PAIN

2 b: acute mental or emotional distress or suffering : grief

One night last week I was praying for a friend as I went to sleep.  As I was praying for her, my mind shifted from seeing her standing on the shore with God to seeing myself seated in the sand with Jesus beside me.  For a while, we sat companionably but then he moved into the water and invited me to join him.  Before I joined him, he was clear about one thing: moving into this water would hurt.  Not because the water was cold (though it was) but because this water was the pain of the world.  I was afraid.  Would anyone head into something containing the pain of the world without at least pausing?

But I wanted to be near Jesus, so I went.  There wasn't anything for me to do with all of this pain, just bear witness to it.  And as I stood in the midst of the pain, the water shifted.  Standing there beside Jesus, the water immediately surrounding us changed from murky brown to turquoise, aquamarine, sky blue.  Instead of sitting stagnant, it shimmered.  This beauty didn't mean the pain went away.  It was still there, but with beauty amongst it.

Since that prayer, I have tried to choose moments to stand in the pain instead of avoiding it.  Perhaps it is not surprising that I've found it is easier to stand in others' pain than my own.  My own pain, especially when accompanied by anger, makes me feel shame.  One reason I wrote about my frustration, disappointment and sense of abandonment surrounding our magnet school application process was as an attempt to stand in the pain.

I tend to deal with pain in one of two ways: I let anger fuel me and push through it belligerently or I gloss over the pain, moving as quickly as possible to a place where I can see the good instead of the bad.  These are not necessary poor ways to cope with the world: seeing things positively does make me more content and pushing through the pain gives (at least the impression of) strength.  But there is a difference between coping and growing.  I do a lot of the former.  I want to do the latter.  Choosing to stand in the pain?  That's not my typical approach.  It requires patience.  It requires that I acknowledge everything is not OK.  It encourages me to feel deeply.  And it hurts.

The only time I willingly stand in the pain is when I have no choice.  (I'll let you decide whether that really qualifies as "willing.")  There are times when what I am feeling is so big, so encompassing, there is no pushing through or glossing over.

The circumstances surrounding B's school options for next year are not nearly so big as that.  There is much I appreciate and enjoy about homeschooling.  I treasure the time with B and the flexibility our family will continue to enjoy.  But rather than go straight to the silver linings, I felt it was important for me to actually see, dwell on and process the way this particular disappointment has brought pain to my heart.  As always, it has been illuminating.  (I think pain tends to function as an internal spotlight, showing us the places we neglect, the unkempt corners of our souls.)

What I have seen this time is that I believe, despite all evidence to the contrary, that God takes some pleasure in causing me pain.  I know this particular idea of who God is comes from my earthly father.  He always seemed tickled when I did something wrong or stupid.  Why this is true, I am not sure.  I hurt for my children when they make a mistake or feel shamed.  But that wasn't my own experience.  I'm not the only one to confuse God the Father with an earthly father.  Richard Rohr writes:

After years of giving and receiving spiritual direction, it has become obvious to me and to many of my colleagues that most peoples’ operative, de facto image of God is initially a subtle combination of their Mom and their Dad, or any early authority figures... The goal, of course, is to grow toward an adult religion that includes both reason and faith and inner experience that you can trust. A mature God creates mature people. A big God creates big people.

I hope I am growing toward a mature faith, but allowing my image of God to change is no small task.  Awareness is hopefully the first step, but I imagine I may only have my toe on the first step of a processes comprising many flights of stairs.  For now the only thing I know to do is try to sit with the pain and hope that staying in it will allow beauty to enter and commingle with the pain, thereby transforming me in the process.

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.

FEAR

: to be afraid or apprehensive

Our first full week of home school ended on Friday.  These first five days stirred up many of my fears for the upcoming year.  Fear of B pushing every boundary, as I know she is inclined to do.  Fear of the ensuing conflict when I enforce boundaries and help her re-formulate what it means to learn.  Fear that I am not up to the task of dividing my teaching time and talents (which I freely admit are few to begin with).  Fear that B will hate homeschooling.  Fear that this year will be an unmitigated failure.  Can you tell the week did not go well?  Tears on 3 out of 5 days is not what I was hoping for.  I knew the adjustment would be hard.  I just didn't know it would be this difficult.

On our way to church today, I remembered the single blog post that I'd written in Tobago and never posted.  Aptly enough, it dealt with fear - and conquering it.  Here's what I wrote back on August 3rd.

Today I stood up to fear, but let shame beat me.

On day 3 of our Tobago experience, we opted for a tour.  Our plan was to snorkel, ride a glass bottomed boat and tour the old English fort, Fort King George.  I had read in our guidebook that you could drive all the way around Tobago in four hours, but that you would never want to do so.  I found this statement a bit puzzling until I spent an hour and a half riding in the back of a sedan as we sped along the coast, navigating switchback after switchback as we made our way from one end of the island to another.  We passed numerous villages along the way, but were rarely out of sight of the ocean.  The Tobagonian winding way reminded me of what my mother said about a road in my own hometown, "You have to wonder why they wanted the road as close as possible to the water every inch of the way."  I did wonder that today - more than once.

We all four arrives in Speyside a bit nauseous and more than ready to be out of the car.  I'm not sure any of us envisioned a boat ride as the ideal solution for our ill-treated equilibrium.  Yet after 10 minutes or so to change, we stepped aboard a boat for what would be my first snorkeling experience.

The friends with us had each snorkeled before - not extensively, but a time or two.  J and I were novices, but I (arrogantly?) thought it sounded rather easy - breathe through a tube and look through a mask.  How hard could it be?  I grew up near the water (hence the aforementioned winding beach roads) and I'm a fairly confident, if not consistent, swimmer.

I listened as the guides explained how to put our masks on.  I either wasn't listening or missed altogether the explanation of how to actually breathe without inhaling salt water.  So my first attempt yielded a mouthful of brine and a skittish me.  After asking for a bit of help, I was able to do it, but only when I pushed past the fear that rose up every single time I needed to put my face down into the water.  I tried to minimize the need for this by staying in position with my face immersed, but it's impossible to see where you are when looking straight down into the water.  So I needed to occasionally look up - to see where I was in relation to the boat, to locate J, T and M, to decide whether I re-orient.  Every time I wanted to go back to snorkeling after a short break above water, a bit of fear would bubble up inside me - fear that I wouldn't be able to breathe, that my mask would full with water, that I wouldn't be biting the mouthpiece hard enough to keep my mouth from flooding.

I would steel myself and push past the fear and put my face down.  Then I would focus on the comforting sound of my own breathing and its rhythm - a slow inhale, a slow exhale - echoing in my ears to the exclusion of all else.  It calmed me and I was able to focus on the coral, the fish and the sea life.

We only snorkeled at the first stop for a few minutes before heading to another location near a large reef with several types of coral.  I did better on our second outing, but still had to push past fear to put my face in and get started.  I did it anyway and was proud of myself that I didn't let the fear stop me.

There are things for me to hold on to and remember from this.  First and foremost, that I can choose to let fear keep me from some really great experiences or I can choose to reach for the experience in spite of the fear.  I also think it's telling that (as I reference in the first sentence, but never got around to explaining) I fought the fear, but I let shame win.

After snorkeling, we stopped at Argyle Falls.  We hiked through the rain forest and reached a lovely waterfall.  The guide didn't offer to hike up the falls with us, but pointed the way for those interested.  J, T and M perked up immediately.  I, on the other hand, had been slipping and sliding my way over wet rocks with a camera in one hand and my balance compromised and I felt defeated before I even thought about hiking up two levels.  It didn't help my shame that I was by far the least athletic of our quartet.  I was embarrassed and felt I'd hold the others back.  Without so much as a second thought, I encouraged the other three to go ahead without me.  They had a great time and came down satisfied and soaked - having been caught in a surprise rainfall in the rainforest.

The lesson here?  I feel fear as an invasive presence - and I can push through the barriers it puts in front of me.  Shame, on the other hand, is so much a constant companion that I often don't even realize until after the fact that I've let go of the driving wheel and put shame in charge.

I don't want to let shame keep me from doing my best to teach B - even when she throws some curveballs at me.  (Last week, she complained that I should not workout during the day because teachers don't do that.)  I think I can push past my fear that our year will fail.  But I'll have to be far more vigilant to recognize shame's insidious presence, whispering in my ear at every turn, sabotaging me before I ever start.