinful," she said, "I can't trust what it tells me."  I don't remember the circumstances she was facing, nor the decision she ultimately made.  What did stick with me was her assertion that trusting herself was wrong.  I didn't question her then, but I've come to not only question but ultimately reject the idea that I shouldn't trust myself.

In fact, one of the things God showed me this Lent was that I should listen to myself because I know more than I think I do.  I'm not saying I should always go with my gut instinct.  There are definitely times when my initial reaction is driven by untested emotions.  And the voice of shame lurks in my depths, surfacing every now and then to sabotage my efforts.  But I know the difference between those voices and the inner voice that I can trust.  That inner voice is, in all likelihood, a combination of the wisdom I've acquired over the years and the Holy Spirit, offering a wisdom I'll never earn, but which I try to receive with gratitude.

Learning to trust myself means learning to not listen to what the world or even my friends and family tell me is true.  Some of this is easy and clear.  Today, I was driving along the interstate with my daughters when 12 year old A saw a billboard and said, "Do better legs really equal a better life?  I don't think so."  We went on to have a great conversation about learning to listen to our hearts and minds instead of what advertising tells us.  And while I can pretty easily learn to distrust the idea that having some varicose veins removed will result in a better life, it's tougher to listen to my heart when it whispers, "Rest" and my daughter's school and my daughter's ballet schedule and our social calendar all say, "Go. Go. Go."

We are leaving for a family vacation one week from tomorrow.  There is a lot left to do to prepare for that - things like an oil change, a trip to the library to stock up, some hours devoted to cleaning so that we can return to a clean home.  There are end of year activities for K, a birthday party at the lake on Thursday and a van that needs to be packed and ready to go Friday morning.  The vacation itself (to Philadelphia) will bring historical highlights, great art, beautiful countryside and, hopefully, some rest.  The question I am currently asking my heart is, "What do I need to do to be ready for this trip?"  I don't just mean what lists do I need to make and complete, but how can I start rested and present and anticipatory, not stressed and panicked and drained.

A few things I know will help.  Read more.  Take a nap or two between now and next Friday.  Build down time into the family's vacation plans.  Know that things will not go as planned and be ready to receive what comes and let the rest go.  And trust myself - when I am tired, rest.  When I am intrigued, pause to learn more.  When I am hungry, have a cheesesteak.

EASTER

: a feast that commemorates Christ's resurrection and is observed with variations of date due to different calendars on the first Sunday after the paschal full moon

Today is the first day of Easter.  The first of fifty days that are about living out the lessons learned during Lent.  It's a mental adjustment for me to see Easter as a season and not a day.  It's more natural for me to see Lent or Advent as seasons, largely because they coincide with cultural or environmental seasons.  But the longer I participate in a church that follows a liturgical calendar, the more I feel the rightness and value of this deep within me. 

For Advent, Epiphany and Lent, I made journals to commemorate each season.  By the end of each season, I was sad for the season to end, sad to say goodbye to my current journal.  Yet each season has offered discrete and unique lessons.  Lessons that are held, documented and remembered in those journals.  Yesterday morning I created an Easter journal.  I'm sure by the time Pentecost arrives, I'll be sad to close this journal for the final time.

As I sat at our Maundy Thursday service, I had the thought that Easter is for listening.  I even contemplated putting that on the cover of the journal.  I pondered this for a few days as I picked the colors and papers for my journal.  As I planned the journal, I continued to think about listening.  Perhaps Lent was for listening, not Easter.  Then on Saturday morning I read this passage in Celtic Daily Prayer:

Let us do what our Lord did and rise early in the morning, whilst everything is at rest in silence and darkness, when sleep envelops everything in torpor, in profound quiet.  Let us rise and watch with God, lifting our hearts to Him, laying our souls at His feet, and at this early hour when intercourse is so secret and so sweet let us fall at His feet and enjoy converse with our Creator.  How good He is to let us come to His feet whilst all is sleeping.  Whilst all is sleeping in silence and shadow, let us begin both our day and our prayers.  Before our working day begins let us pass long hours praying at the feet of our Lord.

Yes, I think my Lent was for listening.  It would, in fact, make perfect sense for me to discover the meaning of Lent on the very last day of the season.  If there's one thing I've learned in my few years of observing Lent, it's that the season is rarely about what I think it's about on Ash Wednesday.  This year's Lenten vow of walking or running every morning was so far out of left field that I had no idea what it might be about.  As I told my counselor about it, she remarked, "I love that you don't see this as a way to lose weight.  That's not even on your radar as you approach this."  That continued to be the case throughout Lent. 

My morning ambulations were far more about spiritual growth than physical fitness.  I'm not a morning person, yet I found that once I was out of bed and on my way, walking was the perfect way to start my day.  I was able to be awake and alone for thirty or forty-five minutes without ever speaking aloud.  My mind was able to be quiet and receptive.  It was almost like I dreamed conversations with God on those morning walks.

Lent was about listening - and not only listening to God, but to my body and my soul.  I found out what clothing I like best on cool mornings, what to wear when it rains and that I need a new pair of shoes.  I found that quiet wakefulness can be more restful than a few minutes of extra sleep in the morning.

What will Easter be about?  Right now I'm not very sure.  I would like for Easter to be more active on my part than Lent has been.  I'd like to not just receive, but give.  I'd like to not just listen, but talk.  But I've been incredibly overwhelmed by life over the last ten days, so I'm not sure I'm in the position to offer much on my own.  In fact, that's another lesson I learned this Lent: I can do very little in my own power.  I can't even see my own sin without help, much less change and make myself more whole.  So whatever Easter is about, it will have to be about doing it in the resurrection power of Jesus, not the barely-holding-it together power of Shannon.

I've read that we Christians are Easter people.  It's what we celebrate on Easter morning, not Christmas morning, that sets us apart from others.  It's what was missing from that grave all those years ago that makes us able to live out of a power and peace that is not our own.  It's the fact that someone fully God and fully human once loved (and still loves) us enough to let that love take his life from him, but not defeat him in death.

I want to be an Easter person.  I want this season of my life to be one that sees me face life's uncertainties, challenges, joys, disappointments and surprises with peace, grace, humility and strength.  I want to be an Easter person.

AWAY

2 : from this or that place

There is something to be said for getting away.  For leaving behind your daily life.  For breaking up the carefully ordered routine that gets your family through each day.

I say this having just spent four nights away with my family for a Spring Break weekend.  We left Friday afternoon and headed for the mountains - to a simple cabin that was no frills, no wi-fi, no pressure.  There wasn't laundry waiting to be done when I arrived.  There weren't children's shoes scattered about the living room floor.  The only books in the house were on a bookshelf.

Going away to vacation is always more relaxing than being at home (even if I do love having time off at home to visit our favorite hometown places).  It's a combination of physically leaving your known surroundings, whether by car or plane, and a mentally leaving behind the responsibilities that surround you in your home environment.  I think this is especially true for a stay at home mom (and perhaps even more so for a homeschooling mom).  There is always something I can be doing if I'm at home.  This doesn't mean I'm doing it - I may be reading a book instead - but you can be certain there is always cleaning, organizing or planning to be done.

But in a cabin in the mountains?  There was no cleaning.  There was minimal cooking.  Accompanied by lots of reading, a movie every night for the girls and the completion of a book I've been reading for weeks.  There were family walks, visits to a national park, riding roller coasters at a theme park, celebrating Palm Sunday at a tiny but picturesque church, picnicking riverside and wading in a river.  This last was done only by my daughters.  After putting my feet in and finding out the river felt like ice water, I opted to watch them play instead of play with them.

We didn't spend a long time away.  With Spring Break and Holy Week coinciding, I was willing to miss Palm Sunday at our church, but wanted to be back for Maundy Thursday, Good Friday and Easter.  Yet this short trip was fun, rejuvenating and as restful as a vacation with three daughters can be.

On our second night at the cabin, I prayed with the girls all together instead of individually.  Each daughter prayed about her thankfulness for time away.  12 year old A mentioned being thankful for getting to see a new place.  10 year old B was thankful for the mountains.  7 year old K was thankful for a cabin with a lamp by her bed (the poor child clearly needs a bedside table and lamp).

I am thankful, too.  For time to see a new and different part of our state.  For time to explore our world together.  For glimpses of nature's beauty and how varied and vibrant it is.  For a few days to sleep in and read more.  I'm thankful to have had some time away.

(I have some lovely pictures of everything from the view from our cabin to a mama black bear with her cubs.  I will post them when I find the camera...)

REST

1 : repose, sleep; specifically : a bodily state characterized by minimal functional and metabolic activities

I went away on a silent retreat last weekend.  It was not what I had expected.  In the past, these retreats have energized me.  I've generally slept well, but have often found myself awake earlier than usual from excitement at the idea of spending the day in silence.  Not this time.  Friday night I went to sleep around 9:00 and slept until 7:45.  Saturday, I was like a two year old: I took a morning nap, an afternoon nap and went to bed again around 9:00.  I knew I was tired heading into this retreat, but I didn't know just how much my body and spirit were craving rest.

So instead of spending intense time with God, I rested.  I walked the grounds. 

I sat on a blanket by the pond.

I watched the geese - and wild turkeys and squirrels and butterflies and deer.

I marveled at how early spring has arrived and the way it's impossible to keep nature from asserting herself.  Flowers pop up in unexpected places, just waiting to be seen and offer their little blessing.

This resting has continued, albeit in a less pastoral setting, in the days following the retreat.  I had planned to join friends for dinner and a movie last night, but realized by midday that all I really wanted to do was have dinner with my family and read my current (very good) book.  So I cooked an easy meal, sat with my family at the dinner table and then retired to the couch.  My regular Tuesday bible study gathering was canceled for today, so I am claiming it for more rest.  I hope to catch up on some writing, do some reading and take a nap.

Our culture does not encourage us to rest and I have struggled internally to accept that rest is what I need right now.  As I was walking this morning, I was thinking about how God can heal us while we rest.  That's true, but I also believe we don't always need an additional reason to rest.  Sometimes it's just what we crave and where we need to go.

As spring arrives and summer looms on the horizon, I hope you will take time to rest in whatever form you need.  If that translates to evening strolls with your partner, an extra cup of tea in the morning or a good book on the weekend, take it.  Claim it as yours.  Enjoy it.  Soak it up.  Leave refreshed.

BETWIXT

:between

Lent has just passed the half-way mark.  I would have thought by now that I'd have a better understanding of exactly what my Lenten vow is about and why I am doing this.  I was surprised when I prayed about a direction for Lent and heard the response that I should walk or run every day for 40 days.  I hesitated.  To my ears, this sounded more New Year's Resolution than Lenten vow.  But I continued to feel this was the direction, no matter how much I threw up question marks.  So I began. I thought when I began that I would eventually understand the reason I was pointed in this direction.  I assumed if I just kept walking, I'd see the destination ahead of me sooner or later.

I've learned a few things about myself so far:

1. I am more inclined to give myself grace and walk more, run less when I am doing it every day.  I see this time as less about the workout than the discipline of doing it.  So if I only run 10 minutes one day instead of 20, I'll think, "Well, I'll be out here tomorrow morning.  I can just run 10 more minutes then."  I'm not sure whether this is a good or a bad trait of mine.  It's just what I've observed.
2. Our mornings have a different feel to them when I am up and out the door by 6:15 and back by 6:45 or 7:00.  K is often up and dressing by the time I get back, but even if she's not, I have time to wake her and point her in the right direction with less rush and intensity.
3. I am not finding this easier as the time wears on.  Do I enjoy the time?  Yes, I honestly do.  But I miss sleeping in.  I miss having the energy to stay up past 10 in the evening and I found out Thursday morning that I don't do well without a bit of accountability.  That was the first morning that J was out of town and I woke with a sore throat, which I used as an excuse to not get out of bed.  I regretted it all day.

Yet if I am completely honest with myself, I might have learned more from that one morning of failure than I have from all the previous mornings of obedience.  I learned that I miss my morning walk when I don't take it.  Thursday I felt the absence of having that time alone, that time to listen to God and wake up slowly.  I was distracted, less at peace and more hurried. 

I shared with a friend via e-mail that I didn't walk Thursday morning.  Here's part of what she wrote back:

I also want to say about you not walking/running yesterday? I get it. I am beginning to think Lent is really about realizing how weak we are and then in that space of us seeing "failure" or our weakness God brings new life... I heard you say you broke your Lenten vow. But I think God uses Lent to break us and then in those freshly exposed spaces show us in whole new ways how beautiful, how loved, how valiant we are.

I needed to hear those words.  I needed to hear that even my failure was part of what I am supposed to learn this Lent.  As I walked this morning, I pondered the difference between being broken open and being broken.  I am definitely broken, but I've realized lately how much time and energy I spend protecting myself.  What might happen if I left the broken places cracked open and exposed instead of trying to plaster them over and move on?

I also needed to read the words of Richard Rohr last night as I finished reading Everything Belongs:

[W]e have to allow ourselves to be drawn into sacred space, into liminality.  All transformation takes place there.  We have to move out of "business as usual" and remain on the threshold (limen, in Latin) where we are betwixt and between.  There, the old world is left behind, but we're not sure of the new one yet.  That's a good space.  Get there often and stay as long as you can by whatever means possible.

I've struggled to explain why I feel it is a part of my Lenten experience for the walking or running to be done first thing in the morning.  My schedule has some flexibility.  I could run in the evenings after J gets home.  Or go for a walk with A and B during the day.  But I've felt in my heart like that wasn't exactly the right direction.  The passage above was like a light bulb.  Morning walks are walks in liminal space.  I'm betwixt and between sleep and wakefulness and able to hear clearly, before putting on my daily armor for the world.  I'm more vulnerable, fresher, ready to listen - and far less inclined to talk.  If prayer is about being quiet and waiting to hear from God instead of throwing requests his way, my morning walks are definitely more like that.  Often, I can't even think very clearly until I've been outside moving for 5 or 10 minutes.

Bit by bit, I've seen a few things about my Lent with more clarity over the last few days.  Going forward, I hope to embrace my failure(s) and live as much as possible in the space where I am listening expectantly.

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.

LENT

: the 40 weekdays from Ash Wednesday to Easter observed by the Roman Catholic, Eastern, and some Protestant churches as a period of penitence and fasting

A 2011 Lenten Journey Remembrance

It may sound strange, but I've decided Lent may be my favorite season - even more so than Advent, which I dearly love.  Here's what I like about Lent: the hope it brings. 

I'm not big on New Year's resolutions, but Lenten vows are another thing.  The big difference?  Resolutions feel like they're about my own strength.  To do a resolution the right way, I feel like I need to assess my life, see what's lacking and then make the necessary changes.  All of which is easier said than done and all of which comes from me.

Lent, on the other hand, is not about me.  Lent is about asking God what my life needs more or less of and being willing to trust that He is right.  Lent is about saying "I will try," not "I will do this."  Lent is about listening, not talking.  Waiting, not pushing ahead.  It feels more transformative than New Year's resolutions.  I have lived long enough to know that I can't truly change myself.  I may be able to change my behavior for a period of time, but I can't ever truly change who I am.  Not only can I not change myself, it's painful to try.  It feels like a rejection of my own heart.

I awoke this morning hopeful and anticipatory.  Hopeful that I can do what I've committed to doing.  Anticipating that God will show up whether I succeed or fail in running or walking every morning for 40 days.  Lent is not about quid pro quo.  God is not saying, "Shannon, if you will walk or run every morning for Lent, I will bless you."  It's more like, "Shannon, I have something I'd like to give you.  Will you get up a little early to receive it?"

I think it's beautiful and meaningful that the Lenten season immediately precedes Ordinary Time in the church calendar.  A Lenten discipline is not about me powering and pushing through 40 days, only to return to exactly the way I was living my life before Lent.  Instead it's about a slow and gradual transformation that leaves me unable and unwilling to go back to the way I was because I will find the very idea undesirable.

In a few moments, A, B and I will head out the door for our Ash Wednesday service.  While there, ashes made from the palms waved on Palm Sunday last year will be smeared on our foreheads in the shape of a cross.  Even our praises are sacrifice, but Lent is about Jesus telling us that the sacrifice was, and will always be, worth it. 

May the myriad blessing of Lent rain upon you, watering your soul and growing good things in your heart.

2012 Lenten Journal

Pages waiting to be filled

WHOLENESS

1 a (1) : free of wound or injury : unhurt (2) : recovered from a wound or injury : restored (3) : being healed

The theme for Lent this year at our church is a Journey to Wholeness.  For the past few years, I've prayed about what I should give up or take on during Lent.  Last year, I gave up caffeine and took up the practice of collaging every day.  I haven't continued to collage daily, but I found after last year's Lenten experience that I am highly sensitive to caffeine.  I had feared my headaches would worsen when I stopped having a cup of coffee each day.  Instead, I found caffeine intake was a trigger for my headaches, not a cure for them.   This observation was cemented for me during the Christmas season when I inadvertently slipped back into semi-regular caffeine consumption.  I realized one morning that I'd had a low grade headache for three or four days.  The culprit?  A cup of black tea in the mornings.  I quickly cut that out and found I felt much better.

Now, I want to be honest and say that I did not want to give up caffeine.  I liked having a cup or two of coffee each morning.  I liked the ritual of making the coffee, the lingering over a mug of it while I read.  When I first had the idea of giving up caffeine, my response was, "No way.  Not that.  I'll do something else for Lent."  Yet the idea would not go away.  I felt like I was arm wrestling with God.  I would pray about Lent and the answer would be "give up caffeine."  I would walk away shaking my head.  No, thank you.  I would pray again.  The answer would be the same.  I didn't budge and neither did God.  Finally, one Sunday the idea came to me that I could taper off of caffeine.  It wasn't necessary that I give it up cold turkey.  I could start the week before Lent, so that by Ash Wednesday I would have already started the Lenten journey without caffeine.  I capitulated, but it felt like I was jumping off a cliff.

This year I was at a loss as to where I should start thinking about a Lenten practice.  I prayed about it for several days and heard nothing.  Lent crept closer.  I kept praying.  Finally, I heard something last week and I was surprised at the suggestion: run - or walk - for 40 days.  Um, really?  I do like getting up to run.  I've found it is a peaceful way to start my day and it's definitely my favorite form of exercise.  But every day for 40 days?  I wasn't sure I could do this.  And it sounded so much more like a New Year's resolution than a Lenten commitment - it sounded suspiciously like a pious route to weight loss more than a journey to spiritual wholeness.  So I kept praying about it.  I tentatively shared the idea with J, then a few friends.  No one seemed to think it was crazy.  And the more I thought about it, the more it seemed like this was the direction I was being pointed.  The tipping point was when I realized this had to be God's suggestion because I would never think of this on my own.  And it felt eerily familiar to be faced with a Lenten practice that I wasn't sure I could do on my own.

As I've pondered committing to this, I've thought through the hard things: getting up at 6 am six days a week will be hard.  I anticipate Friday mornings will be the worst.  I'm spent by Friday.  I wake up that morning wishing that school started at 8:30 instead of 8:00 and counting down the hours until J gets home and our weekend officially starts.  It won't be easy to climb out of bed and get outside.  I'll also be in Green Bay, Wisconsin the first weekend of Lent.  Talk about baptism by fire.  I guess if I can make myself walk or run in that weather, Nashville will feel balmy upon return.

I've also thought through what might be the reason(s) for this particular Lenten exercise.  When I used to run, I did so with headphones, running in time to the music, singing along in my head.  But when I started back up this fall, I left the headphones at home.  I often pray - for myself or others - or I just think about things.  It's quieter, more peaceful.  I actually listen to myself for these thirty minutes better than I do at any other time during the day.  Maybe I need to hone not only my ability to listen to myself, but my willingness to do so.  Maybe I need this type of concentrated time with God for a season.  Maybe He just wants to stretch me.

These are the things I think now.  But I may find out the lessons I needed to learn were things I never anticipated.  I may find this is a Lenten vow I'm incapable of keeping.  I may fail spectacularly.  I may succeed, yet never understand what this was all about.

But as I read the definition of wholeness, I know it is something I want.  I want to be unhurt, restored, healed.  And if it takes a few days in the rain or cold, if it means early mornings and a tired body, I will try it.  Because I want to understand this body of mine.  I want to learn to treat it with respect - to treat it as a gift, instead of something I merely lug through life with me.  I want to know - and value - not only its strengths, but its limitations. 

I'm hoping my Lenten Journey is, indeed, one of wholeness.

HOLY

1 : exalted or worthy of complete devotion as one perfect in goodness and righteousness

A Good Friday at a Great Place

Today, Easter, marks the end of Holy Week.  This special week started with Palm Sunday one week ago and included Maundy Thursday services, Good Friday services, Easter vigil and today's Easter celebrations.  It has been a week - and season - chock full of events that have been thought provoking and encouraging.

Palm Sunday was busy.  B sang in a children's choir at a church here in town that offers a children's choir.  She had to be there at 7:40, so I dropped her off, headed to our church for service and then met the rest of our family plus my mom to hear B sing.  B had spent weeks learning the songs she sang and it was moving to hear her sing praises.

Maundy Thursday found me at St. B's alone.  J met me there and headed home with the girls, giving me the chance to experience the quiet seriousness of this evening alone.  At my silent retreat several weeks ago, I spent time in the passage in John where Jesus washes the feet of his disciples, so it was meaningful to get to participate in having my feet washed and washing the feet of someone else.  While part of the mandate of Maundy Thursday is to serve others, I think I am in a season of learning to receive, not just give.  We've been at St. B's for a year now, and I feel like we would know more people and be able to give back were I to volunteer in a ministry.  Yet every time I try to think of a place to serve, I feel like God tells me to stay put, keep doing what I'm doing and try to graciously receive.  Thursday's Holy Week service was about me remembering we are called not just to give, but to receive.  If we spend all of our time and energy giving, we'll run out of time, energy and things to give.

Good Friday was a good day for our family.  It started with sweet treats from our favorite neighborhood bakery.  J had to work, but he made a quick sweets run before heading south to TSC.  This meant the girls and I got to start our day with ginger peach crumble, chocolate cinnana coffee cake, hot cross buns and more.  The girls celebrated by watching a movie on TV and I had a few quiet moments to start my new bible study.  Then we headed to one of our favorite places in Nashville.  After all, what better way to celebrate Good Friday than in a garden?  We packed a picnic lunch and ate by the ponds.  While the girls lunched, I read to them about Good Friday from a library book on the liturgical year.  The first sentence I read was, "Good Friday is a day of bitterness and mourning." 

"Wait a minute!" B said.  "Bitterness and mourning?  This has been a great day so far.  We got to have breakfast from Sweet 16th, watch a movie and now we're at Cheekwood.  This day isn't bitter."  We talked about why the book might describe Good Friday in this way - and why it's called "good" if it involves bitterness and mourning.  They each offered very thoughtful responses and we finally decided it was a bittersweet day, not a bitter one.  After an eventful time at Cheekwood that included the first (but probably not last) slip into the pond by one of my daughters, a tour of the herb gardens and a look at the lily mosaics, we headed to St. B's to walk the stations of the cross.

I'll be honest that none of my daughters were especially excited to head to church on a Friday evening.  B was especially vocal about this, but we went anyway.  I thought an outdoor church service that involved walking and hearing the story of Good Friday at each station would be something new and different.  The weather was beautiful and the girls did enjoy it far more than a traditional service.  We went out with friends for pizza after the service, which will hopefully make it easier to get them there for next year's service.

As we've approached Easter and Lent's ending, I've had bittersweet feelings about this season ending.  B and I chatted Friday evening about what grade we would give ourselves for how well we fulfilled our Lenten vows.  (We both agreed we probably merited a B or so.)  As we broached this subject with the rest of our family this morning on the drive to church, J reminded the girls and I of a point I made near the beginning of Lent - that Lent should lead us into ordinary time.  We should not start Easter morning by shrugging off all of our Lenten vows and go right back to being who we were before.

The bulk of our time is lived in ordinary time.  And that's the challenge, isn't it?  To live holy during the ordinary days, not just Holy Week.  What does this look like?  I'm not sure except to say that I won't be returning to caffeinated coffee in the mornings (my headaches were surprisingly lower in frequency, if not severity without caffeine) and I hope to be more committed to making time for creativity and self-care in my life.  I've seen its importance over the last forty days and I've also seen how easy it is for me to let it slip off of my to-do list when more pressing tasks vie for my attention.

Lent isn't usually a season that we want to extend.  We're eager to get back to our Cokes, our lax habits, our less intentional way of living.  But Lent has been a sweet time for me this year and instead of being grateful to have it end, I'm hopeful that its lessons will do their work to make me more holy over time.

LESSONS

3 a : something learned by study or experience

What have I learned this Lent? I’ve learned that Lent is a time of God making things new, but I’ve also seen, felt and experienced the grief of Lent. It’s a time of waiting, a time of preparation, a between time spent looking both back at where you’ve been and forward to Easter morning and the unfurling of God’s promises kept all over again.

Lent has been an unfurling for me, although not in the way I imagined. I’ve not felt like a tulip whose petals are gently opening to reveal great beauty. Nor have I been whipped about like a flag atop a pole, a sail aboard a boat. But my grief coupled with learning to truly care for myself has begun an unbinding, an unraveling, a snipping of threads, a ripping of seams. An unfurling.

I’ve most often seen Lent as a time of giving up. A time of self-sacrifice, self-denial, perhaps even self-flagellation. But God has used this Lent to talk to me about receiving. Have I managed the self-denial portion? Mostly. Just two cokes since Ash Wednesday and no caffeinated coffee. Have I cared for myself? More consistently than in the past, yes. But with perhaps less success than I’ve given up caffeine. I say I’ve had less success with self-care because I’ve watched (or not watched, but woken up to find) my attitude towards self-care morph from one of pleasant anticipation to self-care as one more task to do in a busy day. I’ve seen how abruptly an altered schedule makes me set aside taking care of myself. I’ve seen the ugliness of control sneak its way into my thinking. I’ve willingly let go of things that bring me great joy. Because I feel I don’t deserve them? Because it’s easier that way? Because I think I’ve learned my Lenten lessons? Perhaps all three.

So I'm fighting to remember, to remind myself that Lent is supposed to be the start of ordinary time.  It's not a forty day sprint, but a season designed to set the stage for my life after these forty days.  The purpose of Lent is last until Easter morning.  My Lent would mean little if I have a double espresso for breakfast Easter morning and chug Coke for every meal following.  Easter is not the finish line, but the starting point.  Self-care isn't a lesson I can learn in one short season.  It's an ongoing conversation between my flesh and my spirit.  It's a constant choice between the things of this world that do not satisfy and the short sips of water that truly quench a thirsty soul.

As I contemplated writing this post, I had visions of a series of collages I'd like to complete for friends, along with a blog post or two that have been percolating.  I long to create.  It satisfies me and feeds me.  It is an integral part of unfurling.  And if I want to be unfurled, if I want to be not just who I am right now, but who I can be, I think creativity is the double line along the center of the road.  No passing allowed.  Linger here.  Take time for yourself.  Make your ordinary life less ordinary.

I want to be made new. I want to unfurl and stretch like a cat in the sun. To be comfortable, content, thankful in my own skin. Not just during Lent, but always. 

CONTROL

2 b: to have power over : rule

It seems only right and fair to acknowledge after a post on routine that my love of routine and my comfort in it is merely a symptom of my continued love of control. Routine allows me to believe - however wrongly - that I am in control of my life, that I can survive what life brings, if only I can anticipate correctly.  It is a way of living with my hands clenched around my own ideas for what life should be - even more damaging, it is a way of living with my hands clenched around my  idea of who I should be.

This is a besetting sin for me.  Do I cling to control less now than I did years ago?  Yes.  But its hold on me sneaks up and surprises me, disguised as it is by other things (like routine).

In talking with a friend last week about homeschooling, I realized how far I have come - even in just a few months - about adjusting and adapting.  I shed some of my preconceived notions because another way worked better for A and I.  Others I dropped because they weren't working.  Or were too restrictive.  My approach to literature?  Loose at best for this year.  I've basically provided good books - and lots of them - for A to read.  The books often link to the history we are studying at the time, but I don't require book reports, papers or projects very often.  Grammar?  That curriculum is on the shelf, lessons half done.  A hated it.  The fact that it's called "analytical" should have tipped me off - it's just a bit too much like math.  Math itself we've stuck with, but progress has been in fits and starts with testing upon us.  I've seen my willingness to be flexible, my lack of resistance to improvisation as evidence that I am less controlling than I used to be.  And perhaps I am.

But today I've been face to face with the fact that my desire for control may have lessened its grip on my heart, but still lurks around the corner, waiting to weave its way back into my thinking.  I started writing this blog post between dropping B off at one church to sing and attending first service at our church.  I knew I'd chosen the right topic when I opened the bulletin and read this:

As we continue our Lenten journey, we focus on stewardship.  For followers of Jesus, stewardship is our outward expression of His discipleship: an ordering of life that puts all that we have under Christ's rule.  As you prepare your heart for worship this morning and for this Holy Week, consider how you are responding to Christ's blessings.  Are you allowing God to have a voice in your life as you manage your time, your talents and your money?

Or am I instead clenching my hands around Christ's blessings, trying to wrest control away from him?

NOURISH

2 : to promote the growth of
3 a : to furnish or sustain with nutriment : feed

During a Lent devoted to self-care, I've been trying to discern the difference between the things that numb me and the things that nourish me.  As I said in another post, it's not always easy to distinguish between the two.  Something that feels like "me" time can actually just be a mild anesthetic that leaves me more tired than I was before I took the time off.  After some soul-searching and last week's experience with time for myself that left me drained instead of refreshed, I have a short list of the things that nourish my soul - that promote my internal growth and sustain me for my other everyday activities.

Creating: whether it's writing a blog post, jotting a journal entry, doing a sketch or making a collage, creating tops the list of things that nourish my soul.
Art: a trip to the museum, the botanical gardens or even a flip through a magazine chock full of art gives me almost the same mental jolt as creating.
Exercising: I've learned this the hard way.  My body needs to move.  My mind needs my body to move.  Of all the things that nourish me, this one is the hardest.  I'm not a natural at exercising.  I'm no athlete and I prefer to work out alone.  But everything else in my life falls together a bit easier when I make myself get on that treadmill, do the sit-ups, lift the weights.
A Long Bath: it's simply soothing and it's an everyday luxury I can and will indulge in.  It also gives me time and space for...
Meditation: this is more than prayer time for me.  It's time to actually be still physically and mentally.  To set aside what I think, what I want, what I need to do and just listen.  I don't always hear something, but I can feel a difference - it's like taking a deep breath instead of breathing shallowly.

I've also discerned a few gray areas.  Things that do nourish me, but can also be used to avoid life rather than live it more fully.

Reading: how it pains me to put this in the gray area instead of on the nourishing list.  But if I'm completely honest, I know that I use books to avoid my life, my feelings, my to-do list.  Does that mean I'm going to stop reading?  Not a chance.  That would be like deciding I'll just go through tomorrow without breathing.  My solution (for now) is to be very sensitive to what type of book I'm craving.  If I am longing for escape, I try to determine whether that's a good or a bad thing before giving in to the urge.  Sometimes there is absolutely nothing wrong with choosing a book to lose myself in.  Other times, not so much.
Time with friends: as an introvert, I don't typically long for time with other people.  But I've recently noticed that even brief interactions with friends can buoy my spirit on a day when it's sagging.
Naps: I'm not ashamed to say that I nap several times each week.  I think it's just a part of my rhythm of life that I need a break during the day to quiet myself.  But I put this as a gray area because there have been days when my schedule should have precluded the option of a nap, yet I've squeezed one in anyway, sometimes with a whiff of entitlement (something I hate to witness in myself).  Is it wrong to grab a twenty minute nap a few times a week?  No.  Should I expect it?  No.  It won't always be possible.
Blogs: reading other people's blogs is inspiring, encouraging and makes me feel connected.  But it can also be a horrible time drain.  I don't plan to eliminate this entirely from my routine, but I think setting aside a certain amount of time daily for this pursuit might be a workable solution.  Will it leave some posts unread?  Yes, but that's OK.

And then there are the more clear cut areas that I might think are restful, but ultimately stunt my growth rather than aid it.

Facebook: there's no way around the fact that Facebook does little other than eat away at the time I have available to actually live my life.  Some days I am better than others about not scrolling through the feed on my phone.  But it's a battle for me to maintain this day after day.
Computer games: while I don't play games on the computer very often (less than once weekly), I inevitably turn to it when I'm feeling restless.  Whether it's a game on my phone or something else, it's a way to distract myself instead of engaging whatever I'm really thinking or feeling.
Television: I really wanted to put this in the gray area.  I don't watch a ton of TV, but I have a couple of favorite shows.  I like to watch Merlin with the girls - a show we can actually all enjoy.  J and I watch Castle together.  Beyond that, I might watch an episode of Torchwood while folding clothes, but that's about it.  Still, I know there are times when I watch television not to connect with my family, but to just turn my brain off for a while.  I'll be honest: that is not going to change.  I'm not going to turn into someone who never does anything that's just fun for the sake of being fun.  Does watching television nourish me or help me grow?  Absolutely not, but I'm still going to watch it.

All of this has me wondering what self-care looks like for other people.  If you're not particularly creative, how do you take care of your soul?  What things in your day, your week, your month leaving you feeling rested, rejuvenated, undeniably cared for?  Do you even know?  If you do know, do you make time to do these things?

I've had a fairly successful Lent.  Most of the time, I don't actively miss the caffeine, but a brief stomach bug on Friday led me to drink a Coke.  I didn't have to.  I just wanted one.  It. Was. Good.  But I've not had any caffeine since.  And the creating portion of Lent?  That discipline of taking on the task to collage everyday? That's going splendidly.  The more I create, the more I want to create.  And it's leaving me undeniably well nourished (even if I did skip my work out on Thursday...)