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Expressing profound grief & fierce loss

Feb 18, 2014 | Sacred Stories, Women's Voice & Power, Women's Wisdom

There is an ancient story told of a widow whose only son died. With him went her last semblance of family, belonging, and even physical security – not to mention every last shred of hope and joy. On the day of his funeral, she moved in slow motion as the procession paraded through the streets of her village. Her head was down. Her heart was broken. Her sorrow was bottomless. Her tears were unstoppable. Until she heard a man’s voice speak directly to her: “Do not weep.” Grief was replaced by white-hot rage. Her red-rimmed eyes rose to meet his only in time to hear him speak again, this time directly to her dead son: “Young man, I say to you, rise!” And her fury was just as miraculously replaced by joy-beyond-belief as her son rose and began to speak for himself. The prophet/healer disappeared into the crowd, leaving everyone speaking of what they had just heard, seen, and experienced.

I have struggled with this story – with my writing of it. I have wrestled with crafting its telling in a way that enables the woman to be the central character instead of the prophet/healer. But I’ve struggled even more because I don’t like the words the prophet/healer speaks: “Do not weep.”

I know. I know. We can understand what he says because we know that the healing is yet to occur; that he speaks knowing what is yet to come. But she didn’t know this! She was broken and struggling to put one foot in front of the other. She had just lost everything that mattered to her, everything she held dear. And we do her a disservice by hurriedly moving from one verse to the next, slipping right past her known reality to the one on which we’d rather focus.

I do not want to move past her known reality. I do not want to move past her. So here it is:

To say, “Do not weep” is insensitive if not downright cruel. But this is not the half of it. For me to say such, to even whisper it, immediately causes a shame-based pressure to clamp itself around my throat and nearly stop my fingers from typing. To say that I disagree with what the prophet/healer said means that I am directly disagreeing with Jesus, the son-of-God, a voice of authority and then some. And that’s just not OK.

You may be liberated enough to skip right over this as no big deal with an “it’s-only-a story-after-all” perspective. Or, you may be brave enough to dismiss the whole thing completely.

Apparently, I’m neither.

As I have worked to write about this story, I have felt and experienced my dissonance and disagreement as NOT ALLOWED. As though I am obligated to remain silent. As though my opinion is too much, too dangerous, and just not worth voicing.

Which means I then become complicit in letting someone else’s voice carry more authority than my own; that I also become complicit in allowing the same to happen to someone else, another women; that in this case, this man’s voice trumps that of this woman’s.

I’m not making this up. The story itself perpetuates this. This woman’s voice isn’t heard. And it’s a story about her! Which is, of course, the point.

Her story puts me face-to-face with patriarchal power/authority and a woman’s lack thereof.

Her story puts me face-to-face with words spoken that are painful but ignored, because of who he is; because the rest of the story somehow redeems the earlier harshness.

Her story puts me face-to-face with my own resistance to speaking out in response to these very stories and the god within them (not in critique, but with allowed honesty, perspective, and hope).

Her story puts me face-to-face with the paradox of the divine – things understood and far more not.

Her story puts me face-to-face with me; with the heartache I know on behalf of the woman in this text and all those within the larger Text; the silence that too-often envelops them and the voice I long to give.

Her story puts me face-to-face with my\ fear: my visceral awareness that to speak – to weep – to express my perspective, my opinion, even my rage, carries with it the nearly-certain risk of profound loss.

Her story puts me face-to-face with my own known grief and hope, silence and voice, heartache and endless-longing for miracles.

When it comes right down to it, her story is about me. I am not confused at all about this – ever.

But maybe, just maybe, her story is about you, too. It’s possible that what happened to her has happened to you – in both literal and figurative ways. It’s more-than possible that you’ve witnessed the same. And it’s highly probable that you know exactly what I’m talking about:

Wanting to speak out, but daring not to – the sudden and overwhelming rush of emotions-and-voices-and-censors that tell you to just. keep. quiet. The clamp that immediately restricts your throat. The invisible “slap” that hovers over your fingers as you try to type-write-speak. And the less-than-subtle lesson-learned: do. not. weep.

And this is exactly why this woman’s story matters.

This is exactly the subterfuge and fabulously stealth-like way in which she does speak.

This is exactly the way in which her legacy endures, strengthens, and transforms.

She calls us to weep. She calls us to speak. She calls us to voice. She calls us to express emotion that is accurate and right and allowed in any and all circumstances in which we find ourselves, no matter what. And she subtly-though-powerfully calls us to sit/stand/stay with the palpable dissonance that occurs when we come face-to-face with the divine (or at least the stories we’ve learned and incorporated of
such) – even and maybe especially when we disagree.

Does her story continue? Is her son restored to her? Does her weeping turn to joy? And does this prophet/healer’s compassion on her behalf make all of this possible? Miraculously and graciously, yes. But more, she makes this possible. It is her profound grief and fierce love that turns the eye of god in the first place. It is her profound grief and fierce love that impacts Jesus’ heart. It is her profound grief and fierce love that invites miracles, changes everything, and turns the world on its axis.

The Widow of Nain calls us to any and every expression of profound grief and fierce love we can muster on behalf of what we desire and deserve.

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It is true: not every story ends with such a happy ending. Death steals. Disappointment rocks us to our core. And weeping continues, as it should.

In the meantime and in the midst, may we be women (and men) who allow for tears – our own and others’. May we be women (and men) who bravely say what we think and feel, no matter what or to whom. May we be women (and men) who step bravely into conversations in which angels fear to tread. And may we be women (and men) who stand alongside those without voice – past, present, and future – and give them our own. That kind of profound grief and fierce love is what turns the world on its axis.

When that kind of profound grief and fierce love is expressed, the Widow of Nain smiles and says “Yes, of course. For you are my daughters (and my sons), my lineage, my kin.”

May it be so.

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Conversations of this kind are sacred ground. They matter so very much. And they’re all-too rare. Gratefully, they are what I facilitate, offer, engage in, and love via my 1:1 work with clients. Learn more about working with me. 

You are NOT the Invisible Woman!

Jan 27, 2014 | Sacred Stories, Women's Voice & Power

Do you ever feel as though you are unseen, unheard, invisible? As though your story doesn’t have all that much significance in the larger scheme of things?

Don’t believe it! Nothing could be further from the truth!

Your story is more than significant, more than profound, and more than critical to the larger, gorgeous, amazing drama that’s being woven and written around you. And your place, your voice, your role, your heart is right in the middle of it! I promise!

Want an example?

Not surprisingly, I’ve got one.

There is an ancient, sacred story told of a nameless woman. We know nothing about her other than what we can deduce: she was a daughter, a wife, and a mother. These alone, in my opinion, are more than enough to give her stature, merit, and value. Sparse details hardly limit the depth or scope of her significance. She lived a story that couldn’t help but change the world. Just like yours.

After Adam and Eve left the Garden they had two sons – Cain and Abel; later, a third. One day, in a fit of jealous rage, Cain killed his younger brother. (Makes eating that fruit seem relatively mild, doesn’t it?) His punishment was to wander the earth – a nomad, no home, no family. In fear for his ability to survive, he pleaded with the Divine to protect him; to somehow keep him from being killed by those who would seek his death. And so he was given a distinguishing mark that would forever protect him. And of course, this is where we get the phrase, “the mark of Cain.”

Later in the text we read that Cain settled in the land of Nod, east of Eden. Then this, Cain made love to his wife, and she became pregnant and gave birth to Enoch. (Genesis 4:17)

That’s it. Her only mention.

Now some would say such is not even worth the bother – for a blog post or a book chapter, let alone an attempt to offer some level of significance to those who feel their stories are small, inconsequential, almost nonexistent.

Don’t believe it! Nothing could be further from the truth!

“…there are stories we will never find, no matter how many times we search the sacred texts. I think it was Marcia Falk who wrote, ‘What we cannot remember, we must imagine.’ And so we read between the lines, listening beneath the layers of suppression and neglect to hear the chorus of voices where we were told there was only silence.” ~ Jan Richardson, In Wisdom’s Path

In between the lines and listening between the layers. Expecting to hear a heartbeat of significance, meaning, and worth. Imagining what we deeply, intuitively, and already/always know to be true: women’s stories matter. Just like yours.

Whether myth or historical fact matters not. Her story is true. Cain’s wife sings out the continuation of countless generations: hundreds of thousands of women who are unnamed but no less real; without position, but no less powerful; barely spoken of, but hardly silent. Cain’s wife symbolizes every single page of life and death, hope and despair, triumph and tragedy that is being written, even if seemingly unseen and unheard. Cain’s wife signifies that women endure, period. Just like you.

And if this weren’t enough (though I believe it is), Cain’s wife is the first woman mentioned outside the Garden. Eve’s daughter-in-law. The wife of a marked-man. The bearer of Adam and Eve’s grandson. A mother who heard her husband’s stories and told them to her son. One who enabled generations to follow. She lived a significant story. She is a significant woman. Just like you.

So if there are days or even seasons in which you feel as though your story is not worth mentioning, barely seen, a whisper that’s hardly heard in a noisy world, take heart! Cain’s wife stands alongside you in solidarity and strength. She reminds you that every story matters and that every woman’s ability to nurture, labor, grieve, laugh, cry, persevere, live, love, and bring forth life in any and every form is what enables the far larger story to even exist, let alone be told, endure, and thrive.

You are part of a legacy of a women who endure, who make a difference, who matter. To ever think, let alone believe anything less is a lie.

Cain’s wife calls you, me, all of us back to the truth. Hear her voice:

I see you. I hear you. I know your name. I love your story. You matter. You endure. You live. This alone is more than enough. You are more than enough. Take heart: you are my daughter, my lineage, my kin.

Don’t Look Back

Jan 9, 2014 | Sacred Stories, Women's Voice & Power, Women's Wisdom

Danielle LaPorte recently said, “Do not give your past the power to define your future.” Nowhere is this seen more profoundly (and painfully) than in the story of Lot’s wife.

She lived in a city embroiled in avarice and greed, abhorrent behavior, every seen and silent sin. God wasn’t happy with any of this and told Abraham that the only foreseeable solution was to destroy the whole place. Abraham bargained – again and again – hoping to save as many good people as he could, fonally getting agreement from the Divine as it related to his nephew Lot and his family. Angels were then sent in to warn Lot of the impending doom and to compel him to leave. When morning dawned, the angels urged Lot, saying, “Get up, take your wife and your two daughters who are here, or else you will be consumed in the punishment of the city.” But he lingered; so the men seized him and his wife and his two daughters by the hand, the Lord being merciful to him, and they brought him out and left him outside the city. When they had brought  them outside, they said, “Flee for your life; do not look back or stop anywhere in the plain; flee to the hills, or else you will be consumed.” …Then the Lord rained on Sodom and Gomorrah sulfur and fore from the Lord out of heaven; and God overthrew those cities, and all the Plain, and all the inhabitants of the cities, and what grew on the ground. But Lot’s wife, behind him, looked back, and she became a pillar of salt. (from Genesis 19)

Much could be discussed about divine retribution – witnessed here and in many other parts of this Text. It’s hard to understand, harder still to incorporate into our desire for a God of grace and mercy. And though I could wax long and maybe even eloquently on this (and the ways in which I think of and even attempt to make sense of such things), I want to point our attention to the woman in the story: Lot’s wife.

She was told not to look back where all those people and their homes had been. But she did.

She did look back and I love her for that. It was human, to be expected, a normal response to horrific circumstances.

And the result? She was turned into a pillar of salt. 

It has been said that turning into a pillar of salt was what she deserved for not following obediently, quietly, and without argument. Hmmm. ‘Not quite the way I see it, want to see it, want to see her.

And that’s my point: I want to see her!

She’s deserving of being seen. She’s worthy of being heard; her voice whispering (and sometimes shouting) through the ages…

Don’t look back!

I don’t blame her. In fact, it makes sense to me; even compassionate and right. She was leaving behind all she had known, her home, her friends, and undoubtedly more family. Who could do such a thing without a backwards glance, without remorse, without a turn in remembrance and grief toward all she was now forced to forget?

This is both understandable and wise: honoring our past and paying close attention to all that has gone before. We do well to look back at the story that is uniquely and powerfully our own; at where we’ve come from – and whom.

But that very same reflection can easily become the tendency and temptation which keep us from moving forward. This is what Lot’s wife shows us in monumental ways.

Lot’s wife calls us to set our sights on all that is ahead, to look toward the new lands we’ve been promised, to run-not-walk toward the future that is ours, and on the way, to cling tightly to the hand of the angels who know that full-tilt life awaits us when we have the courage to risk, to dare, to trust.

Easier said than done. It is hard to move forward when it means letting go of the past – whether patterns and behaviors or pathologies and relationships. We’re comfortable with the way things are, thank you very much (even if they are unhealthy and actually keep us from progressing, growing, becoming stronger). It is seemingly far less disruptive to just do what we’ve always done (while hoping for different results) than the brave and bold work of changing, leaving, turning away, not turning back.

Lot’s wife calls us to honest reflection; to brutal truth about where we currently “live.” And then she requires even more: we must loosen our grip on all that’s behind us and grasp tightly onto the hands of any and all Divine messengers who compel us to all that’s ahead.

Lot’s wife calls us to more: to a sustained, powerful, and ongoing story.

Hear her voice as you think about hard choices: Don’t look back.

Hear her voice as you acknowledge your fear; as you trust an unknown future in exchange for an all-too-familiar and less than-healthy past: Don’t look back.

Hear her voice when you lean toward compromise over challenge, passivity over proactivity, default over declaration: Don’t look back.

And hear her voice when you need to be reminded that you are not alone in any of this – the looking back, the standing still, the moving forward. I know, she says. I’m with you. Take my hand…

Even more than her imagined voice, this is her timeless legacy and infinite gift. She is the Divine messenger that pulls us into all that is ours to have, to create, to enjoy, to live.

Don’t look back. Take my hand. Angels wait to escort you right into the promised land.

May it be so.

*****

One last thing. Often in fairy tales, characters who fail in a quest are turned to stone until they are rescued by the successful hero. The story of Lot’s wife, no matter how we understand it – as fact, as fiction, as myth, as archetype, as legend, as lore – is not this kind of tale.

She stands firm and tall, memorializing a woman’s generous and ever-beating heart for all she has created and birthed, nurtured and loved, built and sustained and as crystal-clear and clarion call to be our own hero and rescue ourselves; to do the hard work of breaking old habits and healing old hurts; to cry salty tears while we move across the desert plains, through the hills, into the promised land: a new strength, a new and glorious future.

Yes, may it be so.

Choose to Believe – If Only For Today

Mar 30, 2013 | Hope & Encouragement, Sacred Stories, Spirituality

Easter Sunday is the most significant day on the Christian church calendar. Marking and celebrating the resurrection of Christ is no small event; no small thing to try and understand.

What if understanding is not the point?What if it never has been? What if all that’s ever mattered is the story itself?

I’ve been pondering this nearly endlessly the past couple of days – inspired by watching the film version of Life of Pi. The story is enchanting, heartbreaking, and powerful – as all good stories must be. Even more, it’s so fantastical that you want to believe. Did it actually happen? Was it really like that? Could he possibly have seen and experienced and survived all that he did? Does it matter?

These words, from the book:

“I know what you want. You want a story that won’t surprise you. That will confirm what you already know. That won’t make you see higher or further or differently. You want a flat story. An immobile story. You want dry, yeastless factuality.

“So tell me, since it makes no factual difference to you and you can’t prove the question either way, which story do
you prefer? Which is the better story . . . ?”

Do you see?

If given the choice between a story of documentable facts or undeniable meaning, which would you choose? And more important, will you choose? For in such is where faith takes hold. In such is where hope survives. And in such is where love dwells – resurrected and pulsing.

I know: it’s a lot to accept the Burning Bush, the parting of the Red Sea, Jonah in the belly of a whale, and Job’s plight. I know: it’s a lot to accept the Virgin Birth, the healings, the feeding-of-the-5000, the walking-on-water, the death on a cross and resurrection three days later. I know: it’s a lot to accept your own stories of beauty and pain, sickness and health, better and worse, understanding and misunderstanding, poverty and plenty, silence and voice, dignity and depravity, shame and glory, struggle and celebration, hurt and healing, hate and love. But compared to what? A story that won’t surprise? A story that won’t make you see higher or further or differently? A flat story? An immobile story? A dry, yeastless factuality? No story at all?

Believe me, my point (even if only today) is not to have a discussion an argument about biblical inerrancy, atonement theory or any other multitude of theological premises. These are topics and arguments conversations I love, to be sure, but above and beyond everything else is the story. And that, today and every day, is where we must stay. It is our common ground, our grounding reality, our real (if not
only) source of faith and hope and love.

Story is the only thing that compels us; the only thing that really matters when all is said and done: mine, yours, ours…and mayebe even the one we tell/live/believe about God.

Do you see?

You can choose which story you want to believe; which one you want to have impact and move you over and over again. Even if only today, the veracity and “truth” of the story doesn’t matter. What matters is that the story is enchanting enough and heartbreaking enough and powerful enough to hold you captive, to hold you, period; to move you from despair to hope, from darkness to light, from doubt to faith, from death to life.

Do you see?

The Easter Story is invitation to choose to believe, to feel and experience what that makes possible, to cling tenaciously to faith, to hold onto crazy and illogical hope, to trust in beyond-belief love – even if only today. And maybe even more.

“Come and see.”

These were the words a few brave, believing women spoke to the disciples after discovering Jesus’ tomb empty. That morning they stepped into a story that was bigger than them – that they couldn’t possibly prove, verify, or make sense of – ever. And it didn’t matter.

On this Easter Sunday, like those brave, believing women of so long ago, I’m saying, “Come and see.”

Come and see. Choose to see. Believe the story you want, the story you long for, the story you pray for – for yourself and for our world: one of impossible-to-explain miracles, of resurgent faith, of soaring hope, of life conquering death, of resurrection, of love – and love – and love. And not just today. Always. Eternally. Really.

May it be so.

The God of Once Upon a Time

Mar 5, 2013 | Mothers and Daughters, Sacred Stories, Spirituality

Once Upon a Time. There was a day when these four small words would instantly transport my eldest daughter to another world. Her imagination and senses would engage. And she implicitly trusted that something rich and beautiful, something of dreams and intrigue; something that touched in deep and anticipation-filled ways was on the verge. She was a child.

Now she is a teenager. She has no time for such tales. At least not those of myth, of history, of fairytale. She is steeped in story, to be sure; but now they are narratives that create pressure and leave nothing to imagination. Boys. Body image. Behavior. They broadcast nonstop.

Everything is blatant. Everything is seen. Everything is said. And a Once Upon a Time world, at least to her, feels silly, if not a waste of time.

I cried today. For her, for myself, and in remembrance of days gone by when I could hold her on my lap and make everything right. Now hard stories seem to abound. There is no fantasy for escape; no fairy godmother to wave a magic wand; no prince to rescue.

And so I pray.

*****

I have heard that God, when beckoned, shows up for some in palpable and find-a-parking-spot ways.

This is not my experience.

Sometimes talking to God feels as silly as the stories to which my daughter now rolls her eyes. God? Really? How am I to understand, to trust, to know there even is a God – who hears and understands, let alone acts on behalf of a 52-year-old mother and her 16-year-old girl? Please.

“Please?”

*****

In all good stories the plot builds. We feverishly turn the pages, longing to see what happens next. And something significant always occurs – somewhere between Once Upon a Time and Happily Ever After. We lean forward in anticipation and hope (maybe even prayer), implicitly knowing and believing (maybe even having faith) that the tide is about to turn. We are rarely, if ever disappointed.

Nor am I.

The divine does show up. No magic wand or parking space. No “fix.” No miracle. Or is it?

A gentle wind blows through my mind and a sacred tale catches on the jagged edge of my heart. Grace whispers and soothes. And story returns. Once Upon a Time…

  • Eve longed for more, reached, and desired.
  • Noah’s wife, in the face of tragedy too excruciating to comprehend, survived.
  • Hagar was abused, abandoned, and alone…but not forgotten.
  • Hannah agonized over infertility and God heard her cry.
  • Esther took incalculable risk to save a nation.
  • Mary knew ecstatic joy and the depths of sorrow with her son.
  • The woman at the well, lost in shame, was seen and loved.
  • Mary Magdalene felt deep emotion, deep passion, deep love, deep heartache.

These stories and hundreds more are answered prayer for me. They hold and comfort. They accompany and guide. They lift me up. They calm me down. They bring me home – to myself and to the God who dwells within them. They remind me that I am not alone.

One could say that I find the divine in story. But truth-be-told, the divine, maybe even God, finds me.

And this is miracle, indeed. For in this infinite finding, I return to Once Upon a Time. To perspective. To wisdom. To hope. To an epic quest and heroine’s journey. Plot twists and turns. Battles lost and others won. Ball gowns and scullery rags. Heights and depths. Laughter and yes, tears.

*****

I cried a second time today. Deeply aware and profoundly grateful for a God who intimately and palpably reminds me I am not alone; who dwells in stories – others’, my daughter’s, and even my own.

Are there days when I wish for simple answers or a quick fix? Yes. Today was one of them. But given the choice, I’ll forego the God of good parking spaces Every Single Time for the God of Once Upon a Time.

A Meditation Gone Awry

Mar 1, 2013 | Sacred Stories, Women's Voice & Power, Women's Wisdom

I listened to a meditation a few days back called, “Inner Goddess.” What enticed me to such? First, it was free. But second, really, how could I resist that title? Not seconds in, I heard these words:

“To experience a sense of transformation is to call upon all the other women who have lived throughout time; that have embodied certain qualities that we want to strengthen within ourselves.”

Though the calm voice intended for my breath to slow; mine caught in my throat. I gasped. My pulse quickened. And my mind leaped far beyond her words into concepts, ideas, and entire worlds of my own.

Somewhere in the distant recesses of my mind I heard her mention Isis, Medusa, Aphrodite, and others. I listened, distractedly, to the affirmations she called forth; specific messages each of these goddesses wanted me to hear, incorporate, and believe. But more, I recognized my heartbeat – a deep, steady “yes” that longs for, trusts in, and knows this connection to other women who have lived throughout time; for me, the ancient, sacred women of Scripture.

Maybe this is uniquely my bias, but it seems we are far quicker to assimilate the relevance, messages, and presence of goddesses like Isis, Medusa, and Aphrodite than we are those of Eve, Hagar, and Mary (just to name a few). We have the conceptual bandwidth to understand and allow for the influence of mythic archetypes, but find ourselves quickly tripped and bound by the biblical text (and accompanying doctrine, religion, dogma, conservativism, et. al.) within which so many incredible and inspirational women’s stories dwell.

This is not only problematic, it is nearly unacceptable.

Today, were a woman’s identity known only as “the wife of…” she would rail, scream, and fight. And yet, we are content to let Eve and her lineage’s identity remain only as “those stories in the Bible.”

As long as we do, we are disconnected from our own lineage and our own legacy.

This breaks my heart.

This propels me forward.

This transforms my life.

That is not to say that I don’t understand others’ perspectives and experiences. It can feel messy and tricky and even seemingly dangerous to wander into Scripture; so prone are we to distrust what’s housed within or the agenda of the one who is interpreting it. Still, the beauty and wisdom inherent in these ancient sacred narratives is powerful and cannot be denied. Like the Greek and Roman goddesses, these women too, are available (and waiting) to be called upon, invited, and heard.

This is what I attempt to do: resurrect, re-imagine, re-tell their stories so that they are redeemed; but more, so that we might be strengthened by their companioning presence, their hard-won wisdom, their connection to our truest self. I’ve done it over and over with Eve; the gorgeous women even giants couldn’t resist; Noah’s wife; Sarai; the Extravagant woman; and so many more to come.

I’m just getting started.

It’s possible, of course, that I’m preaching to the choir; that I’m writing this post for the sole purpose of convincing myself of what I most need to hear. If so, I’m fine with that. But if, somehow and miraculously, my words are what you need to hear as well, then you can be certain that I am smiling…and…feeling my breath catch in my throat while my heart beats, “yes.”

Trust me, Eve and so many others are experiencing the same resonant response – each of them inviting you to call upon them, beckoning you to know them, encouraging you to walk with them; but more, to experience the sense of transformation we so passionately long for and which can so readily be found in those who have gone before us – who remain with us, even now.

“To experience a sense of transformation is to call upon all the other women who have lived throughout time; that have embodied certain qualities that we want to strengthen within ourselves.”

May it be so.