fbpx

Letting Go and Holding On

Jan 4, 2016 | Hope & Encouragement, My sort-of Sermons, Women's Wisdom

Living through years of infertility taught me an invaluable lesson. And truth-be-told, I continue to learn it just as, if not more profoundly as a parent:

Much that happens (or doesn’t) is not in my control.

The strength of my desire does not alter this reality one iota. The endless spinning in my brain to understand the “why” does not change what’s true. My dissociation and/or denial does not mitigate surrender’s incessant demand. But still I fuss and fight! I desire more. I visualize and dream and plot and plan. I think harder. I analyze everything. I labor and strain.

Nothing moves. Nothing changes. At least not in the way I want.

I am required to loosen my grip, to let go.

 

Not of my dreams or desire and never of hope, but of the outcome, the timing, the particulars, my certainty, my dogmatism, my stubborn belief that I am in control.

This is the challenge, yes? To do good work without guarantee of impact (or income). To write without demand of publication (or perfection). To be creative without fear of critique. To love without requirement of its return. To dream and dream and dream without promise of its waking-fulfillment. Yes, this is the challenge…and… it’s also our deepest calling.

We must let go and hold on at the same time. It is the tension between the two that is the nature of our journey, that does – endlessly and always – compel our growth and transformation, that is the incontrovertible evidence of the sacred in our midst.

How else are we to understand our capacity to hope in the midst of despair, to find light in darkness, to get out of bed despite overwhelming grief, to see beauty and hear music and feel wind and drink coffee and eat chocolate and ever, ever laugh? How else are we to explain the fact that we have survived, that our hearts have continued to beat, that still we continue to dream and desire and yes, love?

In admitting that there is much over which we have no control, we do let go. And in letting go we realize that there is much worth holding on to, even more, that we are worth holding onto.

It is in letting go that we are able to hold on to ourselves. And that, amazingly enough, we can control!

May it be so.

A woman’s heart = experiencing God

Dec 9, 2015 | Hope & Encouragement, Spirituality, Women's Voice & Power, Women's Wisdom

From the beginning of time we have been asking questions about the Divine. The form, complexity, and context of the questions have changed as centuries have passed – influenced by our understanding (or lack thereof) of so many things: cosmology, philosophy, psychology, sociology, biology – but at the end of the day, year, generation, epoch, our inquiry remains essentially the same: Is there a God? And if so, how are we to understand
this God?

I hardly mean to make light of humanity’s quest – or even that of an individual – but what I know-that-I-know-that-I-know is that all it takes to solve any and all existential angst is to hang out with a woman.

I have the privilege of doing a lot of this – which, when I think of it, leaves me profoundly qualified to speak of God. (Bonus!!)

As I write this post, I am sitting in the airport awaiting my flight home after enjoying 5 days with one of the wisest, most beautiful, kind, and compassionate women on the planet. To call her friend takes my breath away. I stayed in her home, spent time with her family, ate her food, slept on her fold-out couch, kept her up way too late, and enjoyed a number of bottles of wine, spirits, and of course, champagne. It was fun, restful, encouraging, inspired, heart-overf;owing, grace-filled and above and beyond all else, just pure-and-endless love. It was, quite simply, divine. I did, quite clearly, experience the Divine.

So, want your own proof for the existence of God? Want to know how you are to understand this God? Yep. Hang out with a woman! The Divine will be revealed in and through her embrace, through the experience of being seen and heard and known by her, through the gift of time and conversation and hospitality and rest and most of all, her pure-and-endless-love.

And here’s even more definitive proof: When you show up and hang out with a woman, she becomes certain of God’s existence, as well – because of you. (Bonus!!!)

You can push me on this anyway to Sunday, as you please, but every bit of my experience, education, and expertise only validates what I know to be true:

It is only through our experience of love that we are certain of God’s existence. And love is experienced through a woman’s heart.

I know this is shocking, but it’s really that simple, that clear, that easy, that delightful.

Test this for yourself. Hang out with a woman. Pay attention to everything that is most true about your time together and apply these characteristics to the Divine. They won’t be wrong, I promise. Then take this one step further. Look in the mirror and revel in the fact that you reflect exactly the same!

All existential questions answered. All denominational strife solved. All religious wars settled. Every doubt soothed. Every hope realized. Every faith made real. God incarnate. In our midst. Relevant. Present. And right here. (Sounds a little reminiscent of the Christmas story, yes?) Yes.

‘Looking to experience God? Hang out with a woman. Yourself included. (Bonus!!)

Turning This Impossible Page

Sep 19, 2015 | Mothers and Daughters, Women's Wisdom

I bought a new journal a few weeks back. Planning ahead. Knowing my current one was nearly full. Wanting to make sure I didn’t run out of pages. But here I sit, the last sheet of lined paper filled with words, and yet unable, unwilling, to close the cover.

“It’s just a page,” I tell myself. “Turn it, then open up a new one.” Impossible.

How could I have known that I would finish my most recent journal on the very day that marks my first-born leaving home, the day before I take her to college, the day that perches precariously between all that has gone before and all that is yet to come?

The symbolism is not lost on me.

~~~~~~~

With every journal I complete, I feel a certain sense of satisfaction, of accomplishment, of “success,” somehow. It’s a physical sign of something completed. I close the cover and hold it in my lap for just a moment – palpably aware of all I’ve experienced and expressed in and on those pages. All I’ve grieved. All I’ve imagined. All I’ve hoped.

I can’t bring myself to close this one, these 18+ years, these everyday days. I can’t bring myself to open a new one to late night phone calls and weekend visits and home-for-the-holidays. I can’t bring myself to face the empty page, the now-empty half of her room, the empty space no longer filled by her everyday presence. How can I?

As my hand hovers on this last page, this tome that is Emma Joy, I am flooded with so much of the same. She has been physical sign, daily reminder, visceral presence in my life. A life that, with and because of her, is complete and rich and messy and whole. Every word, sentence, paragraph, and page so full, so true, so worthwhile. I held her in my lap for hours, the most-profound and miraculous manifestation of me-as-creator, the end to infertility’s grief. More than I ever imagined. More than I could have ever hoped.

How can this day be here? How can this journal be filled? Wasn’t it just yesterday that I opened to the first, fresh, brilliant page that was her? Wasn’t it just yesterday that she scribed herself across my heart?

~~~~~~~

As I (will, eventually, necessarily) close this journal, it is Emma Joy who opens the new one. As it should be! Blank pages upon which she has yet no idea, no notion, no preconceived idea of all the glorious prose and poetry and music and drama and grief and imagining and hope that await her powerful, poignant writing – on the lines and between them.

This is the gift of a new journal, of life itself: wide open space, freedom, and stepping into an unknown that awaits creative engagement, consistent presence, honest truth.

What more could I possibly wish or hope on her behalf?

Turn the page and write, Emma! College-ruled paper. New pens. Words and stories and experiences and expressions to create, compose, and live. Write yourself! No pseudonym. No holding back. No editing. No restraint. Because you can. Because you know how. Because you’re ready. Because you will change the rest of the world just as you have changed mine.

And remember that it will require no more effort to do so than your willingness and maybe the occasional reminder from your
mom that this is what you have always done, that this is who you are – indelibly inscribing yourself onto every heart you
touch.

~~~~~~~~~~

“It’s just a page,” I tell myself. “Turn it, then open up a new one.”

Not impossible, just not yet. Not today. Maybe tomorrow. But for now, I’ll hold it in my lap just a little bit longer. Pen in hand. Heart on sleeve.

Sometimes the best choice is to RUN!

Aug 22, 2015 | Sacred Stories, Women's Voice & Power, Women's Wisdom

It is excruciating to be the victim of someone’s scorn, passive-aggressive behavior, or blatant harm. I’ve heard so many of these stories over the years. In the media. In the workplace. In families. In marriages. In churches. In friendships. (I’m hardly immune.)

There’s a voice within that tells us to run, to flee, to get the heck out of dodge. Instead, we stay – silent, enduring, keeping a stiff upper lip; we refuse to acknowledge just how profoundly this impacts our accurate and honest sense of self, how we sell our very soul.

So, run!

I don’t necessarily mean this literally (though sometimes that’s exactly the right thing to do). I do necessarily mean that we are wise-wise-wise to listen to our brilliance within that says “enough,” that stands up, that knows to walk-if-not-run away – even if only emotionally and energetically – from places and persons that don’t serve us, don’t honor all we offer, don’t recognize all of who we are.

So, run!

What would it cost you? What risks would ensue? What consequences would straggle along after you, threatening to drag you down with them? (I’m hardly immune.)

No matter how high those costs, vast those risks, or massive those consequences, you still deserve to run. I understand that you very well may choose not to. (I’m hardly immune.) But it matters that you know that you have the right, the capacity, the strength, and most of all, the desire.

When you speak your inalienable “yes” or “no,” when you honor your intuition, when you trust your most integrity-filled heart, and when you run, the Divine shows up – profoundly, miraculously, magically, overwhelmingly – because you do! Then, whether you stay or go, you are filled with blessing and strength; you carry a knowing, a secret-sense of self, a glorious glimpse of who you truly are that enables you step boldly into even the hardest and painful of situations with power and beauty.

So, run!

I promise you will be amazed by who meets you there. One look in the mirror, you’ll see her, and you’ll smile: “Oh! There you are! I know you!”

[This post is inspired by the ancient, sacred story of Hagar. She consistently and endlessly provides me strength and courage beyond-compare. She ran. She runs with me. And in such, the Divine runs toward us again and again.]

Letting Go is NOT Falling Apart

Jul 13, 2015 | My sort-of Sermons, Sacred Stories, Spirituality, Women's Voice & Power, Women's Wisdom

A wise woman tells me she gets this strong sense that I am unable to really let go; like I’m afraid of letting my hair down. I hear her words, feel the lump in my throat (a marker that truth has been spoken), and in
my mind’s eye can already see the story, her story, the one I need to hear.

~~~~~

The town harlot. Marginalized, unseen, shamed, and scorned. And not one bit of that matters. Not to her. She leaves the margins and enters the fray – walking into a room full of men – the insiders, the censors, the judges, the jury. They look up from their feast, reclining interrupted by the shock of her presence. Head held high, she ignores every incredulous face, sidelong glance, and whisper of contempt. There’s only one goal, one guest, one man that matters. No amount of shame or scorn will stop her. She will be seen.

And she will not bow or scrape. Not today. She will stand. Eye-to-eye, face-to-face, toe-to- toe with this God-man, this healer, this miracle worker, this Love enfleshed. Jesus.

So she did. Time slowed. Din silenced. Shame dissipated. Scorn dissolved. Only the two of them existed. And maybe this is what enabled her next move: the visceral and complete awareness that this moment and this man were all that mattered, that she mattered.

She let go.

She wept. So much that she rained down tears on his feet. Then, in front of all her accusers – those leaders, law enforcers, and rule-followers – she let down her hair. Literally. She opened an expensive perfume, an aromatic oil, the fragrance of which filled the room and confused the senses. She poured it on his feet, mixed it with her tears, and dried them with
her hair – her let-down hair.

She let go. Of ramifications, risk, (broken) rules, created ruckus.

She let go. Of their responses: unheard of! disallowed! scandalous! extravagant!

She let go. Of everything.

Because she knew she could. Because she knew she was safe. Because she knew she was seen. Because she knew she could not be stopped. Because she knew her own heart would not lead her astray. Because she knew…

And in letting go, she was received, held, caught up, embraced – every bit of her. Expressed emotion, embodied offering, exposed heart – all allowed, welcomed, and honored.

He spoke of her with such fierce love – condemning those who had not offered him even the smallest portion of what she had; who had stingily gripped their pride, their power, their position; who refused to let her anywhere near them (at least in daylight), let alone into these inner chambers; men who refused to let go.

“Truly, I say to you, wherever this gospel is proclaimed in the whole world, what she has done will also be told in memory of her.”

~~~~~

But that has not happened. Not really.

Why would I think my story (or my telling of hers) would be any different?

~~~~~

I am not like her. I sit tight and hold back. I clench my teeth, my fists, the muscles in my neck. I won’t enter the room. I won’t take the risk. I won’t bear the ramifications. I brace myself for the scorn and shame. Because I’m convinced it’s coming.

I refuse to let go.

Letting go has meant being wanton, irresponsible, and foolish. Letting go has gotten me into trouble. Letting go has been what I’ve done when I have not held onto myself, and ultimately compromised myself. Letting go isn’t prudent. Letting go isn’t smart. Letting go might get me hurt.

Letting go has gotten me hurt.

~~~~~

What does this mean: “I can’t let go.” What am I holding on to? What am I unwilling to release? What do I fear will happen if I do? What do I grip so tightly? Why do I feel like I balance on tip-toes while a noose chafes my neck? What room won’t I enter? What faces will I not face? What old-tapes play?  What taboos am I unwilling to break? What tears do I refuse to shed? What expense do I spare? And all the while, what words and stories am I unable/unwilling to speak, to write, to live?

All these questions exhaust me. I dwell on the margins instead of entering the fray. The wise woman says to me, “It feels like oppression. Sacrificing words because someone made you feel like you’re not good enough or you don’t fit in or you’re too different. You’ve got to let go. Reflect on where those messages of perfectionism and being outside the norm come from. Then you can contain that energy and get out of your own way. The floodgates will open.”

Even this exhausts me (though it rings true). So much time spent trying to figure everything out, to understand my own psyche, to analyze my own stories, to endlessly push against the obstacles that refuse to let me pass.

~~~~~

She sings to me. She seduces. “You know my story is yours. You know the rooms that are yours to enter. You know the courage required. You know the focus, the intent, the determination with which you must move. You know of the whispered contempt, the shouted scorn (or at least your fear of such). You know who waits for you at the head of the table. You know of the tears you’d shed, the emotion you’d express, the offering you’d give, if your heart was exposed – and received. You know what’s true: this God allows, welcomes, and honors you. You know…”

I see her outstretched hand, her dazzling smile, her yet-glistening tears. “Here’s what I know,” she says. “You are extravagant. You are safe. You cannot be stopped. You know this. And you’re not alone. I am with you.”

~~~~~

Letting go is not falling apart.

It’s not falling, at all. Rappel, free-fall, skydive, stop worrying about the net beneath, leap, spread your Phoenix wings, fly. Of course.

~~~~~

Of course. I’ve written of her before. I know this! It was in letting go that she was received, held, caught up, embraced – every bit of her. Expressed emotion, embodied offering, exposed heart – all allowed, welcomed, and honored.

Her story and mine (and yours, as well) is about being a woman who risks and believes and has faith – in herself; who stands eye-to-eye, face-to-face, toe-to-toe with the Divine and then makes the extravagant choice to pour out everything she has – because she can do no less.

Letting go is not less. It is more – the most – the best – and all I can ever hope to do; it is the fullest expression of who I am.

(And you, as well.)

May it be so.

Coexistence: Goodness AND Struggle

Jun 13, 2015 | Mothers and Daughters, Women's Wisdom

Emma Joy graduates from high school today.

For the past few weeks, nearly everything she’s done or said has provoked a flood of memories: holding her for the very first time, unable to take my eyes off of her as she slept, weeping at her miraculous presence in my arms, at my breast, in my life. I remember her first laugh (and how I repeated my same actions over and over again, just to hear that sound one more time), her first steps, her first day of school, her first time on stage, her first solo, her first heartbreak. And by the time this week is over, I will remember her cap and gown, her honor chord, her walk across a platform, her handshake, my tears, her smiles, her photographs with friends, her presents, our celebratory dinner, and her diploma in hand.

As glorious as every one of these moments are, not one of them cancels out my memory of the agony from which she came.

Our proclivity is high to only focus on the good, to  fix our gaze on the beautiful, to disallow anything that darkens our mind or heart’s door. I feel that temptation and lure, believe me, but somewhere in the mix of my life I have learned something else, something more.

It is the embracing of the complexity of life that makes it that much more glorious to behold.

My experience of becoming a mother was preceded by nearly  five years of infertility. Nearly 60 cycles of hope, waiting, disappointment, despair, and summoning up hope yet again. It exhausted me. It shut me down. And it pulled me apart. I held firmly to my faith on the one hand – longing for a miracle, and on the other, I threatened to throw the baby out with the bathwater (only there was no baby) – wanting to walk away from a God that so blindly turned away from my heartache.  Every 28 days I transitioned. Every 28 days another emotional rollercoaster ensued. Every 28 days I bargained again, prayed more, promised everything. And every 28 days I raged.

Admittedly, I was filled with ecstasy beyond-compare when I found out that I was pregnant. But way beneath the surface (and not revealed until some time later) was an awareness of loss. That pink bar on a home test meant I would no longer be able to say, “I understand” to the women in whom I’d found such profound solidarity and respite. The doctor’s eventual confirmation meant that I could no longer question God’s faithfulness or care. Both of these realities disturbed me. The honesty I’d been able to express – with women who shared my pain and with a God who allowed my anger – was raw and strong and powerful.  I didn’t want to let go of those experiences or the woman I’d birthed into being through what was one of the hardest seasons of my life.

Emma’s presence in my life and every bit of joy she’s ushered into my world is made that much more glorious because I feel (again and again) the grief, the sadness, the lost-solidarity, the rage and the over-the-moon pride and happiness and glee and satisfaction of watching her this very day.

Nothing is taken away from the goodness because the struggle coexists. Nothing. This is the stuff of life – recognizing, naming, allowing, holding all of it – not just the parts we prefer.

Even Emma’s graduation is complicated. It’s joyous beyond-belief and it means that soon, very soon, she leaves me. Goodbyes are imminent. Separation and growth are inevitable. Risk and challenge and trial and error and failure and learning and heartbreak and celebration will be what both of us will step into in the weeks, months, and years ahead.

In truth, this very day, Emma’s graduation day, sits me right smack in the middle of all my emotions, all my memories, all my hopes, all my fears. To run from the harder ones in the hopes of only experiencing the good ones is not only naïve, it lessens the depth and poignancy of all that’s worth honoring; it lessens my honoring of her. Every bit of this day is worth cherishing. Every bit of it is what makes it so real, so true, so alive (which is sometimes painful and always perfectly fine).

This post hasn’t gone quite where I expected – wanting it to wildly-affirm Emma on her incredible accomplishment, milestone, occasion. And I hope I have honored her by recognizing that in all the complexity of my story and hers, she has made it to this day with complexities of her own (and more to come). These are what make this day and this young woman so incredibly glorious.

In mere hours I will behold her in awe, in gratitude, and in the profound awareness of all that makes her who she is, all that has happened to get us to this day, all the messy, brilliant, excruciating, blissful stuff – past, present, and future.

This does honor her: every bit of me showing up – rife with feeling, fully aware, and real-true-alive (which is sometimes painful and always perfectly fine).

Step bravely and beautifully into all the life that awaits you Emma. Let yourself be real-true-alive (which is sometimes painful and always perfectly fine). And remember that you are loved and loved and loved for all the complexity that makes you, you: glorious, magnificent, my very heart.