Day 43: Restored

Andrew has to do a project about what part of the trip is his favorite and why. So he's having me take his picture at every stop just in case it turns out to be his favorite. 

We started out at MLK memorial. Then walked to FDR. Then on to Jefferson. 

At each stop, Andrew and I played a game. We read each quote and tried to name the historical context.  Then he picked his favorite quote from each person and I took his picture with it. 

For MLK, he chose:

"The ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in moments of comfort and convenience,  but where he stands at times of challenge and controversy. "

The quote stayed with me as we continued to walk,  read and reflect on 250 years of our nation's history. What decisions we collectively made as a nation in times of challenge and controversy.  There were moments of moral courage.  And moments where the easy road was taken. Moments of living up to the ideals of our nation and moments of failing to. 

As I thought about what I might write for the blog tonight.  I thought about the palm Sunday parade.  The cries of hosanna turned to cries for crucifixion. 

It was a time where people wanted Jesus as a king. They wanted the kingdom he preached.  But in the moment of challenge, they could not stand up for it. 

Peter, so sure he was ready to die with Jesus,  denied having anything to do with him. 

And Jesus,  knowing humanity wasn't ready for his kingdom, laid down his life to pave the path to it. 

God meets us in our moral failure. 

And holds us and points us towards courage. 

The is a grace wide enough for Peter and the crowd that shouted crucify him. Wide enough for slave holders and residential school teachers. Wide enough to lift us up out of moral failure. 

Jesus taught repentance.  

And he taught forgiveness. 

Even in his last breaths. 

He invites us to turn away from the self interested easy road. 

He invites us to release ourselves from bitterness against those who wrong us. Even those who seek to destroy us. 

He invited us even as he hung on a cross. 

He restored Peter.  

He restores us all. 

Day 42: Stay up with me

 It sounded like a cat was dying outside my window. I glanced at the clock 1:58am. My alarm was set for 4am.

I rolled over and tried to back to sleep.  

But I was awake.  

The lament of the previous day louder in my head. Grief for the church.  Grief for the world.  A merry-go-round of ideas of tiny things I could do. Wondering if I should do any of them.  

I prayed. 

I tried to let it go.  But sleep would not come. 

Eventually Zander meandered into the room. I welcomed the snuggle. 

Morning came much before I was ready.  And it was a dash. Last minute items to pack.  Jump in the car.  Hop on the bus. Ride to the airport.  Flu across the country. Eat dinner.  Tour cherry trees and monuments. Walking with a full belly in the evening breeze. Sleep finally starts to come for me.  My back feeling the strain of a day like today. Ibuprofen on the way to the hotel.  Write my blog before we arrive so bed can find me. 

Jesus spent his last living day like this.  Busy with a holiday.  Running around and then the quiet of the night, the heaviness of the road ahead.  No sleep found him. Arrested at the end of an all-nighter. Tried. Abused. Made to carry his cross. Exhausted. Nailed.  Sleep did not find him. The pain was too much. 

I will be grateful for a soft bed in a quiet room.  But sometimes... God speaks when sleep doesn't find us. Being up at night with our hearts is sometimes a sacred liturgy. May we be open to hear God's voice even if it finds us in the middle of the night. 

Day 41: Palm Sunday Blues

I have the strongest feeling of melancholy.  I've been feeling it all day. 

Palm Sunday is one of my favorite services. Not quite as good as Easter vigil,  but maybe a close second. The colors. The joy.  The hosannas. The passion.  

In Sunday school,  we made communion bread. We went all the way back to passover. The bread of haste.  The bread and wine of freedom.  The cup of praise. 

"This is my body. "

We look at pictures of Jesus life. 

Baby Jesus at Christmas

The boy lost in the temple. 

Jesus baptism with his cousin and the dove. 

The sermon on the mount.  

The healing of the blind man.  

And the donkey,  coming to Jerusalem.  On his way to celebrate freedom with his friends. He tries to teach them about a new freedom. They don't really get it. 

The journey into the garden. The tears. The sweat.  The sleeping disciples. The guards.  The Sanhedren.  

This is where it got complicated for Sunday school.  

Charges to lying and overthrowing the government. Lies saying Jesus did things he didn't do. Angry people.  Mistreatment.  And he stayed calm.  They killed him. They hastily put him in a cave.  

Nothing happened. No one did anything but cry.  It was Sabbath.  They weren't allowed to have a funeral. So the women waited to say goodbye to Jesus.  

It was Sunday school.  I couldn't leave it there.  We had to go to Easter. 

The women crept out early in the morning as soon as Sabbath had passed. But something was wrong.  The heavy stone was moved.  The garden seemed empty. They were afraid some other terrible thing had happened. But then...  they saw him. Jesus was there.  Alive.  

And next week.  Church is going to be one big party!

The kids were somber. They carried small loaves of bread to the pastor. She blessed it.  We all ate that bread of freedom.  

I get so much joy watching them.  Helping them learn the faith,  the stories that sustain me.  It is hard to really teach it. There's so much more that comes after Sunday school.  

My heart so full of joy also held sorrow. Sorrow for our world,  still not free. Sorrow for the church.  Sorrow for the lack of support these kids might not have as their faith grows. Sorrow I have not been able to shake all day. 

After church,  I played music with Philip.  He jammed on the drum kit in the sanctuary whole I was on the grand piano.  Then we traded. My heart was joyful. His gift and love of music. The freedom to be playful,  make mistakes, make noise.  But the sorrow followed me.  

We went to lunch as a family. The boys were cracking jokes. We saw old friends at the restaurant. It was a joy to see them. It was a joy to watch the boys be brothers. They love each other.  It makes me so happy.  But that darn sorrow never left. 

In the midst of the joyful parade. People shouting for Jesus to save them.  The sorrow hung in his eyes. 

I feel the sorrow today. The sorrow of things not yet here and still to come. But I choose faith and hope and love.  Jesus chose these even in his sorrow. 

The story has started. May I have ears to hear it again.  

Day 40: Looking forward

 

I can't wait for spring break. 

I've been trying to figure out what we are going to do.  The tricky part is Eddie has a different spring break. His is next week. All the rest of the kids are off the following week. Eddie has calculus on Tuesday and Thursday. He can't really miss.  We can't really go on a trip without him.  

So I've been bummed. Im ready for a break. More than ready.  

I remember two years ago we left from Easter church to start our spring break,  an RV trip to Texas to watch the solar eclipse.  I happily handed out Kindle fires to every kid and scrolled Instagram while sipping a diet coke.  It was GLORIOUS! 

No RV trip this year. We need to do maintenence work on it. We might rent out an Airbnb for a day or two and pull out the rv to work on it. Or maybe,  I'll let the kids play video games while I garden for a week. That sounds tempting. 

The unfolding of possibility is at the center of hope. Hope and faith co-mingle in the potential of a joyful future.  What is heaven like? No idea,  but the unfolding of possibility-- like my spring break -- creates joyful anticipation.  Maybe we'll have bodies,  fully healed,  fully whole,  resurrected and perfect in God's image. Or maybe we'll be free from bodies able to exist purely as spirit. There's a lot of theology about this -- but it's a mystery.  A beautiful holy mystery.  

Lent for me is usually a season of doubt and uncertainty.  One of yearning and seeking. 

Easter is a Polaroid picture. 

Usually faint at first,  but slowly coming into view, and by Pentecost I'm plunged in to the new life and work that God has shown me. Reflection gives way to action. Yearning finds satisfaction. 

Not always.  Im not just reflective during Lent.  But the church calendar,  like the secular calendar leaves a mark on my rhythm.  The thoughts that began a seeds during new year,  sprout and grow during Lent when I intentionally carve out space to sit with them. 

But Easter comes and life floods back in and all the activity I push off during Lent (to create space for reflection) fills my calendar. And in the renewed activity,  dots start to connect and often I can see the hand of God at work,  drawing me in to help.  

I am still in Lent. I don't know what lovely encounter I might have with God during the Easter season,  but I trust it is out there. And I'm looking forward to it. 

We don't go around the cross to get to Easter. We go through it. We don't go around the pain to be healed. We are healed in it. But hope is what we hold while we're going through it. God is with me. God is at work here and on the other side,  there's something amazing. Hold on.  We're almost there. 

Day 38: The painful path to healing

 

I woke up frozen. 

Everything hurt and I was afraid to move. But I had to go to the bathroom. I lay there planning the best,  least painful strategy to get from horizontal to vertical.  I dreaded it.  

Working up the courage,  I used my arms to lift my legs and move them slowly to the edge of the bed. If I could swing them off, I'd be most of the way there. There was an obstacle course of pillows to move and every twitch, every slow careful movement was accompanied with suspenseful breaths. Will this be OK?

I finally got my feet to the floor. 

"Oh, for the love of all things holy,  please do not jump on me, Zander."

His excited eyes dimmed. 

My hand pressed against the bedside table and lifted me up. I leaned against the wall as I slowly hobbled to the bathroom, already planning for how I might manage all the logistics once I got there. 

The thing about muscle injuries is that it is terrifying to try to move. The thought of movement fires the nerve,  the nerve contracts to the muscle and also,  the nerve registers the pain. So sometimes even the thought of moving is painful. In fact,  sometimes the thought of moving is more painful than the actual moving. 

But muscles and nerves need to work together to heal the injury -- movement is part of the healing process.  Even though it hurts. 

I spent the day pondering about other forms of healing that hurts. Much of it does -- getting stitches,  fixing a cavity,  washing out a cut,  putting a dislocated bone back in place. This pain is often accompanied by fear. It feels like there is a choice that sometimes I don't want to make -- accept mild discomfort with status quo or risk a greater pain to try to heal it. 

The thing is,  healing isn't always garuanteed. It's probable. But there is an element of faith involved.  

Spiritual and emotional healing can look like this too. There is a big discomfort in naming something that is broken within me. Saying it out loud and admitting it is there. Repentance.  Brokenness. Vulnerability. Creating space for God to heal me is to first receive the pain associated with that broken piece of myself. There might be practices, like PT, that God reforms my heart and soul through repeated movement in the uncomfortable ways of wholeness. Then one day,  I am healed and I look back to who I was and I see that somethings that were once hard are now easy.

Christ choose this kind of healing too. Satan confronted him in the desert with the greatest of temptations -- "there's a way to wholeness without suffering" 

But Jesus didn't take it. 

I've long wrestled with the cross. There is so much about it that doesn't make sense. Surely God could redeem a broken world without entering into the brokenness. Surely God could heal us with a magic that doesn't require the process to hurt. 

But sometimes the healing is IN the pain. It is the pain itself that heals. And summoning up the courage to enter into the healing is also part of the healing. Jesus healed us and Jesus is taught us how to be healed by going ahead of us and showing us what it looks like. 

Today I moved around. I stretched.  I walked.  I took myself to the pool. I entered into my Owen path of healing. It hurt  but I can tell I'm starting to mend. 

May you have courage to enter into healing whenever God invites you to it. Even if it hurts a little. Amen.  

Day 37: For people with bodies who annoy them

I hadn't expected my infusions to be a big deal.  I've been doing them every six months for the past 2 years. With time,  they have figured out better how to lessen side effects and maximize effectiveness. I can't begin to say how grateful I am for the doctors and nurses who spent the time and care to figure these things out. 

So I wasn't really thinking they would be that big of a deal. A couple of days to recover after each one and on my way. 

Unfortunately,  every time is a bit of a new ball of worms.  Slightly different set of side effects. I had usual tiredness and chills and sore throat (which is such a strange side effect) but this time I was incredibly nauseous and I had a tightness in my chest with a shortness of breath. 

The nausea felt very lent-y. 

The breathing thing worried me. 

There is a rare side effect with this medicine that it can impact your lungs. But the thing is,  the disease also impacts the lungs. So.. it was hard to tell what was going and and if it was significant enough to report. So I monitored and wondered and reflected on this medicine as a sort of safety net.  

It was a sobering and very lenten reflection. If I ever have to stop taking this medicine for whatever reason,  there aren't many alternatives to control the disease.  So far,  the disease has been very limited in how it has effected me but it is can be a narly disease. 

Dust we are and to dust we return. 

Just when I was about to write my doctor about the breathing thing -- I woke up much better. Like 1,000 pounds lifted off my shoulders. I was so so grateful.  

I also felt silly for worrying. Like a child climbing down out of a jungle gym with a foot 2 inches from the ground who's absolutely terrified to keep going. 

Good thing no one saw me panic, cause that was ridiculous.  Oh ya, I just wrote about it on my very public blog. Oh well. Vulnerability is a spiritual practice.  

Anyways,  yesterday, the nausea started to lift and today,  I ate like normal. It was glorious.  

Perfect timing. I'm supposed to go with Andrew and his 8th grade class to Washington DC during Holy week and I have been praying that I would feel better. 

The weather was perfect this afternoon and the kids don't have school tomorrow so I took miles to the store for some treats for another audiobook marathon (and some dinner because I'm feeling too lazy to cook tonight.)

As I loaded groceries into the van, I feel it,  like a spring in a watch that has popped out of place my back did that little -- tweak. I finished loading groceries and drove 4 blocks back to my house. By the time I got home I couldn't stand upright. My back was in full spasm and I could barely walk.  Hunched up, I hobbled inside and told the boys to bring groceries in. Glad I got dinner. 

I hobbled into the shower and got heat on it. Grabbed an ice pack,  took some ibuprofen and stared googling, "how to fix a bad back in under 3 days. " I texted my brother who is the most gifted physical therapist I've ever met (he can literally do magic with his hands and just fix things and make them work again). He gave me a plan. I'm working the plan and again praying that I'll be better by that flight to Washington. 

Jesus has a body. He faced the fear of death and tired legs.  He only lived to 33 so maybe he never had a bad back,  but he definitely wrestled with body stuff. 

I think there is something added to spirituality in having to struggle with the joys, pleasures,  sorrows and struggles of having a body. If I just lived as spirit,  I think faith would be easier.  I would be more like I imagine myself to be. But my body makes me tired and cranky,  limits me when I feel limitless, grounds me to the present in a way I'm sure I could never be without a body. And then there are the ways I see myself as I look at my body -- life giving and nourishing,  strong and caregiving. Fragile and finite. 

Holy week is the re-telling of a deeply physical spiritual story. One in which God takes on the limited frailty of containment in a biological body. That eats and drinks with friends. That weeps. That prays with such a high level of stress and anxiety that he actually just starts bleeding. That falls under the weight of the cross and endures lashes with a whip. That struggles to breathe and cries in anguish. 

God entered into humanity to show us that there is nothing our bodies will face that God will not join us in. To show us that there is not one thing that can separate us from God's love. And that our very limited,  blemished bodies are in fact temples of the most high -- redeemed and beloved.  

Whatever crap your body decides to dish out,  you can answer back with "God is with me in this too. " Also,  please pray for my back. I really don't want to get on a plane like this. 

Day 36: The stories we tell

Wednesday is a short day. A long afternoon for brothers to find some fun in the middle of the week.  Lately they've been playing a board game,  but today they choose to lay around and listen to their latest audiobook.  

They are re-listening to a series called Guardians of GaHoole. An epic about owls battling good vs evil. All the elements are there. Lore.  A band of heroes. Moral struggles. A rich world and a rich cast of characters.  

They listened for hours. Our family gets into stories.  Sometimes we spend full days on our RV trips listening to a book while we drive or hike.  

I woke this morning to a different story.  A real one.  My brother texted me before the sun was up.  Giddy. A co-worker of his us getting baptized and asked him to participate. He was bubbling with excitement. His texts reminded me of stories in the Gospels. People who had seen Jesus and ran and told.  "God is here among us. " My heart smiled. My brother met Jesus in the road. He sees the work of God painted in the life of someone he knows. And in the telling of the story,  he experiences God again. And as I share the story,  God leans over my shoulder.  I'm pretty sure God likes stories too. 

There is another story that had stayed with me this week.  

Eddie and I are reading Life of Pi for his current literature book. 

Life of Pi is a story about an Indian boy who finds himself stranded at sea with a tiger following a shipwreck. An interesting thing about Pi is that he is deeply religious.  Following Christianity,  Islam and Hinduism. 

We're currently reading about his early religious experiences. He grew up a Hindu. He shares a chapter with sacred Hindu stories with a variety of God's who seem to serve as different faces of an unknowable divine. Hinduism is a religion that I know relatively little about so it was interesting to me to hear some bits of the theology. 

But the next chapter was he introduction too Christianity. He was a bit afraid of Christians, but intrigued.... enough to sneak into a church. He describes the church as a complete outsider to the Christian faith and story. He sees these gruesome pictures of torture and wonders why God would punish a man so harshly and why this particular story would be featured so prominently in the church's art work. 

He sits with the priest who tells the story of Jesus. Pi is confused. In his mind,  gods are above humanity. Why would a god send a son to become human and then to die? The story offended him.  The more he thought about it,  the more he was offended by it. He couldn't stay away -- the anger burned,  the questions burned --  who was this God? Who was this Jesus? 

He returned daily for several days firing he anger and questions to the priest. The priests response was always simple - Love. 

The answer to all questions about this story is love. 

Finally,  exasperated, Pi asks the priest to tell him another story. 

The priest replies, "We have but one story. There are many prologue. But one story.  And this story has but one word. "

Love.  

Seeing my faith through the unknowing eyes of a young Hindu boy,  tells me a story I know by heart in a way I've never heard it. 

Seeing the texts from my brother adds a few new sentences to my personal epilogue. So does watching my boys grow up. 

Palm Sunday is a few days away.  Christians everywhere will begin telling our story. We will do it with dramatic readings and reenactment. We will do it with liturgy and the pounding of a nail or the slamming of a book on a silent sanctuary.  We will walk the stations and strip the alter. We might watch movies or read the scriptures. We might tell the story with meals or rituals.  Beautifully, our Jewish siblings will be similarly telling the passover story with liturgy,  readings,  meals and rituals. It truly will be a holy week full of holy stories. 

Get lost in the story, my friends. 

Lay around like my boys with their audiobook and allow the hours to pass as you lose yourself in the story. It is epic. Rich with moral struggles and a rich cast of characters.  Let it anger you or fill you with questions. Let it work into your brain and drive you crazy. And then,  remember ... love... love is the story of Jesus. And perhaps,  you may run into God during this very holy week.