Just Faith, Everyday

There’s a kismet that follows me around all my days that is often fodder for these writings. Though clarity on these expressions of grace doesn’t happen often, when it does, I have to share. It’s typically when I am down and out--for any reason--that something or someone either touches me on the shoulder or swats me on the head, depending on how delusional I am.  This go around, I got a swat by none other than Rumi, à la Coleman Barks: a poem called “The Guest House.”  Waiting for me after weeks of having put the book down, my bookmark was in the page, and the poem there spoke directly to me in the moment.  This kind of breakthrough happens for me with the Bible or with material I’m reading or discussing for class, or a conversation with friends or family, or some sort of discovery while I research, that sort of thing--but this came up to me and engaged me in a most unusual way, as I felt particularly drawn inward by sorrow, by rumination of what ifs, knee-deep in discern...

Were you there when the sun refused to shine? Something about last night was expiation and epiphany at once for me, inexplicable (though I’ll try here, it will be a laboured effort--forgive me for not quite getting the right words together). A year ago I was in pain, physically and emotionally, on this same night: Good Friday. This year, in an instant, in a song, in the sharing of sacred space with my family and friends, I felt something heavy lifted off of me, borne away. This moment, mysterious, moving through me like nothing else--transformed. Finding joy where you don’t expect it sometimes seems a given; some joys seem sweeter when you do find them out of place: a flower growing, pushing itself up through everything to find air; the scattered rays of sunlight through darkly clouded sky; the last parking spot yielded to you.  Then finding joy in the midst of ceremony, allowing it to walk up to you and make its acquaintance--that’s something else. On a night like Good Friday, wha...

We had the conversation the other day. I looked up at the calendar in the kitchen and realized--then said casually out loud--oh, it’s the second anniversary of Buster going to heaven. What’s heaven, Mama? Looking at her little face, I found myself confronted with one of the most interesting little perplexed looks I’ve seen on her in awhile.  She wanted to know.  She was determined to know. I wasn’t sure I could do this, but took a deep breath and dived right in: It’s where Buster is now, enjoying lots of snacks and playing with squirrels, I said. So they have lots of treats for doggies? Yes, Isabella. And cupcakes? Yes, probably. And flowers? And houses with front and back porches? Yes, all kinds of beautiful things, Isabella. A pause.  Can we go there? Well, no, not for a long time, I think. And it’s very far away. Can we go there by plane? No, Isabella, no, it’s too far for that! And you can only go there one time--you can’t come back. (I was already laughing a little i...

How can I find calm in the midst of trying to do everything at once? On any given day to clean out dishwasher while eating breakfast, then go work out, go to appointments for myself and Isabella, manage tantrums, make lunch, grade papers, bake cookies, make dinner, give bath, read bedtime books, prepare writing workshops and class discussion, prepare bags for the next morning....and on and on, in a cycle, with little to no appreciation but a paycheck (which is nice, and pays the bills, but doesn’t fill my soul so much as deplete it when rote). Maybe there’s something to be said for the humility needed to complete such days that turn into weeks. This level of humility tempters. Nonetheless, somewhere in the midst of making all these decisions and accomplishing all these goals there needs to be time to will the one thing . Time for a little refill. So this year it’s fasting from anger: taking a step back when my three-year-old drops and mashes Playdoh in weird places or writes on t...

This recent snowpocalypse: an impossibly outrageous three days stuck inside, anticipating electrical failure and dangerous traveling conditions, powering down, disconnecting. Turned me inside myself for a look at the better of life. My better self. Turned me solely to my imagination, immersion in it. Giving myself to imagination on the level of toddler at play means wild abandon, release of control, no matter what the situation. Stepping away from the different kinds of noise in my life has allowed me to spend some quality time with my mind. To listen instead for the chimes at the front porch, a bit of wind whipping through leafless trees, or the crunch of icy snow, that muffled sound of the air as it comes down, the sleet pattering the windows, as I nod off in the chair, listening. My mind turned to creating for its sake--writing for myself, doodling and painting, becoming like a child. Pausing long enough to really see the pattern of day-to-day existence influencing my identity ...

Shepherds, why this jubilee? Why your joyous strains prolong? What the gladsome tidings be Which inspire your heavenly song? Gloria in excelsis Deo. --- In our house, Christmas carols have continued long after the tree has been put up, and decorations carefully filed away, and all chocolate eaten (well, not all, yet). In fact, they’ve continued daily in the car with my favorite collection, upon Isabella’s insistence that we always start each ride with “Hark! the Herald Angels Sing” and at some point encounter “Gloria in Excelsis Deo,” also known as “Angels We Have Heard on High.” I’m finding it harder this year to let go the season, in part because of what has transpired in my life of late, and mostly because I am a Christmas person, meaning everything that’s a part of the season--the anticipation of Advent, the upwelling of music and feeling each week leading up to the day--does it for me. In truth, I write this still within the season as a Catholic; I’m not ready for Va...

Suffering doesn’t have tact. For some reason, though we’d like to think otherwise, the holidays are not immune to sorrow, which makes facing them--for those who suffer serious losses--all the more difficult. For years I have thought about those who have touched my life who have suffered through death and loss when everyone around them celebrates something joyful, mostly because I have come to know what this burden is like, and partially because I have always felt a pang in my heart for stories like that of my mother-in-law, who lost her 25 year old daughter to leukemia, and nursed her through the grueling chemo come holiday or not. For people like her, the world falls apart a little bit, and trying to piece together anything of a celebration becomes an Olympic feat. She finds great joy now in her grandchildren, simplicity in play with them, maybe some of that silver lining we want to look for, we force into platitude, but she’s come upon this honestly and genuinely. As for me, I h...