Just Faith, Everyday

The morning back from Christmas break, in spite of all the whining and general malaise not having a schedule can bring, is always a little heartbreaking for me. I get something from my oldest’s excitement about rejoining her friends at school, and my littlest’s joy in play—they’re clearly not worried about the passage of time. But I am. In a way, I consider too closely the passage of time, mark its moments and wonder, when next? What next? Why not just be in the moment completely and touch what God is handing me now? I know what you’re thinking: there are many reasons why. Daily any one of us gets caught up in the hustle and bustle of what we perceive as life. You’re right.  My point, though, is that when we pause for any holiday—that actual making time for time—we realize we are, many of us, creatures of habit and control, unable to be still until given the opportunity to understand the richness of stillness.  I found this year stillness to be more valuable than any p...

I love the strong imagery of Isaiah—the parched land will be glad (35:1). Everything revolves around what was depleted becoming bloom, glory, rejoicing, shouting for joy. being able to see God, to be strengthened even in weakness. To go from being lame to leaping; from being blind to seeing; from being deaf to hearing—to experience life in its fullness is what Isaiah describes. All the images are wonderful, but the “Way” (35:8) is one which makes it into modern Christianity poorly translated in the cultural and spiritual sense. It’s a way of redemption—the remade self, just as Isaiah describes. He says on this road, “Gladness and joy will overtake them, and sorrow and sighing will flee away” (35:10). This meant something different to the original audience, but for us, we can only come to a modern understanding with the original humility intended. Which is to say—not that we have picked the right road, or have the best GPS for that journey, but that we are more vulnerable and powerful s...

I find myself two months since my last post, caught up in the usual busyness of life. I thank God that most of this, while challenging, has been rewarding: watching my students grow in knowledge and understanding; watching my beautiful daughters show me how lucky I am to know little souls; grappling with everyday problems. I also struggle with the kinds of problems that feel like they can’t be solved, or won’t be, at least, for a long time. God throws quite a few of those at me, alongside graces. Always graces, snuck in as part of the package strange and foreboding, even.  Throughout my life I have found on my proverbial doorstep so many with deeply broken selves and struggles, and in recent times I have found my own, too—struggles that test the core of what I believe, in my soul, to be the right way to live in this world as we look toward the next: to be merciful, even in the face of mercilessness. Thanksgiving is upon us, and mercilessness is on the rise; my prayer is that we see...

Depression and suffering look like a lot of things—so different for each sufferer. It’s being pulled into the past, into regrets that are anchored in, almost always, someone else’s wrongful action, someone’s deeply hurting words, something that branded young and fast— and this pain has stuck deeply. And everyday we walk around surrounded by people who suffer—and some so much more than others. What of the mother grappling with inexplicable daily darkness that she cannot explain, for fear of being misunderstood, for fear of platitudes sending her deeper into despair? Or the father grappling with an abusive childhood, so solidly marked on his soul that he near daily has to deal with old wounds opening when someone provokes in the same way his authority figures had? Or the young woman grappling with sexual abuse at the hands of what should have been a trusted family member—what of her daily open wound? Or those who experience trauma—exile, earthquake, hurricane, regime, the swiping of ...

Consider the *pause* before-- this realization that, taking a step back, the snarl in front of you might start to make some sense, or at the least you can start to enjoy its intricacies, its puzzle. That’s what I’ve been learning about these past months, with many life lessons still and always in progress, and it’s making me more human. Which is to say, more vulnerable, more fragile, and at the same time stronger, if conflicted. The point of my musing today? That if you think you’ve got things figured out, you’re stagnating or avoiding something. And just about all pain and suffering is a space for something new to sprout, something that may not have had the chance otherwise, not without some pushback in conflict to lead the way. Now, don’t get me wrong: i don’t enjoy living in conflict. In fact, what I want to do is crawl under the covers and hide, sometimes. My mind reminds, me , though, that in past times, facing conflict has often (if not always) been a fruitful endeavor. Exc...

Choosing to love is a precarious thing, more for some than for others. There’s such a variety of things to get in the way: our expectations, emotions, other’s perceptions, past hurts. Watching my children become human and learn how to love has become a favorite pastime of mine, maybe moreso a daily lesson. The challenge of this lesson comes when my eldest challenges authority, and in this aims to test the bounds of love: even if I do something wrong, will Mama still love me? Will that love remain? She’s feeling out the nature of mercy. Love itself is authority in our lives, and how we choose to acknowledge the mandate of love comes at us in different ways every day. One of the problems of late? So many who have decided that hatred, cynicism, generalization about entire groups of people, and an overall lack of mercy in favor of repudiation and control wipes the mandate of love right out. It disturbs me to the core. The death of my colleague and friend Lance Wilder at age 47 drew out for...

Discernment is this series of steps that themselves seem daunting: making observations in the pause of realization; naming or voicing your aims or even worries; praying and meditating over these; taking some kind of action. Sometimes just taking one step is the biggest reward, and that’s been true for me: it has taken me 10 months to birth the pause. I wanted to jump for joy when I realized it—that I can see and not blow past significant and insignificant realizations and draw the connections to what I seek from them. I have found that when I can observe—when I can stay in observational mode in any crisis or even internally, looking at myself—I am at my best. I so cherish this discovery (or perhaps rediscovery) and will aim to ruminate a bit on it here in my summer blog. Now that the season has changed and I have in essence dropped my job, I suddenly have the gift of time, another thing precious to me. Who knew the both would come together so fortuitously? There are elements of childho...