UNFURL

: to release from a furled (wrapped or rolled close to or around something) state

It was roughly a year ago that I chose the word unfurl for 2011.  Perhaps its misleading to even say I chose the word.  I prayed for several days about what my word for 2011 might be and I heard "unfurl" as a very distinct response.  I was puzzled at first, then accepting.  Until early January when it hit me that this unfurling was a process that was likely to leave me very vulnerable.  I had a very clear mental image of an unfurled flag being whipped around in gale force winds.  Not a comforting concept to kick off the year.

Tonight as I contemplate the word - and my year - I see it a bit differently.  Tonight, I'm struck by the fact that an unfurled flag does not do much on its own.  When there's little or no wind, even an unfurled flag is calm, unlikely to be noticed.  Yet when the wind picks up - when the time is right - an unfurled flag billows, blows and points the way.  (I started to type "calls attention to itself," but I can't quite take the metaphor there if that might mean I actually need to call attention to myself sometimes.  I'll go with "points the way" instead.)

I've been very aware lately of how much God's timing is at play in my life.  I am spending nine months doing an Ignatian Prayer Cycle.  The idea is to spend a bit of time every day reading specified scriptures.  The reality is that I'm 8 or 9 days behind.  Yet yesterday's sermon and my own  verse tied together beautifully and made me thankful I've fallen behind.  I loved having my own quiet time reinforce the words I'd heard earlier that same day.  An unfurled flag waits for the wind's timing.  It doesn't - can't - do its job by itself.

But that same flag isn't always idle.  For the first time yesterday I served as a lay reader at church.  This means I read the first lesson for the day to the congregation.  It's an oddity (I think) that an introvert like me is good at public speaking.  But I am.  I had to read the entire first chapter of Jonah yesterday and I was nervous.  But instead of letting my nerves hurry me along, they made me slow down and read the passage better.  I went back to my seat feeling like I'd used a part of me that was meant to be used.  This is growth for me - to be active and participatory instead of deferring and accommodating.  This is unfurling - to accept that I have something to offer and offer it.  When the wind blows and God points me in a direction, I don't want to stay curled up and resisting.  I want to be unfurled and open to going where I'm sent and enjoying the moments when the wind is still.

INFLUENCE

1 : to affect or alter by indirect or intangible means
2 : to have an effect on the condition or development of

Who and what do you let influence your thinking, your life, your actions?  Do you take time to stop and evaluate which aspects of your life are altered by an influence you might not choose?  I'm asking these questions not just of you, but of myself.

I've been thinking about this partly in relation to my children.  What influences exist in their lives?  Are they positive or negative?  Which influences do I fear most for my children?  We live in an urban neighborhood, but I don't fear many of the influences they encounter here.  A friend of my has talked about the influence of poverty versus the influence of affluence. I fear the latter much more for my children.  I think it's unlikely they will face the harsh realities of poverty in their lifetime.  But affluence?  That they might encounter and I do fear it for them - and for me. 

I think affluence is a huge stumbling block to any sort of true faith.  It's hard to believe you need God when you can provide not only for your needs, but every want, every whim.  I think many people in our country clutch two identical idols in their hands - the idol of wealth and the idol of success.  I don't want this for my children.  I'm not saying I hope they live paycheck to paycheck and know what it's like to truly be hungry.  I am saying I want them to know there are people in those circumstances all around them - children who might look just like them, but don't go home to a healthy snack, don't have a hearty dinner to look forward to and love school days because they are sure to get breakfast and lunch.

Affluence influences all of us. It's pushed at us every day through countless commercials, billboards, web ads and more.  When I really stop to think about what our culture tells our children - want more, earn more, buy more - it scares me.  Our very economy is built on consumption.  I've quizzed my husband on this and tried to get a better grasp on why it's so very necessary for us always to be buying more as a country.  I was able to understand a bit, but, frankly, stopped asking questions because it was too disheartening.  The system is simply too big to be stopped and I'm doubtful it will be significantly altered in my lifetime.  So what can I do when faced with a world that tells my children one thing and a fierce desire to teach them something else as truth?

Yesterday's sermon was on saints.  The image that has stuck with me the most was one that our priest shared of a child who described saints as "the ones the light shine through" (referencing the stained glass windows).  After the sermon, I spent a bit of time alone in prayer pondering a verse that started "The Lord is my light."  Much to my own surprise, I realized I have a certain degree of fear of light.  I don't like to think about light shining on me.  I can remember walking into my childhood home and walking all the way through the house to my bedroom without ever turning on a light.  I felt safe that way.  But light shining on me?  That gives me an image of being singled out and noticed - two things I don't much enjoy.  This truth really hit home this morning when I got up at my normal time to run and it was full daylight instead of the time just before sunrise.  It was a terrible run.  I felt so exposed, so insecure, almost nervous.  I didn't like it at all.  I'd much rather run in the dark.

"What does this have to do with influence?" you might ask.  That's a valid question.  The connection for me is that I shy away from being an influence.  I don't want the light on me.  I don't want to be seen.  I'd rather listen to you than talk to you because what if I say something that you don't want to hear?  I can't (and don't) take that approach with my children, but I think God is trying to talk to me about my willingness to trust him to bring a light that's not harsh and glaring like a fluorescent light at the grocery store, but gentle and forgiving like candlelight.

One encouraging thing to me about these intertwined ideas of light and influence is that light is something seen, not heard.  Maybe where I live, how I live and who I love does more to help me live like a stained glass window than anything I could ever say.

SAMENESS

1 : the quality or state of being the same : identity, similarity

2 : monotony, uniformity

Have you read The Giver?  If you haven't, I humbly suggest you do and I'll warn you that this blog post will probably reveal far too much of the plot of the book to you.  So you might want to stop reading this and go read it right now.  If you have read The Giver, were you as struck as I by the similarities to our own world?  Or is it just my life?

You see, in this book an entire community has been devoted to sameness.  People wear the same clothes, children wear their hair the same way and everyone sees everything in literally black and white.  It's the ability to see the color red that makes Jonas different, that makes him The Receiver.  Jonas is chosen to receive, hold and bear the collective memories of the community for generations back.  It's only in these memories that things like sunshine, color, war, animals and pain live on.  Because those things don't exist in Jonas' world.

Shortly after Jonas begins receiving memories, he learns about color and asks The Giver, "Why did colors disappear?"

The Giver shrugged.  "Our people made that choice, the choice to go to Sameness.  Before my time, before the previous time, back and back and back.  We relinquished that when we relinquished sunshine and did away with differences."  He thought for a moment.  "We gained control of many things.  But we had to let go of others."

What things do we give up in our own lives in order to have control of other things?  I'm sure none of us go so far as to not see color - the very idea horrifies me.  But have I tried so hard to control my emotions that I feel nothing?  Yes and I am trying to let go and feel.  It's a very hard and painful process to allow my emotions to surface, to actually feel them.  Yet it's an essential tool in the battle to fight sameness.

I've had occasion lately to realize how quickly I can bottle up my feelings, especially when they are strong or threaten to overwhelm.  J's recent promotion has elicited a lot of fear.  Fear about a variety of things, but with an underlying theme of the fear of change.  I feel like telling God, "Enough with change already.  Let me just be for a while!"  But that's not happening and one small but significant change is that I am letting myself feel my fear.  I am listing my fears aloud and in my mind and sometimes even crying over them.  I'd rather do this than not feel at all.

Several years ago, the girls and I listened to the audio book of A Wrinkle in Time.  I remember the scene where the children have arrived on another world and they sense that something is wrong here, but can't place it at first.  Then they realize that all of the children are bouncing their balls in unison, each ball striking the ground and arcing back up at exactly the same time, all down the street.  I was so struck by the fact that we are not all meant to be the same.  That's completely counter to what God intended.  He meant - and means - for us to be gloriously different.  He means for us to see the colors, feel the sunshine - and experience the pain or fear.

I don't even think God wants sameness within an individual.  We are meant to grow, to change, to be different at 38 than we were at 18 or 28.  Because life's experiences change us - or they should, if we're really experiencing them.

Do you fight sameness in yourself?  Do you embrace the ways you are more of one thing, less of another?  Do you fight sameness in others or encourage?  Do you surround yourself with those who think and feel differently?  I have a dear friend who recently told me she had a difficult time with an hour or so of silence at a workshop.  Given my penchant for and love of silence, I smiled at her admission.  But I'm so thankful that she is different than me.  Because she sees things about me that I can't even see and she names them for me.  I don't want you to be like me - or anyone else.  Nor do I want to be like you.  I just want to be more like me. A little more every day.

PILGRIMAGE

1: a journey of a pilgrim; especially : one to a shrine or a sacred place
2: the course of life on earth

In Celtic Daily Prayer, the July Aidan readings are on the subject of pilgrimage.  Here's how the concept is introduced:

This month's notes are on the subject of pilgrimage, a journeying to a particular place, in the expectation that such a journey will have deep significance.  It may be to a place with personal memories, or to a holy place where for generations people have prayed and sought God.  Everyone's starting point and journey is different, inside - and outwardly...

All kinds of people go on pilgrimage of one sort or another, not all of them believers; it is a chance for things to move, to change, perhaps even for God to break into their lives.

I first read these words six days ago and have been pondering them ever since.  Where am I going?  Am I giving things a chance to move and change?  Am I willing to let God break into my neatly ordered life?  Or am I saying, "No, thanks, God.  That's quite enough change over here.  I'll just coast for a while if you don't mind too much."  You see, change was my word for 2010.  I had kind of hoped that 2011 would see less change, more stability, more growth, less fear.  Halfway through the year, I'm wondering whether growth and unfurling can occur with stability and without fear.  Would I prefer stability and stasis to freedom and unfurling?  Some days I might.

Four months ago, J interviewed for a new job at work.  It was a position outside of his department, outside of his direct experience, outside of his comfort zone.  As the days, weeks and months went on, he and I began to doubt he'd get the job.  I'd had some ambivalence all along.  In large part, my ambivalence boiled down to the same question J asked me when we considered homeschooling, "Can you do this job and be nice to the rest of us?"  For me, this was linked to my need for a certain amount of physical and mental solitude.  For J, the question is whether the emotional drain of managing a bigger team will leave him with the time, attention and emotional capacity to parent three daughters.  (Have you tried parenting a pre-teen daughter?  It has to be one of the most emotionally taxing jobs on the planet.  Yet surpassed by parenting a teenage daughter, I fear.)

You might be able to imagine our surprise - and my slight dismay - to find that J had gotten the job.  This is a big deal for him.  It's great affirmation of all he's done in his current and previous positions and it's definitely the beginning of a pilgrimage of sorts for him.  I fully believe he's ready for the challenges and we're doing all we can from the outset to establish expectations for the girls about the time commitment this will require.  There will be fewer Saturday morning trips to Sweet 16th, Bagel Face and The Hermitage Diner.  But that's just part of the journey.

As with any marriage, J's pilgrimage directly impacts my own.  My reaction to the news of his promotion was shock and a bit of fear.  What will this mean for us?  What will it mean for me?  Can I handle more of the parenting when he's the one who's a better listener?  Can I do it?  Will this change us?  I like who we are right now - both separately and together.

As the news has settled, I've been able to see the silver lining in what seems to be a foreboding cloud.  I've also prayed - a lot.  And one result of these prayers has been a very clear sense that J is ready for this - and perhaps I am, too.  On the face of it, my husband's job change impacts me far less than him.  But my feelings are valid, if only because I feel them.  I will have to navigate some parenting waters alone.  I will have to make on the spot decisions alone.  I may be more tired, stretched a bit more thin - which will require that I take better care of myself so that I am ready for the tasks ahead.  I don't mean to imply that I will have to do it all alone, but I will be stretched.  Unfurled, perhaps.

I'm not going on an actual physical pilgrimage this summer.  But I am journeying to a place I've never been - a place with a more physically absent parenting partner, where I homeschool two children and learn to support J in his new role.  May I do it in a way that allows God to break into my life and break down the walls I've erected for myself.

DISSONANCE

1. a : lack of agreement; especially : inconsistency between the beliefs one holds or between one's actions and one's beliefs

For the past six or eight weeks, my Bible Study group has been studying several names of God.  We've most recently been studying Peace and Healer and I've been pondering what it means for God to be our Peace - what that looks like, feels like and how to seek it rather than resist it.

Concurrent with this study, I've been reading along in the Celtic Daily Book of Prayer.  The last ten or so days of May offered readings from one of my favorite books: Anne Morrow Lindbergh's Gift From the Sea.  This book is filled with lovely metaphors for life, found in Anne's time spent near the sea.  One of her descriptions of having inner and outer harmony struck me as the very definition of peace.  "Yes!" I thought when I read it.  "That sounds like what peace is!  When my thoughts and my actions aren't in battle, but in agreement.  When I live the way I believe.  When I listen and act."  So as I've gone about my days, I've had this image of peace - one of harmony of agreement - floating around in my mind.

There have been periods of my life when I've experienced great peace.  There have even been times when I've felt peace and known that it wasn't rational for me to be feeling peaceful:  when I spoke at a women's retreat in 2010, the heater went out in my room on the first night of the retreat.  It was early March and I'd had the heater on for a reason - there was a definite chill in the room.  I called the front desk when the heater went out.  I had been laying in bed reading, preparing to turn in for the night when I noticed that my heater wouldn't turn on.  A call to the front desk yielded a trip from the maintenance man and a space heater.  I put the heater near the bed, turned it on and returned to my book.  A few pages in, the lights went out.  Another call to the front desk: a fuse has been tripped.  They reset it.  I read another page or two.  The lights went out again.  Space heater, tripped fuse.  Connection?  Probably so.  By this time it was a half hour or so past when I wanted to go to sleep.  I had to speak in the morning.  My stuff was scattered all over the room, unpacked, laid out for rest and contemplation.  I didn't want a new room.  In other circumstances, I'm sure I would have been angry, frantic, anxious or all three.  Instead, I was amazingly calm. I put my book down and went to sleep.  The next day I got a room change after I was done speaking.  And it never really bothered me that this happened.  It was definitely Peace, not just peace.

I've been longing for peace lately.  And I've been trying to see where I'm not experiencing inner and outer harmony.  Today I received an e-mail from a high school friend who read my blog post about attending our reunion and it made me realize the dissonance I'm experiencing is bigger than I originally thought.  What I feel inside is not at all how I'm perceived by others.  In my last counseling session, we touched on this.  My counselor zeroed in on how even though I feel like I am falling apart, other people don't see it that way.  I didn't even understand what she was saying at first because I try very hard to be authentic.  My counselor said after the conversation that she wasn't sure why that was important for me to hear, just that she felt in the moment that she must share it.

The reunion has allowed me (forced me?) to examine the differences in how I see things and how others see them.  J made a remark after the reunion about me having more influence than I realized.  I didn't want to hear it.  I mentioned this to friends last week - this idea that I don't see myself as a leader - and several of my friends looked at me with what might have been pity.  So when my friend wrote, "I was surprised that you thought you weren’t liked in high school, or that people wouldn’t remember you! You were well liked and one the most known people from our class. You were one of our leaders... I hope you see that now."  I was shocked.

No, I don't see that now.  I still see a me who was set apart by overachieving.  A me who felt an invisible barrier between me and classmates.  A me who was considered a snob because I wasn't comfortable talking to people I didn't know well.  A me who wondered why any guy would want to date me.  A me who was insecure, self conscious and set apart.  If that's not what others saw, who is right?  Them or me?  Am I who they thought I was or who I thought I was?

And regardless of who I was, who am I now?  I know what I am: a wife, a mother, a homeschool teacher, a summer activities coordinator for three daughters, a chauffeur, a cook, a killer of bugs, a blogger of thoughts, a reader of books, a student of my Teacher.  But how do I connect what I am with who I am?  Does it matter whether I see myself the same way others see me?  I think it does matter because if there is dissonance, there isn't peace.  And I want peace.  Even more, I want to be the me I'm supposed to be, whoever that is.

Is this a part of the unfurling process?  Letting go of who I think I am in order to be who I really am?  I'm not saying that I should let others define who I am, which you might think from reading what I've written.  But the people who have made me stop and think about these things know me very well and I trust them.  After the reunion, I spent the next day feeling like I'd been blind two decades ago.  I saw things I didn't see at all in high school.  Am I blind to myself as well?  How do I open my eyes?

As I laid in bed pondering all of this and crying out to God asking who I am, the meaning of my name kept running through my mind: small, wise one.  I don't feel very wise (although I am short, if not small).  Who exactly am I?  How can I see myself and live my life with more peace, less dissonance?

TRANSITION

1 a : passage from one state, stage, subject, or place to another :change

There's a reason the most difficult stage of giving birth is called transition: because change is always the hardest part.  I was struck today by how many of my friends are going through transitions.  Nearly all of us are transitioning from school days to summer days.  It may sound mundane, but if you've ever been a part of this particular transition, you know that it's not an easy one, even if it is an annual occurrence.  Others are selling homes, moving from the deep south to North Dakota, thinking about adoption, remodeling their houses, preparing to make the leap from homeschooling one second grader to homeschooling a third grader and two kindergarteners.  There's a lot going on.

I'm honestly a bit ready for a break from change in my own life.  I'd like to take at least a lingering pause in one stage before moving on to yet another one.  But that just doesn't seem to be on the horizon.  I thought the changes our family experienced in 2010 were quite enough, thank you very much.  But 2011 has brought more changes, more stretching, more unfurling.  In my Bible Study last night, I was sharing about some recent events that have been encouraging and about others that make me a little fearful.  Two friends in particular were really proud of me for being vulnerable and willing to choose time with friends over time alone.  I laughed at their delight and almost wanted to cry when one of them remarked upon how beautiful it was.  Because I've got to tell you it doesn't feel beautiful.  It feels more like the transition stage of labor - hard, sweaty and a little scary - but with a bit of hope that maybe the end is near.  If you can call the "end" being handed a small, helpless human being to take care of - maybe that's the true hard part about transition is that you know it's not a sign that the end is near, but that a new, more daunting task is about to start.

After B's fourth grade graduation, there was an afterschool party.  Another mom of three and I were chatting.  Like me, she'd been through this before.  Her son is entering seventh grade and we laughed together about what emotional wrecks we will be when our youngest daughters make this transition together.  She's in a good place right now.  Her daughter got one of the coveted magnet school spots, so she's not worried about what next year will look like.  Still, she turned to me and said, "Transition's just hard.  No matter what you're going from or what you're going to, it's just hard."  She couldn't be more right.

I'm excited about some of the changes that await me.  I thoroughly enjoyed teaching A this year and I'm looking forward to channeling B's incessant curiosity and boundless creativity into joint learning opportunities.  Just this morning, I made my daughter put a book back on the homeschool shelf in order to get her to save reading it until next year.  Even as I did it, I smiled a little at the fact that I was asking her to save academic books for a few months.  (And hours later I caught her sneaking two books back onto the shelf - books she'd already read.)  What a blessing to have to draw this little boundary.  But next year won't be simply smooth sailing.  A is happiest as an independent learner.  Give her two or three books on a subject, ask her to write an essay question daily and she's good to go.  B wants and needs more interaction.  Instead of preparing one lesson plan, I'll need two, fully customized for each child.  Am I up to the challenge?  I hope so because either way, there's no turning back now.  And the transition to homeschooling two seems less daunting than some other things that await us.

I'm currently reading a book that's been recommended to me many times, but has never made it into my reading queue until now.  This book is an allegory and in it Much-Afraid is tempted to choose the fears she knows over the promise of better things.  I think this so neatly captures what is hard about transition.  No matter our circumstances, we are tempted to settle for what we know rather than risk the unknown.  We'll take the heartache, the sadness, the slavery that we know instead of reaching for the offer of transformation, change, redemption and freedom.  I don't want to be much afraid any longer.  I've spent too long like that.  But a desire to change doesn't necessarily make the change any easier.  It's still scary.  It's still hard.  It still makes my stomach clench in fear.

This morning as I ended my walk on the treadmill, I prayed for each of the women in my life that are navigating transitions right now.  That's really all I can do: listen to discern that I am undertaking the changes that need to happen and pray as I walk through them - or am swept away by them.

VULNERABLE

1 : capable of being physically or emotionally wounded
3 : liable to increased penalties but entitled to increased bonuses after winning a game in contract bridge

Last night I went to my twenty year high school reunion.  To say that I was nervous about going is an understatement.  But one of my longest standing friends (we met in 4th grade) was organizing the reunion and as I agonized over whether we should make the long drive for a few hours, J said to me, "We should go.  You should honor those friendships."  It was just the right advice and I'm thankful that I took it.

Prior to leaving for the reunion, I described my emotional state to someone as feeling like I was piece of laundry being treated none too gently by a pioneer woman.  I felt like I was being twisted and wrung out, until I was dripping, before being put through a tortuous device to straighten, dry and unfurl me.  It was not pleasant, not fun and positively terrifying.  I felt like God was stretching me in many directions, asking me to do things that I didn't much feel like doing.  I still feel this way to some degree, but last night showed me that it's sometimes worth it to stretch, unfurl and leave yourself vulnerable.

J and I got lost on our way to the reunion.  Instead of trusting my instincts on how to get to the restaurant, I trusted Google maps.  I should have known Google wouldn't know this part of the world as well as I did.  Alas, I wasn't feeling like I could trust myself.  Which led us to a dead-end road and a fifteen minute detour.  When we finally arrived, we parked in the wrong area, moved the van and tried again.  I was getting progressively more nervous with each fit and start.

We walked into the restaurant together and were directed to the room for our private party.  I took a deep breath, glad of J beside me and walked through the door and down the stairs.  And didn't see a single face that I recognized.  In the few moments before I can turn to J in my nervousness, two friends got up from the table at the far end of the room and walked over to me.  "Shannon! Let me be the first to give you a hug," K said.  Then W gave me a hug and shared a tidbit from high school, "Did you know that people used to ask me if we were sisters?  Apparently we look alike."  And that was all it took.  I immediately felt better.  After a few minutes of chatting with these two women - neither of whom were close friends all those years ago - I felt much better and a few people I knew better had spotted me and come down from the bar.

The night progressed a bit like high school itself.  J and I sat by my best friend from way back when, across from a friend who took all of the same classes I did, down the table from my high school sweetheart.  I knew everyone at our table and couldn't place a lot of names and faces from the other tables.  As the night went on, my nervousness eased and I was shocked to realize how well some of these people remembered me.  One commented on my hair being so much darker, several asked after my mom (their high school math teacher) and the two who knew me best remarked to me and each other how surprising it was to find all these years later that I am a mother to three. (And not much more - although that was mostly left unsaid with only a vague reference to a valedictorian who is now a full time mom.)

You see, back in high school I swore I would never get married, much less have children.  Yet here I am, fifteen years into one, eleven years into the other.  And I love both states of being.  As I made the long drive back home today, I pondered why I ended up having children after plans to never do so.  J is the answer in part.  He always wanted children and had me convinced before we were even engaged.  The bigger reason, I suspect, is that God knew how much I would learn and grow from motherhood.  I knew how to take care of myself before I had children, but I didn't know to care for myself - or anyone else, really.  Having children makes you aware of how many needs people have.  I've seen how unashamed my daughters are of their needs and asking to have them met.  They eat when they are hungry, rest when they are tired, play when they are bored.  I'd like to learn to listen to my own internal desires and meet them without shaming or blaming myself for having needs.  They teach me far more than I am teaching them.

As we drove away from the party, J mentioned how many people had come over to talk to me.  Once he said it, I realized he was right.  I stayed in one spot most of the night, but still got caught up on more people than were seated at our table.  J's take on this was that I have more influence than I realize.  While I'm not so sure about that, I do feel like part of this painful, vulnerable unfurling has been God calling me to lead when I don't really feel up to the task.   Some steps are easier for me to take than others, but I've been trying to walk in faith regardless.
J told me and several of my friends last night that it was so nice to see me smile the way I did at the reunion.  I don't know for sure when the smile started, but I clearly remember talking with my high school sweetheart after he pulled up a chair behind my best friend and me.  As the three of us talked, I realized how well these two people know me - and more importantly, that they like me anyway.  I think we're all vulnerable to some degree in high school.  We haven't learned how to put on armor to protect us from peers and life, yet the angst and drama of adolescence opens many doors for wounding.  It touched me to realize these people from so long ago still hold a fondness for me, as I do for them.  Sometimes it's worth vulnerability's potential costs to reap its rewards.

WAITING

1: staying in place in expectation of

It came up casually in a conversation recently that we've been at St. B's for a year now.  Conversation went smoothly along, but my mind was jolted.  A year?  Has it really been that long?  I wasn't startled because it's a place that doesn't feel like home.  I feel welcome, encouraged and blessed when I'm there.  But why don't I know more people?  A friend who started attending shortly after us seems to know far more people than I do.  Some of this is circumstantial - she was able to attend the women's retreat and I wasn't.  She volunteers in children's ministry.  I don't.

For a few days, I was unsettled, my wheels spinning as to what I should do to get to know more people.  Should I volunteer in children's ministry?  in some other capacity?  I know from past experience that serving is an easy way to meet people.  Yet each time I consider a way to serve, I feel a "No" in my heart.

In the midst of all of this, I visited with a dear friend that I met during a Waking Up Grey group.  Since completing the group two years ago, I've wondered about leading a group, yet the timing has never felt right.  As I sat chatting with my friend, I kept thinking of people who might enjoy doing this kind of group.  And my heart did not stop me as I contemplated doing this.  In fact, more friends popped into my mind, as did a meeting place.  Will this help me meet more people at St. B's?  I'm not sure, but it's nice to not encounter yet another road block.  Even with these initial promptings, I am still waiting to move on this idea.  I'm not sure it's fully hatched yet, but I'm hopeful if I keep sitting on it, the egg will crack and give me a clear yes or no.

As I look back, I can see I've been in this place of waiting for quite a while.  Since the arrival of 2011 alone, I've waited on several things with very little resolution.  I've tried (with some success) to find peace in the waiting.  I've pictured myself with my hands raised and open, waiting for whatever comes.  Waiting is, in its way, a spiritual discipline.  It's a reminder that whatever I may think, I am not in charge.  I can't control many things that directly affect my daily life - and that is how it should be.

As I drove around the city running errands yesterday, I found myself discontented.  I'm generally very happy with my home, my neighborhood, my life.  Yet yesterday I was looking at larger homes, well-manicured lawns, nicer cars and, quite simply, wanting.  Even in the moment, it was somewhat puzzling behavior.  Why was I feeling so unsettled, so unlike myself?

I suspect this atypical behavior is, in part, reaction to this long period of waiting.  Because while I am trying to find grace in the waiting, it is hard work.  I want to know.  I want to be done with the waiting, even if only momentarily.

Yet the waiting goes on and I find myself hoping that this place of expectation is doing its work in me, the work of unfurling.  Because if waiting makes me unclench my fists from holding on to my own agenda, my own plan, my own ideas, if it helps me become who I'm meant to be and not just who I currently am, that is a work worth doing.

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. 

NUMB

1 : devoid of sensation especially as a result of cold or anesthesia

I've been thinking about a blog post - or even a series of posts - about self-care.  I realized part way through Lent that self-care is the lesson for me in this season - a far more important lesson than how to live without caffeine or what to do with 40 days' worth of collages.  Upon realizing this, I've tried to embrace the challenge of self-care.  Because make no mistake, self-care is a challenge for women in today's world.

Whether you're single, working full time and cooking for one or married with children, homeschooling for a living and feeding a horde every night, there are many things in your life that vie for attention - and nearly all of them yell more loudly than self-care.

I've tried for a time to tune out the cacophony of voices calling for me to do this or that and instead ask myself what I want to do.  I've had some small successes, but Tuesday I wasn't listening to the voice of self-care, even when I thought I was.

Tuesdays are the day that A goes to tutorials.  I had a few things to take care of on the computer and an errand or two to run, but basically had the day free.  I took care of the least desirable tasks first, then rewarded myself with a TV show (don't Brits just make the best TV series?).  That felt good, so I proceeded to waste another hour playing Scrabble online.  I didn't collage, blog, exercise or finish my Bible Study.  I did take a brief soaking bath and follow it up with a quick nap, but the day left me exhausted and a bit bewildered at how tired I was.  After all, what had I done all day?

What I'd done, when I stopped to actually think about it, was numb myself all day instead of taking care of myself.  And if caring for myself helps the process of unfurling, numbing is its antithesis.  Numbing encourages an inward curl, a mental (if not physical) fetal position.  While that might feel all right - or even good - for a few hours, it leaves me achy and in need of stretching.  Stretching my mind, my heart, my body with the things I need to truly be who I am.

This is the path to humility, don't you think?  Mentally composing a post on self-care, only to completely forget to actually live my words.  So instead of offering encouragement on the value of taking care of yourself, I hope you'll read this post and choose to not follow the path I trod yesterday: being numb is not the same things as being cared for.

MUCH

1. great in quantity, measure, or degree

I am standing at the kitchen counter, chopping vegetables for fried rice when it hits me:  I have much to be thankful for.  At the time of my realization, it is day 4 of snow days and I have just received word that Snow Day #5 is on the immediate horizon. As I am struck by how much I have to be thankful for, B and K are sitting at the kitchen counter making clay hearts to give as valentines to their classmates.  I think to myself, "This moment alone was worth the hassle of having the kitchen renovated."  But this moment is just one of many to be thankful for this week.  

I think back to last year's string of snow days.  For that set of days, I was trapped on the sofa, recovering from surgery, doing my best to take care of myself and three housebound girls.  I couldn't play in the snow with them.  I couldn't go for walks with them.  We couldn't go sledding or build snowmen.  Yet we managed.  J bought valentine's supplies and the girls sat on the floor of the living room making dozens of cards with foam hearts, glittering hearts, hand-drawn hearts while I looked on from the sofa.  A friend took my girls overnight when snow day #3 was announced, giving me time to rest and recuperate and giving the girls someone to play with.  We managed, yes, but I can't say it was delightful.  So I am thankful for my health this year: for the ability to crunch up and down the street in the newly fallen snow, to stand and chat while they sled down a hill, to be up and about, keeping up with A, B and K.


I think about friends who are going stir crazy at home with their toddlers, women who had looked forward to the return of parents day out so that they could grocery shop alone for the first time in weeks.  And I have much to be thankful for.  Toddlerhood was hard for me.  I love that my girls are older now and I can leave A & B at home for short excursions or go upstairs to the treadmill while they are watching a movie.  I don't feel constantly overwhelmed, even when they are with me non-stop for days on end.  I actually enjoy them.  I've enjoyed seeing how they entertain themselves, how they choose to spend their time when given a free day.


They have done much with their time this week.  They - and we - have, in part: 

watched movies and created a game based on the movie
read books
played on the Wii
made clay hearts
started a painting that was stalled when I realized we needed gesso
played the piano
read books
danced around the house
created imaginary worlds populated by Littlest Pet Shop, Zhu Zhus and Zoobles
eaten pancakes for breakfast
had weekday lunch with J
read books
visited the library and stayed there to read before heading home
turned left-over pancakes into cinnamon toast for another breakfast
watched Live to Dance together
played Yahtzee together
done a probability experiment
stayed up late
slept in late
painted, cut, glued
read books
gone for walks
hung out with neighbors
enjoyed each other

This has not been a perfect week.  Nearly every day, I have had to surrender my own agenda for the day, the week, the month and be more flexible, more gracious with myself and others, more willing to go where the day takes me.  My house is not clean.  My laundry is not done.  We are all - homeschooled or public schooled - a week behind in lessons.  

I realized last night that part of what has been difficult is the not knowing.  Had I known Sunday evening - or even Monday - that we would have no school all week, I could have formulated a plan.  I could have made a quick trip to Michael's, researched and requested some books, set my children's expectations.  Instead, we have all had to learn to take what comes our way.  By Wednesday, my girls were disappointed to hear there would not be school the next day.  On Thursday, we calculated the probability that they would be in school today.  There have been lessons for all of us in this.


But for me, I am left with this:  I have much to be thankful for.  I like my children.  They (mostly) enjoy each other and me.  They are creative, imaginative, silly, funny girls.  And I am growing as a mom.  Would I have preferred to have school this week?  Yes, in large part so that we could begin to settle into some kind of 2011 routine.  But even more than routine, I want to learn to embrace what comes my way.  I suppose this is part of my unfurling.  Instead of being so bound to my own ideas and plans, I am more able to let the wind take me... and enjoy the ride while it lasts.


I have much to be thankful for.

Pre-snow shot

UNFURL

1. to spread or shake out from a furled state, as a sail or a flag; unfold

 

Isaiah 54

2010 was the first year I named.  Or the first year that was named for our family.  I'm not sure I did the naming, especially since its name was Change and there's only so much change one person can affect. I got the idea from an incredibly thoughtful and encouraging blog and I found I liked having a name for the year, a word to encapsulate it from start to finish.  And I found as the year went on that it was stunningly well named, this year of change.  So around the start of Advent, I began praying for a name for 2011.  This was weeks ago and I wasn't anxious as I prayed, just quiet.  I waited for the word to come. I didn't throw out suggestions to God or toss around ideas to the Spirit.  I just tried to listen for the word.  And one morning as I was laying in the bathtub, the word came: Unfurl.

Unfurl?  Yes, unfurl.  Clear as a bell.  Unfurl is the word for 2011.  I've known for a few weeks that this was our new word.  I say "our" new word, but I'm not sure whether this word is meant for our family or for just me.  I'm claiming it for the whole family because that makes it a little less scary.  Because change?  That was a word I could handle.  But unfurl has knots of anxiety taking up residence in the pit of my stomach.

Unfurl is a word that I approach with some trepidation, so I waited and listened to make sure this was the word for 2011 for quite a while before even looking up the definition.  Unfurl brings to my mind a flag, flapping in the wind, for all to see. I held onto that image for days before looking to see whether there was more to the word.  Turns out that's a pretty representative image.  The primary definition as shown above uses a flag or sail to illustrate the meaning.  But I wanted a bit more, so I looked up "furl."  After all, if something can be unfurled, it must first be furled.

The definition of furl brought little comfort:  to gather into a compact roll and bind securely, as a sail against a spar or a flag against its staff.  Hmmm. So if furl means bound securely, then unfurled means... Uh-oh.  I'm right back where I started with finding this word a tad on the terrifying side.  So I'll not just be at the top of the flagpole, but exposed and unbound as well?

When the word unfurl first came to me, I wasn't scared by it. I imagined how this word could help us embrace our daughters for who they are, could help our family remember to celebrate the things that are unique about us.  It sounded like a word of freedom.  And I suppose it is that very freedom that's begun to worm its way into my mind, making me wonder whether I can make it through 2011 if it is a year of unfurling.

I told J this morning that the word for 2011 was unfurl.  He threw out some images that came to his mind, including one of a woman letting her hair fall down over her shoulders after being pinned up.  He later told me he hopes he's not one of the bindings that needs to be loosened.  I replied that I think he's the flagpole.  Sound crazy?  Maybe.  But I think a key for me to approach this year as something worth embracing is to remember that an unfurled flag doesn't slip away on the first breeze that comes along because it is anchored.

And I am anchored as well.  To a husband and family who love me, but also to the One who gave me the word unfurl.  I know He will not let 2011 rip me to shreds as the unfurling happens because a tattered and torn flag is not worth flying.  But one that has been bound securely and needs the air to fly is worth some gentle untying to be free to do what it was crafted to do.

I don't know if reading the word unfurl conjures images in your mind that are beautiful, fearful, both or neither.  I don't know if you have ties, chains or bandages around parts of you that want unfurling.  But I hope and pray for you that 2011 will be a year that brings you the word you need, whether that be change, unfurl or something else altogether your own.