Holding hands in the dark

I woke up in a bleak place Saturday. A very bleak place. It wasn’t the place of utter desolation, like the morning after 9/11, but I could not find comfort anywhere. It was raining for like the seventy fifth day in a row. I suffer from seasonal affective disorder, refuse to recover from my need for sun bathing, would commit suicide if I lived in Seattle or London, and at times I think I could convert to worshiping Ra, the sun god. I only recall one time in my life when I actually complained about the heat- it was 104 in the shade that day and I was sitting on astro turf. The news couldn’t be worse- North Korea has a ICBM pointed at the west coast, a murder suicide on the mother baby unit at a local hospital, 30% of Irag-Afghanistan war veterans have thought about suicide, the ever looming health care crisis and gas prices are going to rise again. Two of my friends had terrible diseases. One of my friends buried a spouse. Another very dear friend is lost and can’t find herself. And is it just me or is there a new sexual abuse scandal every other day? And A-Rod may get a lifetime suspension from baseball. I am not an A-Rod fan and he should be banned for life along with every other user, I am just frustrated over the sports industry’s apparent inability to get a handle on PEDs. A zero-tolerance policy might be a start. I had just decided to go to nursing school for the third time. After I sat through orientation last week, it occurred to me I just thought round one was tough. When I introduced myself to the three young (young being the operative word) women on my track- they were only 4 years old in 1986. I graduated from nursing school the first time in 1986. One actually remarked that I didn’t look all that old and did we really have to wear caps back then? True story. I didn’t do the math but I think that means I could be their mother. And had I had the good sense to go to grad school years ago, I would have taught them in nursing school. They were lamenting that the night before their hospital had lost power and the back up to back up generator didn’t come on. They didn’t know how to pass meds or chart the old school way much less take a temp and BP without a machine. None of them had ever mixed an IV in their careers or charted on paper or had even seen a four-colored ballpoint pen. And I had a very, very tough interview with an ethics review board coming up. I guess I should pause to say that I am the complainant lest any rumors start flying around. 49 can be tough: my friend Rosemary said to approach my forty ninth year like a frozen gym membership, where I am taking a break. So far, I have not jumped out a window, which during rough patches passes for grace right now in my life. This falls short of heaven, but some days will just have to do. So in the face of all of this, I did the most amazing thing. I got out of bed. I could still walk. I still had most of my mental faculties. A more mature person would say, Thank you Jesus. But I thought, dear God in heaven, my back hurts, my head hurts, my fingers are stiff, where are my damn glasses, I am getting old. Then I ate a bowl of blackberries and blueberries, six Oreo cookies and drank a café mocha breve to level the playing field. Then I picked up the BCP. And it was not good. The readings were long and boring. It wasn’t a feast day. There wasn’t a saint to commemorate and I didn’t know who William Hunnington was. My mind kept wandering and the hymn sucked. I kept looking at the time and checking my face book page for what I don’t know. I Googled William Hunnington. I Googled the Lambeth quadrilateral. I changed chairs four times. I lit a candle. I played Gregorian chants and then gave up and played U2, which is very spiritual BTW. I gave up. I decided that this spiritual discipline was worthless and I was going to close the BCP and never open it again. If I currently had a spiritual director, he or she would say something like “What do you think God was saying to you during that time?” To which I would want respond “Well, gee I don’t know that is why I here, don’t you know?” But instead, I would put on my best good girl smile and say, “Be still???” To which the spiritual director is probably muttering to him or herself, “What new fresh hell is this?” Truth be told, I doubt that good girl smile has fooled very many, ok…maybe one or two. And I have been known to fake an answer or two with a spiritual director. I am fairly certain that lying to spiritual director defeats the purpose of going to see one, but I am also overly confident that the Holy Spirit can compensate for any of my character flaws. Then something amazing happened. I would call it grace, but then I am very easy. It was like when you clean your glasses and put them back on or a deep breath or a cool breeze on a hot day. I suddenly remembered reading in a favorite author’s book on grace, the best spiritual directive she ever got: Don’t be an asshole, make sure everybody eats. And a pastor once said: “I am only a beggar, showing other beggars where the bread is.” There are many kinds of food besides meat, dairy, grains and fruit. There is kindness, compassion, friendship, prayer (if I could ever quiet my mind), joy, and peace. And finally I had given up just enough to realize I was going to get through this disappointing moment in prayer and anyway you have to be somewhere: better here at prayer than say at the dentist office getting a root canal, stuck in traffic or at the IRS. And it is good to practice prayer because it forces you to see yourself and to act slightly more gracefully and it improves your thoughts and thus the world. After I finished reading the psalms, the gospel, the Old Testament reading, saying the Apostle’s Creed, and praying the Lord’s Prayer, I no longer felt like throwing the BCP away and giving up on prayer. So, I was shocked when I spoke to her later that day and she said she loved my smile and how I looked really happy. I am not sure she wanted any secrets to happiness and I am not sure she wanted to hear any of my worthless wisdom, but it occurred to me that perhaps when we are at our worst, when we are frightened, depressed, panicky, anxious, angry, disillusioned, exhausted, lost, hopeless, or just in a bad mood…perhaps that is when God does his best work. Perhaps when we are honest and real and actually stop flailing around inside our heads…God shows up. God can’t clean house while we are still in it. I am not sure she expected the answer I gave her, but I told her honestly I am a wreck and honestly I don’t feel happy but I hope that doesn’t keep me from enjoying whatever moment of joy I find myself. I told her my head is a pretty scary place right now and I feel lost all the time and I don’t know what the next half of my life is going to look like. I think you just have to show up to the life before you…the good, the bad, the ugly, the scary, and the beautiful. Somewhere in all that mess, there are breaths of grace. Sometimes you just have to get out of bed and start. Even if it requires six Oreo cookies, a mocha breve, U2, and Goggle to make it happen. And perhaps the best spiritual directive I could give her on joy: “Let’s just hold hands in the dark and we will find our way from here.” I woke up in a bleak place Saturday. A very bleak place. It wasn’t the place of utter desolation, like the morning after 9/11, but I could not find comfort anywhere. It was raining for like the seventy fifth day in a row. I suffer from seasonal affective disorder, refuse to recover from my need for sun bathing, would commit suicide if I lived in Seattle or London, and at times I think I could convert to worshiping Ra, the sun god. I only recall one time in my life when I actually complained about the heat- it was 104 in the shade that day and I was sitting on astro turf. The news couldn’t be worse- North Korea has a ICBM pointed at the west coast, a murder suicide on the mother baby unit at a local hospital, 30% of Irag-Afghanistan war veterans have thought about suicide, the ever looming health care crisis and gas prices are going to rise again. Two of my friends had terrible diseases. One of my friends buried a spouse. Another very dear friend is lost and can’t find herself. And is it just me or is there a new sexual abuse scandal every other day? And A-Rod may get a lifetime suspension from baseball. I am not an A-Rod fan and he should be banned for life along with every other user, I am just frustrated over the sports industry’s apparent inability to get a handle on PEDs. A zero-tolerance policy might be a start. I had just decided to go to nursing school for the third time. After I sat through orientation last week, it occurred to me I just thought round one was tough. When I introduced myself to the three young (young being the operative word) women on my track- they were only 4 years old in 1986. I graduated from nursing school the first time in 1986. One actually remarked that I didn’t look all that old and did we really have to wear caps back then? True story. I didn’t do the math but I think that means I could be their mother. And had I had the good sense to go to grad school years ago, I would have taught them in nursing school. They were lamenting that the night before their hospital had lost power and the back up to back up generator didn’t come on. They didn’t know how to pass meds or chart the old school way much less take a temp and BP without a machine. None of them had ever mixed an IV in their careers or charted on paper or had even seen a four-colored ballpoint pen. And I had a very, very tough interview with an ethics review board coming up. I guess I should pause to say that I am the complainant lest any rumors start flying around. 49 can be tough: my friend Rosemary said to approach my forty ninth year like a frozen gym membership, where I am taking a break. So far, I have not jumped out a window, which during rough patches passes for grace right now in my life. This falls short of heaven, but some days will just have to do. So in the face of all of this, I did the most amazing thing. I got out of bed. I could still walk. I still had most of my mental faculties. A more mature person would say, Thank you Jesus. But I thought, dear God in heaven, my back hurts, my head hurts, my fingers are stiff, where are my damn glasses, I am getting old. Then I ate a bowl of blackberries and blueberries, six Oreo cookies and drank a café mocha breve to level the playing field. Then I picked up the BCP. And it was not good. The readings were long and boring. It wasn’t a feast day. There wasn’t a saint to commemorate and I didn’t know who William Hunnington was. My mind kept wandering and the hymn sucked. I kept looking at the time and checking my face book page for what I don’t know. I Googled William Hunnington. I Googled the Lambeth quadrilateral. I changed chairs four times. I lit a candle. I played Gregorian chants and then gave up and played U2, which is very spiritual BTW. I gave up. I decided that this spiritual discipline was worthless and I was going to close the BCP and never open it again. If I currently had a spiritual director, he or she would say something like “What do you think God was saying to you during that time?” To which I would want respond “Well, gee I don’t know that is why I here, don’t you know?” But instead, I would put on my best good girl smile and say, “Be still???” To which the spiritual director is probably muttering to him or herself, “What new fresh hell is this?” Truth be told, I doubt that good girl smile has fooled very many, ok…maybe one or two. And I have been known to fake an answer or two with a spiritual director. I am fairly certain that lying to spiritual director defeats the purpose of going to see one, but I am also overly confident that the Holy Spirit can compensate for any of my character flaws. Then something amazing happened. I would call it grace, but then I am very easy. It was like when you clean your glasses and put them back on or a deep breath or a cool breeze on a hot day. I suddenly remembered reading in a favorite author’s book on grace, the best spiritual directive she ever got: Don’t be an asshole, make sure everybody eats. And a pastor once said: “I am only a beggar, showing other beggars where the bread is.” There are many kinds of food besides meat, dairy, grains and fruit. There is kindness, compassion, friendship, prayer (if I could ever quiet my mind), joy, and peace. And finally I had given up just enough to realize I was going to get through this disappointing moment in prayer and anyway you have to be somewhere: better here at prayer than say at the dentist office getting a root canal, stuck in traffic or at the IRS. And it is good to practice prayer because it forces you to see yourself and to act slightly more gracefully and it improves your thoughts and thus the world. After I finished reading the psalms, the gospel, the Old Testament reading, saying the Apostle’s Creed, and praying the Lord’s Prayer, I no longer felt like throwing the BCP away and giving up on prayer. So, I was shocked when I spoke to her later that day and she said she loved my smile and how I looked really happy. I am not sure she wanted any secrets to happiness and I am not sure she wanted to hear any of my worthless wisdom, but it occurred to me that perhaps when we are at our worst, when we are frightened, depressed, panicky, anxious, angry, disillusioned, exhausted, lost, hopeless, or just in a bad mood…perhaps that is when God does his best work. Perhaps when we are honest and real and actually stop flailing around inside our heads…God shows up. God can’t clean house while we are still in it. I am not sure she expected the answer I gave her, but I told her honestly I am a wreck and honestly I don’t feel happy but I hope that doesn’t keep me from enjoying whatever moment of joy I find myself. I told her my head is a pretty scary place right now and I feel lost all the time and I don’t know what the next half of my life is going to look like. I think you just have to show up to the life before you…the good, the bad, the ugly, the scary, and the beautiful. Somewhere in all that mess, there are breaths of grace. Sometimes you just have to get out of bed and start. Even if it requires six Oreo cookies, a mocha breve, U2, and Goggle to make it happen. And perhaps the best spiritual directive I could give her on joy: “Let’s just hold hands in the dark and we will find our way from here.” I woke up in a bleak place Saturday. A very bleak place. It wasn’t the place of utter desolation, like the morning after 9/11, but I could not find comfort anywhere. It was raining for like the seventy fifth day in a row. I suffer from seasonal affective disorder, refuse to recover from my need for sun bathing, would commit suicide if I lived in Seattle or London, and at times I think I could convert to worshiping Ra, the sun god. I only recall one time in my life when I actually complained about the heat- it was 104 in the shade that day and I was sitting on astro turf. The news couldn’t be worse- North Korea has a ICBM pointed at the west coast, a murder suicide on the mother baby unit at a local hospital, 30% of Irag-Afghanistan war veterans have thought about suicide, the ever looming health care crisis and gas prices are going to rise again. Two of my friends had terrible diseases. One of my friends buried a spouse. Another very dear friend is lost and can’t find herself. And is it just me or is there a new sexual abuse scandal every other day? And A-Rod may get a lifetime suspension from baseball. I am not an A-Rod fan and he should be banned for life along with every other user, I am just frustrated over the sports industry’s apparent inability to get a handle on PEDs. A zero-tolerance policy might be a start. I had just decided to go to nursing school for the third time. After I sat through orientation last week, it occurred to me I just thought round one was tough. When I introduced myself to the three young (young being the operative word) women on my track- they were only 4 years old in 1986. I graduated from nursing school the first time in 1986. One actually remarked that I didn’t look all that old and did we really have to wear caps back then? True story. I didn’t do the math but I think that means I could be their mother. And had I had the good sense to go to grad school years ago, I would have taught them in nursing school. They were lamenting that the night before their hospital had lost power and the back up to back up generator didn’t come on. They didn’t know how to pass meds or chart the old school way much less take a temp and BP without a machine. None of them had ever mixed an IV in their careers or charted on paper or had even seen a four-colored ballpoint pen. And I had a very, very tough interview with an ethics review board coming up. I guess I should pause to say that I am the complainant lest any rumors start flying around. 49 can be tough: my friend Rosemary said to approach my forty ninth year like a frozen gym membership, where I am taking a break. So far, I have not jumped out a window, which during rough patches passes for grace right now in my life. This falls short of heaven, but some days will just have to do. So in the face of all of this, I did the most amazing thing. I got out of bed. I could still walk. I still had most of my mental faculties. A more mature person would say, Thank you Jesus. But I thought, dear God in heaven, my back hurts, my head hurts, my fingers are stiff, where are my damn glasses, I am getting old. Then I ate a bowl of blackberries and blueberries, six Oreo cookies and drank a café mocha breve to level the playing field. Then I picked up the BCP. And it was not good. The readings were long and boring. It wasn’t a feast day. There wasn’t a saint to commemorate and I didn’t know who William Hunnington was. My mind kept wandering and the hymn sucked. I kept looking at the time and checking my face book page for what I don’t know. I Googled William Hunnington. I Googled the Lambeth quadrilateral. I changed chairs four times. I lit a candle. I played Gregorian chants and then gave up and played U2, which is very spiritual BTW. I gave up. I decided that this spiritual discipline was worthless and I was going to close the BCP and never open it again. If I currently had a spiritual director, he or she would say something like “What do you think God was saying to you during that time?” To which I would want respond “Well, gee I don’t know that is why I here, don’t you know?” But instead, I would put on my best good girl smile and say, “Be still???” To which the spiritual director is probably muttering to him or herself, “What new fresh hell is this?” Truth be told, I doubt that good girl smile has fooled very many, ok…maybe one or two. And I have been known to fake an answer or two with a spiritual director. I am fairly certain that lying to spiritual director defeats the purpose of going to see one, but I am also overly confident that the Holy Spirit can compensate for any of my character flaws. Then something amazing happened. I would call it grace, but then I am very easy. It was like when you clean your glasses and put them back on or a deep breath or a cool breeze on a hot day. I suddenly remembered reading in a favorite author’s book on grace, the best spiritual directive she ever got: Don’t be an asshole, make sure everybody eats. And a pastor once said: “I am only a beggar, showing other beggars where the bread is.” There are many kinds of food besides meat, dairy, grains and fruit. There is kindness, compassion, friendship, prayer (if I could ever quiet my mind), joy, and peace. And finally I had given up just enough to realize I was going to get through this disappointing moment in prayer and anyway you have to be somewhere: better here at prayer than say at the dentist office getting a root canal, stuck in traffic or at the IRS. And it is good to practice prayer because it forces you to see yourself and to act slightly more gracefully and it improves your thoughts and thus the world. After I finished reading the psalms, the gospel, the Old Testament reading, saying the Apostle’s Creed, and praying the Lord’s Prayer, I no longer felt like throwing the BCP away and giving up on prayer. So, I was shocked when I spoke to her later that day and she said she loved my smile and how I looked really happy. I am not sure she wanted any secrets to happiness and I am not sure she wanted to hear any of my worthless wisdom, but it occurred to me that perhaps when we are at our worst, when we are frightened, depressed, panicky, anxious, angry, disillusioned, exhausted, lost, hopeless, or just in a bad mood…perhaps that is when God does his best work. Perhaps when we are honest and real and actually stop flailing around inside our heads…God shows up. God can’t clean house while we are still in it. I am not sure she expected the answer I gave her, but I told her honestly I am a wreck and honestly I don’t feel happy but I hope that doesn’t keep me from enjoying whatever moment of joy I find myself. I told her my head is a pretty scary place right now and I feel lost all the time and I don’t know what the next half of my life is going to look like. I think you just have to show up to the life before you…the good, the bad, the ugly, the scary, and the beautiful. Somewhere in all that mess, there are breaths of grace. Sometimes you just have to get out of bed and start. Even if it requires six Oreo cookies, a mocha breve, U2, and Goggle to make it happen. And perhaps the best spiritual directive I could give her on joy: “Let’s just hold hands in the dark and we will find our way from here.” I woke up in a bleak place Saturday. A very bleak place. It wasn’t the place of utter desolation, like the morning after 9/11, but I could not find comfort anywhere. It was raining for like the seventy fifth day in a row. I suffer from seasonal affective disorder, refuse to recover from my need for sun bathing, would commit suicide if I lived in Seattle or London, and at times I think I could convert to worshiping Ra, the sun god. I only recall one time in my life when I actually complained about the heat- it was 104 in the shade that day and I was sitting on astro turf. The news couldn’t be worse- North Korea has a ICBM pointed at the west coast, a murder suicide on the mother baby unit at a local hospital, 30% of Irag-Afghanistan war veterans have thought about suicide, the ever looming health care crisis and gas prices are going to rise again. Two of my friends had terrible diseases. One of my friends buried a spouse. Another very dear friend is lost and can’t find herself. And is it just me or is there a new sexual abuse scandal every other day? And A-Rod may get a lifetime suspension from baseball. I am not an A-Rod fan and he should be banned for life along with every other user, I am just frustrated over the sports industry’s apparent inability to get a handle on PEDs. A zero-tolerance policy might be a start. I had just decided to go to nursing school for the third time. After I sat through orientation last week, it occurred to me I just thought round one was tough. When I introduced myself to the three young (young being the operative word) women on my track- they were only 4 years old in 1986. I graduated from nursing school the first time in 1986. One actually remarked that I didn’t look all that old and did we really have to wear caps back then? True story. I didn’t do the math but I think that means I could be their mother. And had I had the good sense to go to grad school years ago, I would have taught them in nursing school. They were lamenting that the night before their hospital had lost power and the back up to back up generator didn’t come on. They didn’t know how to pass meds or chart the old school way much less take a temp and BP without a machine. None of them had ever mixed an IV in their careers or charted on paper or had even seen a four-colored ballpoint pen. And I had a very, very tough interview with an ethics review board coming up. I guess I should pause to say that I am the complainant lest any rumors start flying around. 49 can be tough: my friend Rosemary said to approach my forty ninth year like a frozen gym membership, where I am taking a break. So far, I have not jumped out a window, which during rough patches passes for grace right now in my life. This falls short of heaven, but some days will just have to do. So in the face of all of this, I did the most amazing thing. I got out of bed. I could still walk. I still had most of my mental faculties. A more mature person would say, Thank you Jesus. But I thought, dear God in heaven, my back hurts, my head hurts, my fingers are stiff, where are my damn glasses, I am getting old. Then I ate a bowl of blackberries and blueberries, six Oreo cookies and drank a café mocha breve to level the playing field. Then I picked up the BCP. And it was not good. The readings were long and boring. It wasn’t a feast day. There wasn’t a saint to commemorate and I didn’t know who William Hunnington was. My mind kept wandering and the hymn sucked. I kept looking at the time and checking my face book page for what I don’t know. I Googled William Hunnington. I Googled the Lambeth quadrilateral. I changed chairs four times. I lit a candle. I played Gregorian chants and then gave up and played U2, which is very spiritual BTW. I gave up. I decided that this spiritual discipline was worthless and I was going to close the BCP and never open it again. If I currently had a spiritual director, he or she would say something like “What do you think God was saying to you during that time?” To which I would want respond “Well, gee I don’t know that is why I here, don’t you know?” But instead, I would put on my best good girl smile and say, “Be still???” To which the spiritual director is probably muttering to him or herself, “What new fresh hell is this?” Truth be told, I doubt that good girl smile has fooled very many, ok…maybe one or two. And I have been known to fake an answer or two with a spiritual director. I am fairly certain that lying to spiritual director defeats the purpose of going to see one, but I am also overly confident that the Holy Spirit can compensate for any of my character flaws. Then something amazing happened. I would call it grace, but then I am very easy. It was like when you clean your glasses and put them back on or a deep breath or a cool breeze on a hot day. I suddenly remembered reading in a favorite author’s book on grace, the best spiritual directive she ever got: Don’t be an asshole, make sure everybody eats. And a pastor once said: “I am only a beggar, showing other beggars where the bread is.” There are many kinds of food besides meat, dairy, grains and fruit. There is kindness, compassion, friendship, prayer (if I could ever quiet my mind), joy, and peace. And finally I had given up just enough to realize I was going to get through this disappointing moment in prayer and anyway you have to be somewhere: better here at prayer than say at the dentist office getting a root canal, stuck in traffic or at the IRS. And it is good to practice prayer because it forces you to see yourself and to act slightly more gracefully and it improves your thoughts and thus the world. After I finished reading the psalms, the gospel, the Old Testament reading, saying the Apostle’s Creed, and praying the Lord’s Prayer, I no longer felt like throwing the BCP away and giving up on prayer. So, I was shocked when I spoke to her later that day and she said she loved my smile and how I looked really happy. I am not sure she wanted any secrets to happiness and I am not sure she wanted to hear any of my worthless wisdom, but it occurred to me that perhaps when we are at our worst, when we are frightened, depressed, panicky, anxious, angry, disillusioned, exhausted, lost, hopeless, or just in a bad mood…perhaps that is when God does his best work. Perhaps when we are honest and real and actually stop flailing around inside our heads…God shows up. God can’t clean house while we are still in it. I am not sure she expected the answer I gave her, but I told her honestly I am a wreck and honestly I don’t feel happy but I hope that doesn’t keep me from enjoying whatever moment of joy I find myself. I told her my head is a pretty scary place right now and I feel lost all the time and I don’t know what the next half of my life is going to look like. I think you just have to show up to the life before you…the good, the bad, the ugly, the scary, and the beautiful. Somewhere in all that mess, there are breaths of grace. Sometimes you just have to get out of bed and start. Even if it requires six Oreo cookies, a mocha breve, U2, and Goggle to make it happen. And perhaps the best spiritual directive I could give her on joy: “Let’s just hold hands in the dark and we will find our way from here.” I woke up in a bleak place Saturday. A very bleak place. It wasn’t the place of utter desolation, like the morning after 9/11, but I could not find comfort anywhere. It was raining for like the seventy fifth day in a row. I suffer from seasonal affective disorder, refuse to recover from my need for sun bathing, would commit suicide if I lived in Seattle or London, and at times I think I could convert to worshiping Ra, the sun god. I only recall one time in my life when I actually complained about the heat- it was 104 in the shade that day and I was sitting on astro turf. The news couldn’t be worse- North Korea has a ICBM pointed at the west coast, a murder suicide on the mother baby unit at a local hospital, 30% of Irag-Afghanistan war veterans have thought about suicide, the ever looming health care crisis and gas prices are going to rise again. Two of my friends had terrible diseases. One of my friends buried a spouse. Another very dear friend is lost and can’t find herself. And is it just me or is there a new sexual abuse scandal every other day? And A-Rod may get a lifetime suspension from baseball. I am not an A-Rod fan and he should be banned for life along with every other user, I am just frustrated over the sports industry’s apparent inability to get a handle on PEDs. A zero-tolerance policy might be a start. I had just decided to go to nursing school for the third time. After I sat through orientation last week, it occurred to me I just thought round one was tough. When I introduced myself to the three young (young being the operative word) women on my track- they were only 4 years old in 1986. I graduated from nursing school the first time in 1986. One actually remarked that I didn’t look all that old and did we really have to wear caps back then? True story. I didn’t do the math but I think that means I could be their mother. And had I had the good sense to go to grad school years ago, I would have taught them in nursing school. They were lamenting that the night before their hospital had lost power and the back up to back up generator didn’t come on. They didn’t know how to pass meds or chart the old school way much less take a temp and BP without a machine. None of them had ever mixed an IV in their careers or charted on paper or had even seen a four-colored ballpoint pen. And I had a very, very tough interview with an ethics review board coming up. I guess I should pause to say that I am the complainant lest any rumors start flying around. 49 can be tough: my friend Rosemary said to approach my forty ninth year like a frozen gym membership, where I am taking a break. So far, I have not jumped out a window, which during rough patches passes for grace right now in my life. This falls short of heaven, but some days will just have to do. So in the face of all of this, I did the most amazing thing. I got out of bed. I could still walk. I still had most of my mental faculties. A more mature person would say, Thank you Jesus. But I thought, dear God in heaven, my back hurts, my head hurts, my fingers are stiff, where are my damn glasses, I am getting old. Then I ate a bowl of blackberries and blueberries, six Oreo cookies and drank a café mocha breve to level the playing field. Then I picked up the BCP. And it was not good. The readings were long and boring. It wasn’t a feast day. There wasn’t a saint to commemorate and I didn’t know who William Hunnington was. My mind kept wandering and the hymn sucked. I kept looking at the time and checking my face book page for what I don’t know. I Googled William Hunnington. I Googled the Lambeth quadrilateral. I changed chairs four times. I lit a candle. I played Gregorian chants and then gave up and played U2, which is very spiritual BTW. I gave up. I decided that this spiritual discipline was worthless and I was going to close the BCP and never open it again. If I currently had a spiritual director, he or she would say something like “What do you think God was saying to you during that time?” To which I would want respond “Well, gee I don’t know that is why I here, don’t you know?” But instead, I would put on my best good girl smile and say, “Be still???” To which the spiritual director is probably muttering to him or herself, “What new fresh hell is this?” Truth be told, I doubt that good girl smile has fooled very many, ok…maybe one or two. And I have been known to fake an answer or two with a spiritual director. I am fairly certain that lying to spiritual director defeats the purpose of going to see one, but I am also overly confident that the Holy Spirit can compensate for any of my character flaws. Then something amazing happened. I would call it grace, but then I am very easy. It was like when you clean your glasses and put them back on or a deep breath or a cool breeze on a hot day. I suddenly remembered reading in a favorite author’s book on grace, the best spiritual directive she ever got: Don’t be an asshole, make sure everybody eats. And a pastor once said: “I am only a beggar, showing other beggars where the bread is.” There are many kinds of food besides meat, dairy, grains and fruit. There is kindness, compassion, friendship, prayer (if I could ever quiet my mind), joy, and peace. And finally I had given up just enough to realize I was going to get through this disappointing moment in prayer and anyway you have to be somewhere: better here at prayer than say at the dentist office getting a root canal, stuck in traffic or at the IRS. And it is good to practice prayer because it forces you to see yourself and to act slightly more gracefully and it improves your thoughts and thus the world. After I finished reading the psalms, the gospel, the Old Testament reading, saying the Apostle’s Creed, and praying the Lord’s Prayer, I no longer felt like throwing the BCP away and giving up on prayer. So, I was shocked when I spoke to her later that day and she said she loved my smile and how I looked really happy. I am not sure she wanted any secrets to happiness and I am not sure she wanted to hear any of my worthless wisdom, but it occurred to me that perhaps when we are at our worst, when we are frightened, depressed, panicky, anxious, angry, disillusioned, exhausted, lost, hopeless, or just in a bad mood…perhaps that is when God does his best work. Perhaps when we are honest and real and actually stop flailing around inside our heads…God shows up. God can’t clean house while we are still in it. I am not sure she expected the answer I gave her, but I told her honestly I am a wreck and honestly I don’t feel happy but I hope that doesn’t keep me from enjoying whatever moment of joy I find myself. I told her my head is a pretty scary place right now and I feel lost all the time and I don’t know what the next half of my life is going to look like. I think you just have to show up to the life before you…the good, the bad, the ugly, the scary, and the beautiful. Somewhere in all that mess, there are breaths of grace. Sometimes you just have to get out of bed and start. Even if it requires six Oreo cookies, a mocha breve, U2, and Goggle to make it happen. And perhaps the best spiritual directive I could give her on joy: “Let’s just hold hands in the dark and we will find our way from here.” I woke up in a bleak place Saturday. A very bleak place. It wasn’t the place of utter desolation, like the morning after 9/11, but I could not find comfort anywhere. It was raining for like the seventy fifth day in a row. I suffer from seasonal affective disorder, refuse to recover from my need for sun bathing, would commit suicide if I lived in Seattle or London, and at times I think I could convert to worshiping Ra, the sun god. I only recall one time in my life when I actually complained about the heat- it was 104 in the shade that day and I was sitting on astro turf. The news couldn’t be worse- North Korea has a ICBM pointed at the west coast, a murder suicide on the mother baby unit at a local hospital, 30% of Irag-Afghanistan war veterans have thought about suicide, the ever looming health care crisis and gas prices are going to rise again. Two of my friends had terrible diseases. One of my friends buried a spouse. Another very dear friend is lost and can’t find herself. And is it just me or is there a new sexual abuse scandal every other day? And A-Rod may get a lifetime suspension from baseball. I am not an A-Rod fan and he should be banned for life along with every other user, I am just frustrated over the sports industry’s apparent inability to get a handle on PEDs. A zero-tolerance policy might be a start. I had just decided to go to nursing school for the third time. After I sat through orientation last week, it occurred to me I just thought round one was tough. When I introduced myself to the three young (young being the operative word) women on my track- they were only 4 years old in 1986. I graduated from nursing school the first time in 1986. One actually remarked that I didn’t look all that old and did we really have to wear caps back then? True story. I didn’t do the math but I think that means I could be their mother. And had I had the good sense to go to grad school years ago, I would have taught them in nursing school. They were lamenting that the night before their hospital had lost power and the back up to back up generator didn’t come on. They didn’t know how to pass meds or chart the old school way much less take a temp and BP without a machine. None of them had ever mixed an IV in their careers or charted on paper or had even seen a four-colored ballpoint pen. And I had a very, very tough interview with an ethics review board coming up. I guess I should pause to say that I am the complainant lest any rumors start flying around. 49 can be tough: my friend Rosemary said to approach my forty ninth year like a frozen gym membership, where I am taking a break. So far, I have not jumped out a window, which during rough patches passes for grace right now in my life. This falls short of heaven, but some days will just have to do. So in the face of all of this, I did the most amazing thing. I got out of bed. I could still walk. I still had most of my mental faculties. A more mature person would say, Thank you Jesus. But I thought, dear God in heaven, my back hurts, my head hurts, my fingers are stiff, where are my damn glasses, I am getting old. Then I ate a bowl of blackberries and blueberries, six Oreo cookies and drank a café mocha breve to level the playing field. Then I picked up the BCP. And it was not good. The readings were long and boring. It wasn’t a feast day. There wasn’t a saint to commemorate and I didn’t know who William Hunnington was. My mind kept wandering and the hymn sucked. I kept looking at the time and checking my face book page for what I don’t know. I Googled William Hunnington. I Googled the Lambeth quadrilateral. I changed chairs four times. I lit a candle. I played Gregorian chants and then gave up and played U2, which is very spiritual BTW. I gave up. I decided that this spiritual discipline was worthless and I was going to close the BCP and never open it again. If I currently had a spiritual director, he or she would say something like “What do you think God was saying to you during that time?” To which I would want respond “Well, gee I don’t know that is why I here, don’t you know?” But instead, I would put on my best good girl smile and say, “Be still???” To which the spiritual director is probably muttering to him or herself, “What new fresh hell is this?” Truth be told, I doubt that good girl smile has fooled very many, ok…maybe one or two. And I have been known to fake an answer or two with a spiritual director. I am fairly certain that lying to spiritual director defeats the purpose of going to see one, but I am also overly confident that the Holy Spirit can compensate for any of my character flaws. Then something amazing happened. I would call it grace, but then I am very easy. It was like when you clean your glasses and put them back on or a deep breath or a cool breeze on a hot day. I suddenly remembered reading in a favorite author’s book on grace, the best spiritual directive she ever got: Don’t be an asshole, make sure everybody eats. And a pastor once said: “I am only a beggar, showing other beggars where the bread is.” There are many kinds of food besides meat, dairy, grains and fruit. There is kindness, compassion, friendship, prayer (if I could ever quiet my mind), joy, and peace. And finally I had given up just enough to realize I was going to get through this disappointing moment in prayer and anyway you have to be somewhere: better here at prayer than say at the dentist office getting a root canal, stuck in traffic or at the IRS. And it is good to practice prayer because it forces you to see yourself and to act slightly more gracefully and it improves your thoughts and thus the world. After I finished reading the psalms, the gospel, the Old Testament reading, saying the Apostle’s Creed, and praying the Lord’s Prayer, I no longer felt like throwing the BCP away and giving up on prayer. So, I was shocked when I spoke to her later that day and she said she loved my smile and how I looked really happy. I am not sure she wanted any secrets to happiness and I am not sure she wanted to hear any of my worthless wisdom, but it occurred to me that perhaps when we are at our worst, when we are frightened, depressed, panicky, anxious, angry, disillusioned, exhausted, lost, hopeless, or just in a bad mood…perhaps that is when God does his best work. Perhaps when we are honest and real and actually stop flailing around inside our heads…God shows up. God can’t clean house while we are still in it. I am not sure she expected the answer I gave her, but I told her honestly I am a wreck and honestly I don’t feel happy but I hope that doesn’t keep me from enjoying whatever moment of joy I find myself. I told her my head is a pretty scary place right now and I feel lost all the time and I don’t know what the next half of my life is going to look like. I think you just have to show up to the life before you…the good, the bad, the ugly, the scary, and the beautiful. Somewhere in all that mess, there are breaths of grace. Sometimes you just have to get out of bed and start. Even if it requires six Oreo cookies, a mocha breve, U2, and Goggle to make it happen. And perhaps the best spiritual directive I could give her on joy: “Let’s just hold hands in the dark and we will find our way from here.” I woke up in a bleak place Saturday. A very bleak place. It wasn’t the place of utter desolation, like the morning after 9/11, but I could not find comfort anywhere. It was raining for like the seventy fifth day in a row. I suffer from seasonal affective disorder, refuse to recover from my need for sun bathing, would commit suicide if I lived in Seattle or London, and at times I think I could convert to worshiping Ra, the sun god. I only recall one time in my life when I actually complained about the heat- it was 104 in the shade that day and I was sitting on astro turf. The news couldn’t be worse- North Korea has a ICBM pointed at the west coast, a murder suicide on the mother baby unit at a local hospital, 30% of Irag-Afghanistan war veterans have thought about suicide, the ever looming health care crisis and gas prices are going to rise again. Two of my friends had terrible diseases. One of my friends buried a spouse. Another very dear friend is lost and can’t find herself. And is it just me or is there a new sexual abuse scandal every other day? And A-Rod may get a lifetime suspension from baseball. I am not an A-Rod fan and he should be banned for life along with every other user, I am just frustrated over the sports industry’s apparent inability to get a handle on PEDs. A zero-tolerance policy might be a start. I had just decided to go to nursing school for the third time. After I sat through orientation last week, it occurred to me I just thought round one was tough. When I introduced myself to the three young (young being the operative word) women on my track- they were only 4 years old in 1986. I graduated from nursing school the first time in 1986. One actually remarked that I didn’t look all that old and did we really have to wear caps back then? True story. I didn’t do the math but I think that means I could be their mother. And had I had the good sense to go to grad school years ago, I would have taught them in nursing school. They were lamenting that the night before their hospital had lost power and the back up to back up generator didn’t come on. They didn’t know how to pass meds or chart the old school way much less take a temp and BP without a machine. None of them had ever mixed an IV in their careers or charted on paper or had even seen a four-colored ballpoint pen. And I had a very, very tough interview with an ethics review board coming up. I guess I should pause to say that I am the complainant lest any rumors start flying around. 49 can be tough: my friend Rosemary said to approach my forty ninth year like a frozen gym membership, where I am taking a break. So far, I have not jumped out a window, which during rough patches passes for grace right now in my life. This falls short of heaven, but some days will just have to do. So in the face of all of this, I did the most amazing thing. I got out of bed. I could still walk. I still had most of my mental faculties. A more mature person would say, Thank you Jesus. But I thought, dear God in heaven, my back hurts, my head hurts, my fingers are stiff, where are my damn glasses, I am getting old. Then I ate a bowl of blackberries and blueberries, six Oreo cookies and drank a café mocha breve to level the playing field. Then I picked up the BCP. And it was not good. The readings were long and boring. It wasn’t a feast day. There wasn’t a saint to commemorate and I didn’t know who William Hunnington was. My mind kept wandering and the hymn sucked. I kept looking at the time and checking my face book page for what I don’t know. I Googled William Hunnington. I Googled the Lambeth quadrilateral. I changed chairs four times. I lit a candle. I played Gregorian chants and then gave up and played U2, which is very spiritual BTW. I gave up. I decided that this spiritual discipline was worthless and I was going to close the BCP and never open it again. If I currently had a spiritual director, he or she would say something like “What do you think God was saying to you during that time?” To which I would want respond “Well, gee I don’t know that is why I here, don’t you know?” But instead, I would put on my best good girl smile and say, “Be still???” To which the spiritual director is probably muttering to him or herself, “What new fresh hell is this?” Truth be told, I doubt that good girl smile has fooled very many, ok…maybe one or two. And I have been known to fake an answer or two with a spiritual director. I am fairly certain that lying to spiritual director defeats the purpose of going to see one, but I am also overly confident that the Holy Spirit can compensate for any of my character flaws. Then something amazing happened. I would call it grace, but then I am very easy. It was like when you clean your glasses and put them back on or a deep breath or a cool breeze on a hot day. I suddenly remembered reading in a favorite author’s book on grace, the best spiritual directive she ever got: Don’t be an asshole, make sure everybody eats. And a pastor once said: “I am only a beggar, showing other beggars where the bread is.” There are many kinds of food besides meat, dairy, grains and fruit. There is kindness, compassion, friendship, prayer (if I could ever quiet my mind), joy, and peace. And finally I had given up just enough to realize I was going to get through this disappointing moment in prayer and anyway you have to be somewhere: better here at prayer than say at the dentist office getting a root canal, stuck in traffic or at the IRS. And it is good to practice prayer because it forces you to see yourself and to act slightly more gracefully and it improves your thoughts and thus the world. After I finished reading the psalms, the gospel, the Old Testament reading, saying the Apostle’s Creed, and praying the Lord’s Prayer, I no longer felt like throwing the BCP away and giving up on prayer. So, I was shocked when I spoke to her later that day and she said she loved my smile and how I looked really happy. I am not sure she wanted any secrets to happiness and I am not sure she wanted to hear any of my worthless wisdom, but it occurred to me that perhaps when we are at our worst, when we are frightened, depressed, panicky, anxious, angry, disillusioned, exhausted, lost, hopeless, or just in a bad mood…perhaps that is when God does his best work. Perhaps when we are honest and real and actually stop flailing around inside our heads…God shows up. God can’t clean house while we are still in it. I am not sure she expected the answer I gave her, but I told her honestly I am a wreck and honestly I don’t feel happy but I hope that doesn’t keep me from enjoying whatever moment of joy I find myself. I told her my head is a pretty scary place right now and I feel lost all the time and I don’t know what the next half of my life is going to look like. I think you just have to show up to the life before you…the good, the bad, the ugly, the scary, and the beautiful. Somewhere in all that mess, there are breaths of grace. Sometimes you just have to get out of bed and start. Even if it requires six Oreo cookies, a mocha breve, U2, and Goggle to make it happen. And perhaps the best spiritual directive I could give her on joy: “Let’s just hold hands in the dark and we will find our way from here.”

What Listerine can teach you about Jesus

 

Tragically it did not work.  And I just want to save you from spending the time and the money and looking for the right flavor.  Pinterest can lead you astray.  I pinned this idea on my board, “I so gotta try this.”   My heels are a broken, cracked, ugly mess.  And Pinterest promised me that Listerine worked.  So, Vance came home and found me soaking my feet in white enamel ware pan and said, “What’s that smell and what on earth are you doing?”  I said, “I am fixing my cracked heels.  Pinterest said Listerine works.  You just soak your feet in a half gallon of Listerine with a cup of vinegar and some hot water for twenty minutes and instant exfoliation.”  Vance said, “Well, I would have bought the blue kind.  And I never knew Listerine could be bought by the gallon.”  I told him I opted for the original because Pinterest said the blue would give me Smurf feet.  So, after twenty minutes, I still had cracked heels, so I did it again for forty minutes.  I crawled in to bed that night, deflated, and wondering just how long it would take me to use that leftover gallon of Listerine.  I told Vance, “It didn’t work. My feet still aren’t soft and now they burn.”  Vance said, “Well, it is not magic, it is antiseptic for your mouth.”  And he turned over, feel fast asleep and between the snores I pondered what he said for the next hour. Occasionally, the men we marry will say something deep and profound and it shocks us.  And we think, “Damn, I guess sometimes you do think about things other than sports, food, beer and sex.” At least that is how it works for me and Vance.

It seems I have been dancing with you for about 49 years now.  That’s almost five decades of dancing and I am still waiting on you to teach me the Harlem shake.  Sometimes I look at your long wiry, salt and pepper hair that has been torn and looks burned and your caramel colored faced with deep brown eyes that hold the deepest wisdom and your tribal colored skirts that tell stories of the most ancient secrets that are older than the foundations of the world, and I smell that familiar scent of bread, wine, frankincense and apple pie and wonder why we still dance.

I remember when I was young you would gather me in your lap and sing low in that minor key reminding me that there was a rock older than the earth itself that would shelter me and there was a fountain with water that was alive.  You would swaddle me in those skirts and tell me stories about how you were there at the birth of the universe and you just whispered four little words and there was light.   You told me tales about the oldest magic that made the waters rise and cover it all and a rainbow gave a promise that the dread was gone forever.  You took a breath as deep as a valley and whispered on my forehead that you were there when that ram ran out of that thicket and Abraham put his knife down.  You spoke with the wind and made me wonder how it felt when you put those rocks in David’s hand.  You just held my hand and said, “Child, don’t fear the dark.” You would smile brightly at me and nod knowingly that one day, one day, one day I would dance in rhythm with you. You taught me the sacred things that would grow deep roots I would need to face the storms one day and you knew I would learn to dance in the rain. You rocked me to sleep whispering to me that all would be well because you had already faced history’s darkest hour.

So, you weren’t surprised when I needed you to chase the monsters out from under my bed.  I am a little taller now, but still fight demons.  You saw me fall off my bicycle and worse things.  You were my elbow healer and superhero.  I would ask you to come if you can and you always said, I AM.  You weren’t surprised when my heart broke and I promised never to love again.  I was weak, I couldn’t speak and I was angry at you who was my heartache healer, my secret keeper and my best friend but I could still call you by name and you said, I AM.  Life can be cruel and harsh and mean and what kind of world is this that you fashioned out of a word.  You saw my mistakes and when I was weak and unable to speak and not even able to call you by name, you whispered I AM.

 So, when I said forever to whatever that means, you knew we would have our moments.  You knew sometimes I wouldn’t want to dance and sometimes I would not want to talk to you and sometimes I would forget all the old stories and the sacred things you whispered in my ear so long ago, and sometimes I just wouldn’t be able to find you at all.  When you found me kicking rocks and walking out in the desert, you said, remember and believe.  I cried as you walked away and it was hard living out in the border lands with people that looked different from my own.   But I watched them say ancient words over and over again, and cross themselves and kneel and stand and kneel some more and drink wine and eat bread and I listened as they chanted those magic words,  “eat, remember and believe.” 

You came back and picked me up in your arms and said, “Child when the feelings leave and every thought of certainty has been banished from your mind,  don’t forget me and my long, old hair and tribal skirts and wrap yourself up in the old stories again.”  I told you I was far too old to play silly games with you and I didn’t have any rhythm and you raised your eyebrows, and told me I had missed the point.

So I asked you one night, why your hair is such a mess all the time.  “You just shrugged your shoulders and said when humans go looking for eternity; they rarely do so with care.”

Sometimes now I see remnants of your skirts in fields and I remember how we danced when I was younger and I think about all that has passed between us and I wonder if you left those pieces there on purpose.  I miss the magic and I am still waiting for you to come back and teach me the Harlem shake.  But if I listen closely to those ancient stories, I can hear the hum of your voice and I can feel your breath on my forehead and you gently whisper, “Child, it is not magic, just remember that I can still see you in the dark and we are not done with dancing yet. I am still writing the song.”