The story I tell myself: I do NOT like exercise!

Jul 16, 2023 | Hope & Encouragement, My sort-of Sermons, Sovereignty

Exercise.

Ugh. To gain even the slightest insight into how I feel about this topic, you only need to hear the deep breath I just took and see how my shoulders slumped as I typed that singular word.

I do not like it. Not even a little bit. I never have. This is not to say I haven’t tried to like it, at the very least to persist. I’ve joined gyms, fitness centers, and workout programs designed exclusively for women. I’d downloaded apps. I’ve subscribed to online plans that have made amazing promises (along with a lot of fine print). I’ve bought a treadmill—then sold it. A Peloton—then sold it. I’ve had at least two yoga mats over the years that have been donated to Goodwill, almost completely unused. Weights, same. Even my desk converts to standing (a purchase I was sure I’d take advantage of), but I never press that button. I can find a gazillion reasons to not exercise. Well, up until last week.

My sister and brother-in-law spotted a gym just down the road from our house. Tom scoped it out on Monday and then took me with him on Tuesday before signing up, so that I could decide if I wanted to get in on the family discount. It’s a nice-enough place. Cardio equipment. Weight machines of every size, shape, and configuration. A pool that hosts water aerobic classes. Yoga (including “chair yoga”). Zumba. Spin. Tabata. Courses that are just for seniors—which, I guess, actually includes me. Personal trainers. Nutrition counseling. A smoothie bar. And an app for scheduling all these and more from the convenience of my phone.

I didn’t want to say “yes,” but I did. I want to want to go. And I do actually want to like it—exercise itself. Still, I’m not hopeful.

Do you remember the President’s Fitness Test? It’s highly possible that my resistance (and disdain) started there. The original six-part test consisted of push-ups, pull-ups, sit-ups, a standing broad jump, a shuttle run, a 50-yard dash and a softball throw for distance (ostensibly, according to this article, because it’s helpful to know who amongst the troops has the arm strength necessary to chuck a grenade the furthest, or at all). I hated the days set aside every year for these ranked activities. I could not do the pull-ups at all, the push-ups and sit-ups barely. A standing broad jump? Are you kidding? And the running—for speed? Uh, no. Let’s not even talk about the softball throw. All of this felt like a tortuous experiment to discern just how much shame an adolescent girl like me could endure. The answer? A lot.

Beyond this annual torture, there was recess and PE. I would have far preferred to sit in the corner and read a book than have to engage in activities that consistently left me feeling less-than, uncoordinated, unchosen and unwanted. Dodgeball. Tetherball. Four square. That dreaded horizontal ladder I watched my friends swing across with ease and joy. (More deep breaths and shoulder slumps just remembering all of this.)

I’d like to tell you I’m past all of this now, that these (very) old stories are no longer present in my psyche . . . nor remotely relevant. Still, as I walked through that gym just a few days ago, it all came flooding back. I saw the in-process “High Fitness” class filled with close to 30 women moving to loud music and the instructor’s endless “whoop” keeping time to a thumping bass; the incredibly strong (and buff) people lifting free weights and using machines I’m quite sure I should stay far, far away from; the pervading presence of muscles and discipline and skill, even ease. It was like I was 12 years old: I felt insecure, out-of-place, and instantly ashamed.

It somehow doesn’t matter that I know better, that I can most-certainly get on a treadmill or stationary bike without hurting or embarrassing myself, that I can probably even take a water aerobics class and survive. It doesn’t even matter that I know any and all of these things will make me feel better, increase my range of motion, build needed (and admittedly declining) strength. Somehow, the indelible reminder of shame supersedes my sanity—even now, even still.

I’m pretty sure I’m not the only one. And I’m definitely sure this is not limited to physical fitness or lack thereof. All of us have stories, memories, and specific places/events that, when replicated in the slightest, compel us to resistance and avoidance. It’s understandable. It’s allowed. And it’s normal. Of course we stay away from scenarios and experiences that summon unpleasant emotions! But here’s what I’ve been asking myself this week: What if I was able to let go of the story I’ve been telling myself for more than fifty years and instead, choose a new one?

What if, indeed!

You wouldn’t think this was much of a revelation for me, given that I talk and write about this all the time: the honest naming of the stories that have shaped us, our sovereignty to write them as we wish—with wisdom, courage, agency, and hope. But often hidden in unsuspecting places, is continued opportunity for me to practice what I preach. Thankfully.

So, Tuesday morning I said “yes” to the gym membership. Wednesday morning I went to a water aerobics class. Then again on Thursday. And Friday. (Shocking, I know!)

Believe me, I am under no illusion that three 45-minute sessions in the pool have miraculously cured me of my exercise-dislike. (It’s a wonder I returned after the first one given that the entire class, all 45 minutes, was choreographed to only remixed Madonna songs!) But then exercise isn’t really what I’m writing about here.

What I am writing about is taking stock of the poured-in-concrete stories we fervently cling to and faithfully believe (especially when we’re barely aware of such), the stories that still shape our choices or lack thereof, the stories that have formed our preferences and likes and dislikes, the stories that have kept us convinced of what we can and cannot, will and will not do.

  • Our perspectives on self and body and appearance.
  • What we believe about money and success.
  • How we view race and class.
  • What constitutes goodness and good enough.
  • Why we stay in relationships that do not serve.
  • Why we too-often compromise and comply.
  • Where we land on religion, politics, gun control, abortion, and issues of gender and sexuality.
  • Which battles we’ll fight and which we’ll intentionally avoid.
  • How we parent.
  • What we think of conflict.
  • What we tell ourselves, over and over and over again, about where and why we fall short or aren’t enough or are most-definitely too much.

None of our beliefs, attitudes, opinions, or behaviors related to any of these are formed in a vacuum, ex nihilo. They are formed and then reinforced by the stories we’ve been told, the ones we’ve lived, and those we continue to tell ourselves. When we look closer and dive deeper, when we honestly and bravely name our experiences and memories—especially the ones bound in shame—we are able, bit-by-bit, to choose and step into a new story; a story that is shaped by our own intention, choice, and will.

It’s possible that all of this sounds far too simplistic, as though *just* acknowledging an old story or two about exercise has somehow magically converted me into a water aerobics fan or fitness fanatic. Uh, not so much. But here’s the thing: in my experience, it’s been seemingly small “a-ha’s” like this one, tiny and unexpected glimpses into my subconscious, that wake me up to the possibility of change, to a different story, to one that is completely and wholly mine.

I’ve highlighted this quote before, but it is worth revisiting:

“Those who do not have power over the story that dominates their lives, power to retell it, to rethink it, deconstruct it, joke about it, and change it as times change, truly are powerless.” ~ Salman Rushdie

I hope you’ll join me in endlessly and infinitely looking closely and with tender care at the stories that have dominated your life; that do so even now, even still. I hope you’ll do as Rushdie recommends: retell them, rethink them, deconstruct them, and if appropriate, even joke about them; give yourself permission to change them as times change. You deserve to live the story that you choose, that you write, that you desire. Yes, even if it includes exercise.

May it be so.

100 Days from Today

Jun 25, 2023 | Hope & Encouragement, Women's Wisdom, Writing

One of my daughters used to get so excited for her birthday and Christmas—counting down the days, rehearsing all the details-specifics-traditions to ensure perfection, and pretty much oozing anticipation and joy. But as memory serves, there were a few early-teen years in which she’d politely say “thank you” for each gift and then as quickly as humanly possible, escape to her room, shut-if-not-slam the door, and sob in bitter disappointment.

I did not always often handle this well. I was frustrated she wasn’t more grateful, happier, elated, even exultant. And I was hurt: so much time and attention paid to making sure everything was special only to have her feel like none of it was enough. I know: I made it about me. Blech. It’s one of the many things I’d go back and redo if I could. I’d acknowledge just how hard it can be to live with the gap between expectations and reality. I’d name just how painful it is to realize something is finished that you’ve looked forward to for so long. I’d give her permission to feel what she feels without the slightest hint of my judgment. *sigh*

It is easy to say that this was simply a child’s perspective. She hadn’t yet discovered that life is unfair. She’d not been battered down by disappointment’s frequent and repetitive presence. OK. Maybe. But here’s the thing:

It is brave to live with an unswerving commitment to celebration, to revel in anticipation, to plan on joy, and to hold firmly to hope.

*****

Now, so many years removed, I wonder whether or not I have the courage to “practice what she preached” in such a tender and poignant expression of her heart. I wonder whether or not I will give myself permission to revel in anticipation and plan on joy and hold firmly to hope. I wonder whether or not I will let myself feel what I feel. I wonder if I will celebrate at all or if, instead, I will protect myself from the massive risk inherent in every bit of this. And I’m wondering all of this on this day, today specifically, because it is worthy of celebration:

It is exactly 100 days until my book is published.

*****

I know! Woohoo! Cue the confetti, the champagne, and the celebration! That does seem the appropriate response. But truth-be-told, I’m not feeling nearly that brave.

I’ve been watching the countdown app on my phone inch closer to double-digits for a very long time now; the exact date, 10.3.23, has been staring at me since mid-December, 2021. When I signed the contract with my publisher, nearly two years of forced patience seemed an eternity. As the days, weeks, and months have passed—and especially as the deadlines have loomed—it’s seemed way too close. And in-between time moving like molasses and now being right-around-the-corner, I’ve known every emotion under the sun: excited, panicked, honored, nervous, thrilled, hopeful, anxious, and yes, even exultant.

Today? Exactly 100 days out?

I feel resistant to feeling much of anything.

I know it’s ridiculous. I should be overwhelmingly thrilled at being so close to the finish line of this long-pursued accomplishment: my near-singular intention and aspiration for almost two decades. I’ve given countless hours of my life to these 237 pages that feel more like 2370 and then some. I’ve labored and wept, typed and deleted, hit “submit” and wished I hadn’t, doubted and trusted it would ever happen. I’ve accepted (and sometimes rejected) the recommendations of editors and proofreaders. I’ve wrestled with my perfectionism again and again. And I’ve realized how shockingly hard it is to let go, to place my writing, my work, my book, my very heart, in someone else’s hands—in your hands. It gets worse . . .

Even a small sampling of my inner dialogue (that I’m not at all proud of, but which is no less loud or real) sounds something like this: What if October 3 gets here and I’m bitterly disappointed? What if everyone else is? What if, after all this time, the day just comes and goes, completely anticlimactic? What if the book is not all that good? What if it’s nothing special or meaningful or impactful? What if I’ve built this up to be so much more than it actually is or could ever be? What if it doesn’t sell, doesn’t speak, doesn’t matter? (I know you so want to disagree with me right now, to tell me just the opposite, to encourage me, to remind me of what’s “true.” Believe me, I get it! And thank you.)

Every bit of my exaggerated caution, my reservedness, my insecurities, and even my stated lack of feeling (which obviously isn’t accurate), is the antithesis of my daughter’s then-reality. She dove right into the thick of each celebration, head first, with complete faith that it would be glorious. It never crossed her mind to temper her expectations, to hold back her enthusiasm, to picture the day being “less than” she’d imagined.

All of us were just like her at one time, I suppose: not yet jaded by “Santa” putting fruit in our stockings (fruit?!?), unwrapping gifts that weren’t quite what we asked for (or anywhere close), knowing more times than not when desire and reality didn’t quite match up—relationships that failed, jobs that didn’t remotely resemble what we’d been promised, the myriad of other lessons-learned that life has oh-so-consistently brought our way. These singular experiences, along with their many forms, have the tendency to convert themselves into our most deeply-held beliefs:

  • If I don’t expect more in relationships—when I opt for compromise and compliance over truth-telling—I don’t have to feel the disappointment of not really being loved for who I am.
  • If I don’t put myself out there at work, I don’t have to risk the disappointment of not getting the promotion, the raise, even much-deserved praise for the above-and-beyond effort I’ve consistently extended.
  • If I don’t have the difficult conversation with my kid(s) or significant other or parent(s) or friend or co-worker or boss (or all of the above), I don’t have to deal with the disappointment of things getting even worse.
  • If I temper my words and emotions to fit what I’m convinced others can (or cannot) handle and/or want from me, I don’t have to experience the disappointment of being unseen, unheard, and rejected.
  • [H/T to my daughter: if you don’t anticipate that your birthday or Christmas will be full of celebration, anticipation, joy, and hope, you don’t ever have to feel the disappointment of “less.” I’m so sorry about this, sweet girl.]
  • And let’s be honest: if I don’t acknowledge and honor something as simple and relatively small as today, it’s all part of my bigger plan to not be disappointed if little-to-nothing monumental happens 100 days from now.

Ugh. Every one of these statements is gray and pallid. My shoulders slump as I type; I hear my own heavy sighs. Yes, on some level it makes sense: my reluctance to risk celebration and all that goes along with it, to hold back, to prize my oh-so-amazing ability to successfully manage my emotions. (I’m being sarcastic. It’s not an amazing ability at all.) But a wiser and way-braver part of me screams, Nooooooo!

Anticipating disappointment instead of allowing joy is not how I want to live.

*****

Defaulting to self-protection over vulnerability, repression over expression, safety over risk, or a lackluster meh over jubilant and unrestrained celebration is not at all representative of how and who I want to be.

I’m loathe to be seen as a silver-lining kind of person. I’m definitely more glass-half-full than empty, but I have little patience for worn out cliches, irritating axioms, or warm-and-fuzzy memes. All this said, it still seems important to name (and yes, even celebrate) that the risk and even experience of disappointment is actually what enables joy to be so much more deeply felt. The very possibility of loss is what invites our appreciation, devotion, presence, and love. Our previous heartbreaks are what make a new (and healthier) relationship feel not only amazing, but miraculous; what makes our sense of self feel whole, intact, and strong. Our former mind-numbing work is what validates our now-felt energy and excitement for how we spend our days. And our fear of pain, when acknowledged and maybe even overcome (at least in moments), is what makes our bliss, well . . . bliss!1

Here’s what’s true: Our lives are not a binary; they do not go one way or the other— black or white, up or down, good or bad. We don’t celebrate or avoid the mere mention of it. We don’t experience disappointment or joy, loss or love, heartbreak or healing, soul-sucking work or satisfaction, pain or bliss. We know and feel all of it, all the time.

You don’t have to take my word for it.

“. . . to believe in something with your whole heart, to celebrate a fleeting moment in time, to fully engage in a life that doesn’t come with guarantees – these are risks that involve vulnerability and often pain. But, I’m learning that recognizing and leaning into the discomfort of vulnerability teaches us how to live with joy, gratitude and grace.”
~ Brené Brown

Full engagement and no guarantees. Risks, vulnerability and pain. Discomfort and joy, gratitude, and grace.

Deep breath.

I wonder how all of this lands for you, what memories and stories come to mind, what emotions are stirred. I wonder if your inner dialogue sounds even remotely like mine. I wonder about the places in which you have held back—and do still. I wonder about how much joy you’ve missed out on when compared to how much you’ve deserved, especially given all that you’ve accomplished, survived, endured, finished, left behind, and risked.

And I wonder if you’ll join me (whether figuratively or literally) in tossing confetti and popping champagne. Yes, as it relates to today and 100 days from publication, but far more—and far more importantly—as it relates to you and me both living bravely, maintaining an unswerving commitment to celebration, reveling in anticipation, planning on joy, and holding firmly to hope no matter how ridiculous or crazy it might seem. Maybe especially then!

May it be so.

 

1 I am not saying, in any way, that we should excuse or forget or allow or be remotely grateful for the most egregious of experiences, the harshest of violence, or known-injustices of any kind. To diminish or dismiss these excruciating stories (whether our own or others’) has been a painful pattern in our culture, in religion, in politics, in race-relations, in gender and sexuality, and sadly, in so much more besides. The bold, unapologetic, and ceaseless naming of exactly these things is what is most needed . . . and what deserves to be honored and celebrated as a triumph of courage and truth.

Not perfect at all . . .

Jun 11, 2023 | Hope & Encouragement, Writing

I’ve been writing a lot about not knowing what to write. (Yes, I see the irony there.) It remains a recurring theme. Case in point, a portion of my journaling from just a couple days ago:

I am struggling to come up with content for this week’s post. Nothing. Again.

I don’t have the energy to write about anything “negative” (anger, capitalism, patriarchy, sexism, injustice, fear). So what, then? The repotted spider plant that doesn’t look like it’s going to survive? The fact that today is my niece Grace’s 10th birthday and I cannot remember that same landmark for either of my girls, even though I’m sure, at the time, I was certain I’d remember it forever? How I get lost in thought about ways I’ve failed as a mom? The struggle to let go of these thoughts – and even the girls themselves (appropriately and wisely)? About time—wasted, spent, imagined?

Hmmm. This last one offers me the slightest spark. Maybe? I’ll riff . . .

Time wasted: Any game on my phone, FB, IG, checking email, looking up random things on Google. Opening a book but stopping every chapter to repeat most of the above. 

Time spent: Client calls. Consulting/training. Emails. Social media planning, creating, and scheduling. Stuff with my book. Some reading. Some writing. Dinner & TV with the fam. Weekends at the beach or eating out or running errands or all three. Rearranging furniture. Spending my credit on ThredUp. Watching movies. Adding something else to the upcoming wedding’s to-do list. Calls with the girls. Missing the girls. Reminding myself that they are the writers of their own story – not me.   

Time imagined: Lost in the pages of a book. Lost in the pages of my own writing. Committed. Focused. Dedicated. Disciplined. Inspired. Motivated. Compelled. Having to pull myself away from the computer at the end of a writing day. More to say. More to offer. More to give. Pleased. Productive. Satisfied. Certain. Clear. Unstuck. Followers. Readers. Sitting at the beach. Walking. A commitment to my health. Drinking water. Invested in relationships that matter. Not spending money. Living simply. 

Time is now both short and expansive. I’m lost somewhere in-between, I think. Transitioning from no time to lots of it, from endless days and years ahead to just the opposite. A liminal space. “Betwixt and between,” was the phrase I heard a day or so ago. I viscerally feel the internal demand to get my shit together, work harder, produce!! and there is a small and quiet part of me that can, sometimes, take a deep breath and remember that none of this is needed or remotely required.

Maybe I can allow that I don’t quite know how to (re)imagine my time . . . yet. Maybe I can allow that this is yet another transition I didn’t see coming. that I’m smack in the middle of. Maybe I can extend myself grace.  

Maybe all of this IS this week’s post. Relatively unedited. Raw. True.

Maybe.

It feels too unorganized, too un-pretty. Yes. I already hear the question this sentence provokes: What would your writing be like, Ronna, if you were actually in it—emotional and present—instead of perfect and crafted and polished? Maybe you could offer it anyway: your inner workings, your doubts and questions, your own efforts at NOT rewriting. Hmmm.

Maybe.

As I look back over what I’ve written (and now shared), I don’t think this week’s post is really about time at all. Instead, maybe this:

  • When I do actually write, I (eventually) land on something that has some grist to it; something I am interested in and curious about. The takeaway – for me and maybe you, as well? Keep writing. Keep writing. Keep writing. Persist. Persist. Persist. Stay. Stay. Stay.
  • I’m far more committed to perfectionism than I care to admit. I desperately want my writing (and me-myself-and-I) to be genuine and “here,” present, right now, no matter what. For you, to be sure; even more, for me.
  • Maybe most important of all is *just* being real. Showing up. Telling the truth. Even (and especially) when it’s hard or unclear or ambiguous; when I’m ambivalent or uncertain or wobbly. Because (and this is just a guess) you might be, as well.

Nothing neat and tidy to finish this up. But that sort of feels like the point. At least this week.

I hope you’ve found something/anything that rings true. I hope you stay with whatever it is that sometimes/often alludes you. I hope you’ll choose being present over being perfect. And I hope that maybe, just maybe, we can, together, not keep up the façade.

May it be so.

Unanswerable Questions

Apr 13, 2023 | Hope & Encouragement

It seems that we are endlessly confronted with realities that confound, enrage, and incense. We sift through their rubble for the smallest shard of meaning. We search for clues, breadcrumbs, anything that will put our tired minds and broken hearts at rest. And for all of this striving, it is rarely with measurable result.

We are always left with more questions than answers.

Rainer Maria Rilke offers us well-known words on the subject:

Have patience with everything that remains unsolved in your heart. Try to love the questions themselves, like locked rooms and like books written in a foreign language. Do not now look for the answers. They cannot now be given to you because you could not live them. It is a question of experiencing everything. At present you need to live the question. Perhaps you will gradually, without even noticing it, find yourself experiencing the answer, some distant day. 

Easier said than done.We know the value of living the questions. We also know the discomfort inherent in not having (and offering) answers. 

A case in point: When we are with someone who is grieving we know to not speak a single platitude (e.g., “God has a plan.” “Everything happens for a reason.” “God’s ways are higher than our ways.”). We know to not try to make sense of what has happened. We know to not talk about our own feelings. We know to not offer answers to questions that cannot be answered.

I know this . . . and . . . in my discomfort over others’ discomfort, I have rushed to possible explanations, to next steps, even to hope many, many times. As recently as last week, I SO wanted to offer some explanation for life’s unfathomable cruelty (even though I don’t have any). I resisted, but barely.

In truth, it’s no different internally than it is externally. If I don’t catch it quickly enough, I slip into a sort-of frantic motion both within and without. I get more busy. I run through a Rolodex of memorized stories in search of logic, affinity, and sense-making. I think and think and think instead of feel. I talk and process and talk some more (even if only to myself). I work and wrestle. I write and write and write. And at the very same time (maybe inherent in these very things), I avoid and dissociate.

Bottom line: I am in search of and in demand of answers all the time! It’s exhausting.

I want to believe there is a gift in unanswerable questions, that there is grace to be found in the midst and the mess of it all.

Here’s what I know, in spite of myself: 

  • Unanswerable questions invite me to remember that I am not in control, that life is impermanent, that *just* being here is worth it – for myself and for others.
  • Unanswerable questions call me “further up and further in” to what and who truly matters.
  • Unanswerable questions require that I sit still instead of run, allow instead of demand, let go instead of grip.
  • Unanswerable questions are not a “pass” from action and agency; rather, they are incentive to stay awake to the need and pain and deserved advocacy that is all around me, all of the time.
  • Unanswerable questions invite me to stay. Stay present. Stay here. Stay put. Stay with.

This all sounds right. I’m sure it is. And yet again, easier said than done.

A confession: 
I’ve deleted almost everything I’ve written today. Paragraphs and paragraphs that have been an attempt to land on something that feels complete, tied up with a bow, hopeful . . . My attempt to provide answers, really.

I know, it’s ironic. And not all that surprising.

So, just this remains:

 . . . there is a gift in unanswerable questions; there is grace to be found in the midst and the mess of it all. 

Though I don’t know how, I still say, “May it be so.”

The Devastation of Hope

Apr 6, 2023 | Hope & Encouragement, Women's Wisdom

Last week I watched someone I love ascend into the heights of joy only to descend into its complete opposite. All within a span of about six hours. It has been excruciating to witness, acknowledge, experience, and allow. I feel completely helpless, barely helpful, and tongue-tied to say anything that might offer a modicum of comfort. There is no sense-making, no sufficient explanation, nothing that can possibly console.

They sit with the devastation of hope.

In the in-between moments of texting and talking, shedding my own tears, and worrying about them, I have noticed particular snippets of thought flit through my mind. Shards, really. Sharp and glistening daggers of truth.

*****

Hope, as an emotion, an experience, an aspiration can feel dangerous, even foolish.

Why hold onto it when there is the possibility of it slipping through your fingers? Why trust in something good when there is a definite chance that something bad will happen instead? Why have faith with no guarantee that it will be rewarded?

It’s understandable, really.

We have all had moments-and-seasons in which we know hope beyond measure. We let ourselves feel all the emotions of hope-fulfilled, of what it will be like when X, Y, or Z finally happens. We allow ourselves to imagine. We see the future and it is beautiful beyond compare.

Sometimes every one of those emotions, imaginings, and visions come to be and we soak in the gift and grace of it all. And sometimes (it seems, more times), what we hope for does not happen and we berate ourselves for ever believing it would. “I was foolish to think that this could ever be.” “I should have known better than to hope.”

As hard as it is to sit with loss, disappointment, and grief, I don’t know what the alternative is. Well, that’s not exactly true. I do know the alternative: pessimism, disconnection, severely lowered expectations, low-grade cynicism, numbness, all of the above.

And these? It’s tempting to believe that not hoping will keep us safe, that it will prevent us from ever feeling what is as close-to-unbearable as we can possibly get. 

But here’s the thing . . .

We are not safe from the realities of life—either the heights of joy or its complete opposite. This IS the reality of life—at least one fully and well-lived: allowing all of it, letting ourselves grieve, celebrating with abandon, knowing profound ecstasy, reeling in pain, everything in-between.

To try to not feel shuts us down and prevents us from really living. My therapist once told me, “The degree to which you try to avoid grief, Ronna, is the degree to which you will not know joy. The reverse is also true: the more grief you let in, the more joy you will know and feel.” (Reluctantly and over a very long time, I came to agree with him.)

And so, given these options, these realities, these truths, I will always, always choose hope. Yes, even the devastation of hope. 

*****

The devastation of hope is a marker of just how beautiful our desire is, how worthy, how holy, how profound.

The devastation of hope is an unswerving commitment to what we deserve, what we know-that-we-know-that-we-know, what we will not not believe.

The devastation of hope is the evidence that our longings are worth having, holding, and honoring.

The devastation of hope is what invites us to the depths of grief, the most honest acknowledgement of loss, and the eventual return to hope’s embrace.

The devastation of hope is what enables us to hope yet again.

*****

Part of a text conversation from a few days back:

Are you OK?

Not totally sure. But I will be.

Hope.
The devastation of hope.
Hope, yet again.

And in between every one of these, so many tears. Theirs and my own. Over their sadness and grief, yes; but also in stunned gratitude for their honesty, their courage, their strength, their heart, their hope . . . despite its devastation.

What I am privileged-beyond-measure to witness in them IS the cycle, the ongoing truth, and an open-ended (albeit somewhat reluctant) invitation to a life that is full-to-the-brim with all the feels. Alive. Awake. Accentuated. Excruciating. Glorious. Beautiful. Grievous. Impossible. Amazing. Holy.

*****

Even after writing all of this, I am clear about hope’s danger, even seeming-foolishness. What it costs and what it affords. What it threatens and what it invites. What we suffer and what it summons.

Still, I don’t know how to not hope.

“Hope” is the thing with feathers –
That perches in the soul –
And sings the tune without the words –
And never stops – at all –
~ Emily Dickinson

“Hope . . . never stops – at all . . . “

May it be so.

Treasuring All that is Precious

Mar 23, 2023 | Hope & Encouragement, Mothers and Daughters, My sort-of Sermons

As I write this (early January, 2023), I am in Toronto at the home of my dear friend, Tanya Geisler. I was scheduled to fly there nearly three years ago, but had to cancel at the last minute because of my dad’s sudden and unexpected illness, days thereafter, his death. Then Covid. And border restrictions. And leaving my job. And moving across the country. And life. Now, at last, as of this past Thursday, I am here.

Tanya and I met online more than a decade ago. 2010, if I were to take a guess. I knew of her and somehow, shockingly, she knew of me. I decided to invite a small group of women to an in-person event, certain every one of them would say no. Three days together with no agenda—just time and space. All of them said yes, instead. Tanya was one of them.

She flew out of Toronto. Changed planes somewhere in the U.S. Landed in Seattle. Took a shuttle to the ferry dock. Took a ferry to Whidbey Island. Took another shuttle to where I picked her up. Then, having never seen me in person and after travelling for far too many hours and feeling a three-hour time difference, she jumped out of the van and literally ran to me, arms wide open. That embrace? Words fail me.

When I got here three nights ago, I felt that same embrace.

I leave tomorrow. She’ll embrace me one more time. It seems too soon. I cannot, would not trade these precious days for anything in the world.

*****

My mom, knowing how much I love the writing of Ann Patchett, recently told me about her latest book, a collection of essays entitled, These Precious Days. My library loan expired before I got all the way through it, but I’m back on the waiting list. Before it was out of my grasp, I highlighted these words:

I’d been afraid I’d somehow been given a life I hadn’t deserved, but that’s ridiculous. We don’t deserve anything – not the suffering and not the golden light. It just comes.

This is how I often feel when I reflect on my relationship with Tanya. I don’t deserve it. Maybe better stated, I’ve not done anything to deserve it. It just came to me, and to us. It’s precious, sacred even. It’s a gift of grace.

In truth, there are countless, countless people and stories and memories and experiences in my life that are just like this. They have “just come”—in both suffering and in light. They have changed me, strengthened me, shaped me, and ushered me more deeply into a sense of awareness and acceptance and gratitude.

Precious, to be sure.

Why would we turn “precious” into something that is, well, less so?

I don’t have definitive answers, but I am reminded of a story . . .

*****

I got married when I was 31 years old; my husband was almost 48. Given our ages, we were determined to get pregnant as soon as absolutely possible. After five years of infertility (and unsuccessful treatments), I was convinced it would never happen.

You already know how this story played out. I have two amazing daughters. Emma Joy is 26 and Abby is 24. I remain stunned and humbled by their presence in my life. Miracles, both. Precious, to be sure.

But let’s go back to those five years. I did NOT, in any way, see my suffering as precious. In point of fact, I didn’t even allow myself to suffer. At least not visibly, consciously, wisely. Every twenty-eight days I’d give myself a good talking to: “buck up, accept your lot, get it together, trust God’s plan!” If you hear a ridiculous degree of harshness, you’d be right. Even typing it now, I feel a lump in my throat. In many ways, what I told myself (without realizing it until this very moment) was to NOT be precious; to not consider myself more highly than I ought, to not see myself as “entitled” to that which I held most dear and of great worth and price.

Isn’t this sad?

My longing deserved to be precious and dear. My suffering and grief deserved to be precious and inestimable. My hope deserved to be precious and prized. Instead, I told myself that I was being affected, fragile, and pretentious.

We can be so quick to dismiss that which is rich and tender and vulnerable in our lives. To Ann Patchett’s point, we can, all-too-often, see ourselves as undeserving and so, not notice what “just comes.” When what’s precious comes to us through suffering more than light, it’s that much harder to see it as such.

Before I turn this around (which I promise I will do), I’m wondering where all of this lands for you. I’m wondering if, like me, you have stories of suffering that you didn’t allow, experiences you couldn’t let yourself grieve, hopes you couldn’t dare hold onto. I’m wondering if, like me, you have been far more inclined to see yourself as undeserving and so, in light of such, have not given yourself permission to take in, revel in, and honor all that is precious in your life . . . and in you.

I cannot be talked out of this truth: The definition of “precious” defines you—valuable, of great worth or price, honorable. The synonyms for “precious” describe you—adored, cherished, dear, inestimable, loved, prized, treasured.

You are precious, to be sure.

*****

Tomorrow I will fly back to Charlotte NC. I’ll go through customs, take the shuttle to my car, and then make the 3.5 hour drive back to Hampstead. I’ll feel tons of gratitude for the days Tanya and I have shared. I’ll be lost in thought about all we talked of together. I’ll be happy the weather is at least 20-30 degrees warmer. I’ll wish I weren’t driving back in the dark. I’ll listen to an audio book. I’ll stop for gas and probably drive-through dinner. I’ll pull into the driveway, see the porch light left on for me, and say a prayer of “thanks” that I’m safe, that I’m home, that this is my life. All of it is precious—when I choose to see it as such.

I’m certain the same is true for you.

May it be so.