Now is the right time

Hello Colorado

It needs to stop, this wanting to write but never taking the time

It needs to happen, this writing I keep talking about.

This is my corner of the Internet. Facebook can feel too much like being at a family reunion, with all the aunts and uncles and grandparents and cousins asking me what’s going on in my life in that big city twelve hundred miles away. Twitter is like a party with all the cool kids: a lot to stimulate and energize, but too much going on and too many people I don’t know to really feel comfortable there.

I have things to say here, and I know it won’t always be easy to press Submit. I want to talk about the Enneagram and Parenthood and that intersection on the way to work where there’s always a homeless person with a sign. I want to talk about loneliness and fear and my turbulent spirituality. The sharing may not be without its trepidation, but I think it’s important to be bold and brave where I can be.

A year and a half ago, I had two glorious months of writing regularly in this corner, but then I was too ambitious: I decided to write every day for a month on a topic that seemed right at the time, but that quickly ran dry without providing the hoped-for jump start to my floundering faith. I kept writing, though, determined to see the month through. And that’s what happened, though perhaps it’s more accurate to say that it saw me through … and bid me farewell at its end.

Whenever I move to a new place, I’m always hopeful that this is it, that my life will finally stop stagnating and I will no longer fall into making myself be who they expect me to be and I will stop reverting and everything will be better. But I keep having to remind myself that a new zip code isn’t enough, even if it’s a fine beginning. Some changes and growth have happened simply because of being on my own in Colorado, yes, but the deeper, heart work can’t happen without intentionality and even pain.

There are millions of blogs out there on every conceivable topic, but the ones that resonate with me the most tell the truth about the hard places and don’t shy away from the gray areas. That’s the kind of blogger I want to be: one who doesn’t ignore or sugarcoat the messiness, the contradictions, the failures of life, but who walks straight into them even if she doesn’t know what she’ll find in the middle or on the other side.

May the words I write be honest and yet life-giving for all of us on this journey, and may we be able to truly come alongside each other in this place.

When the Darkness Wins

Today, I’m mourning the loss of a man I never knew.

I read line after line about the impact he had on people, about their love for him, about his love for them. There was so much more to him than the brokenness in him and around him. There was kindness and faith, there was a love of Mumford & Sons and Raisin Bran, there was a whole person-sized ray of light.

Then, he returned to his hometown, where he was murdered.

It breaks my heart that he died, and in such a horrible way. That the darkness won.

I light a tiny candle for him, to pray by. Behind the flame is his picture on my computer screen. I pray for everyone who’s grieving, everyone he left behind, everyone who loved him. But that doesn’t seem like enough, so I pray into the mystery to a God who’s supposed to be outside of time. I pray that the assurance that he matters, that he is seen, that he is loved, would reach Trinity Smith before he dies. I’ve never heard of anyone praying outside of time like this before, but all I know is that I can’t just pray for his survivors; I must pray for him too.

For him, and for all the others like them, those men and women who are so often not seen.

Help me see them, now, before it’s too late.

I blow out the candle, and a small amount of wax runs down the side, and it looks just like a tear running down the side of a face.

In memory of Trinity Smith
{image from the Dry Bones Denver Facebook page}

“For I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, I was naked and you clothed me, I was sick and you visited me, I was in prison and you came to me.”    

Matthew 25:35-36

When You Say Goodbye

You hold out your autograph book, the one with the multicolored pages and the dinosaur cover, the one you got when you were a child. You hold it out with pride, not embarrassment, for the decade and a half of memories it carries — of names and notes, of crossed-out words and hard-to-read cursive. You’ve taken this book overseas twice, and you safeguard it in ever-increasing ways after each pen or pencil addition.

*****

More than twenty people come to your goodbye party. You and your family aren’t used to hosting parties, so you call it an informal open house. But you’re still nervous and rushing around as the first few guests trickle in. Not everything’s ready, but you quickly relax and realize that that’s okay. Even though Christmas was two days ago and you live half an hour outside of town, people still come.

Larry and Dona bring Ozzie, the border collie/Australian shepherd mix that leaped and licked and chased his way into your heart last year. You rush outside and crouch next to him in your dress. He remembers you.

You are not an extrovert, but you feel like one today. You spend the afternoon playing Taboo with teenagers and twentysomethings, parents and grandparents, jumping up occasionally to hug someone hello or goodbye, or to mingle with those who are still here.

You’re tired later, but in the best possible way.

*****

You don’t want to ruin anyone’s Christmas, so you wait until the 26th to start saying goodbye to your radio listeners. Or at least that’s when those comments go out over the airwaves. Because of the gap between the recording and the airing, you don’t hear from listeners until after your last day of work.

Before that, though, before the questions and best wishes and Bible verses from people you don’t know, you have to come to terms with leaving. It was your own choice, and you know it’s right, but that doesn’t make it easy. You were invited in, once, and now friendliness has turned into love, and the force of it staggers you and sweetens everything in that old building.

When the time comes to record your final voice tracks, you feel it, and anyone listening will probably be able to hear it. That’s okay. You don’t feign emotion for radio, but when it’s there, you don’t try to stifle it. You are as real as you can be. You’ve read whole books of the Bible over the last year and a half, and now instinct causes you to reach one last time for the passages you hold most dear. As the last song in the last hour comes to an end, you say goodbye, you read Philippians 2:1-11, and even though you are in a room by yourself, you feel the pain of parting.

You are so glad you’re still in town for the 45th anniversary open house. Some people know by now; others find out partway through their tour of the station. You meet people, you hug them, you explain as best you can (though it sounds feeble to your own ears) why you’re leaving. You eat cake and drink sparkling cider, and then, before year 46 can begin, you’ve gone.

*****

You know you will always treasure the memory of this Sunday morning, the day of the youth group Christmas party but separate from it. They are sitting down in a circle, and there you are, on the inside of the circle holding your journal and a bundle of cards. You are uncharacteristically nervous as you stand in front of these teens and preteens and adults you love so much. You’re tempted to take the easy route and simply hand out the cards with a smile, but you know, you know, that you will always regret it if you miss this chance to speak truth and beauty from your vantage point of two years … to speak publicly these words you believe, these words of hope. So you slowly move around the circle, looking into their eyes and delivering love the best way you know how.

And then everyone takes a gel pen and it becomes an exchange of encouragements. Here are the picture frames all holding fancy paper, one for every person, and look at the beautiful calligraphy printed at the top of each one! Yours says Lizzie. The room is quiet now, frames dancing from table to laps until their contents are covered in words and color.

Your idea was just for words and simple paper; Luba brought the elegance, the lettering, the frames with the glass. You are so grateful for her. You have so many wonderful words hidden away in boxes and folders and books, but to have words you can prop up on a table, a shelf, a dresser — oh the joy! That’s what you do with your frame, later, after holding it your heart and weeping.

Two weeks after the Day of Encouragements, it’s time for final goodbyes. You show pictures of your new house in Colorado and write your contact information on the white board. You have a few words to say, not as a leader, but as a friend. And so you read them clumsily, these words you wrote with tears but are saying without them. You repeat certain words, words like belong and friend and thank you. The tears will come again later, but there’s too much laughter in the room for that now.

As you hug them, you remember gift exchanges and Capture the Flag, Guardians of the Galaxy and the Star Wars marathon, the Super Bowl parties and Winter Camp 2014. You remember the conversations over ice creams and lunches, over drives from here to there and while sitting and standing all around the church. You remember sleepovers, desperate prayers, oh-so-much laughter, and sitting in front of the sanctuary baring your soul.

You’ve woven together your life with theirs over the last two years, and you’re so glad you did. Your life is richer because of them. You love them.

*****

This autograph book with the dinosaurs on it, it’s gone with you everywhere lately: to work, to church, to your own parties, carried in your purse just in case you see that one person or two who hasn’t written in it yet. Fourteen years ago, it was just a fun birthday present. Today, it’s a reminder of the people you love, many of whom you just left behind in the mountains and forests of northern California.

These last two weeks have been so rich and full, but most importantly, they’ve been reminder after reminder that all of the words and little moments and ordinary choices and all those daily battles have mattered, have built these edifices thick with meaning and friendship, have made it possible for such goodbyes as these.

Here’s To Being Honest

It’s been three years since a major bend in the road of my life coincided with the start of a calendar year.

Then, I was excited. Then, I pinned all my hopes on a time of transformation overseas. And it was a time of transformation, growth, friendships. I’m grateful.

My attitude now, however, is a bit different. Still hopeful, but cautious and apprehensive and not-all-of-my-eggs-in-one-basket-anymore as I prepare to move from California to Colorado in less than a week. Too much has happened since then for me to believe that transformation will happen so easily. I’m tired.

It’s become a bit of a mantra with me that “I either feel a lot, or not at all,” and this business of saying goodbyes is of the feel-a-lot variety. So I’ve been reaching for my journal more often over the last couple weeks, finding solace and sense in pouring out and pressing through with one of my beautiful Japanese gel pens.

2014 was the year of reading more. I want 2015 to be the year of writing more. Blogging more, maybe, hopefully, but even journaling alone would fill the need … would perhaps fill it better, being without the baggage of self-promotion and insecurity that can happen in places like these when the soul isn’t quite healthy.

2012 was the best year of my life. 2014 is certainly a candidate for worst, though my perspective is certainly skewed given my closer proximity to this year than to all the other hard ones. A year of depression, loss, questioning everything, stagnation. A year where international travel was no longer an adventure, but a heavy weight. A year, metaphorically, of being in at least two constricting boxes.

Physical relocation provides ample opportunities for change, but my hopes for a better 2015 don’t — can’t — depend on that. Rather, it’s in the finding and seeking out of spaces to be honest with myself and honest with others. Over the last two years, I’ve found myself in self-imposed and externally imposed situations where I’ve felt the pressure to bite back the true, the raw, and the real in exchange for the acceptable, the sanitized, the pretty.

May this be a year of daring greatly.

The Rainbow

a rainbow fading
Not my rainbow, but the lighting conditions are similar. John Garghan took this picture.

The light is weird: bright, bright sun and a collage of clouds at near dusk, and in the eerie I see the start of a rainbow, oh so vivid.

And I cry.

Twice I pull over on the side of the road to gaze and to hold up my little phone with its weak little camera and to marvel and to feel. The second time, it all rises up in me even more as I see that this, this is a full rainbow. A picture of perfect wild cloud light bow.

I cry more.

The rainbow disappears a few minutes later, but the emotions stay with me, full and welcome. Soon I am home, walking inside to where the others are. This is when the feelings vanish — completely from my face, and mostly from my soul. No. Too much. Too emotional. Too personal. Too intense. It’s conscious and unconscious, a pulling back and a sudden lurch as something pulls itself out from under me.

Then, I am with the people. Easily, I hold out the stories I’ve collected of the day, I speak fast as I do, I remember excitements and energies and frustrations, all of them true in fact and feeling.

And yet…

There are moments, moments like these, when something more real comes out. Something more real than cynical admissions and little life stories, and I remember what it’s like to be awake. And then I’m afraid of what it’s like to be awake.

Reflections on 9/11

9/11 tribute
Photo by Kim Carpenter

Thirteen years ago, I was sitting in front of our thick computer playing a spelling game. I still remember the bright yellow on the screen.

I was 12 years old, in my last full year as a homeschooler, and it’s my only homeschooling memory I can pin down to a specific day.

My mom interrupted my game to tell me about two planes crashing into two towers in New York City.

That’s where I was when I found out about the 9/11 terrorist attacks: The first event to imbed itself in the minds of an entire generation. My generation.

At that age, I was in the habit of acquiring journals, writing a few pages in them, and then abandoning them. That night, I opened my current diary  one of those pretty ones with a lock and key  and wrote these words:

Something very awful happened today. Terrorists hijacked four passenger planes  gigantic ones. Two of them flew right into and destroyed the two buildings of the World Trade Center. … I’m scared that this might be the beginning of World War III!

All of us who were old enough to remember, old enough to understand, were affected by that day, weren’t we?

Thirteen years later, I have friends I laugh with and watch movies with who were no more than four years old when those planes did their damage. I marvel at how much can fit into the ten years between us, how events that I can never forget are events that they can never remember.

9/11 pulled me of my own little world and gave me a glimpse of a bigger one, of hurts beyond my own that became my own. This shouldn’t be a few-and-far-between occurrence. When pictures of brokenness creep into the corners of my vision, I want to open the curtains and look into the hurting faces until I can’t ignore them, until I have to do something about the pain because I’m hurting too.

May we weep with those who weep.

The Art of Turkeys

Wild TurkeysI see art in the turkeys who come to our yard daily. I see beauty and wonder as they drink from the old, metal bucket we keep filled with water, tilting their heads back once they’ve filled their mouths with a swallow so that the liquid can go down and quench and fill. I am delighted to watch them peck and scratch at the dirt, and, sometimes, sit in it.

They haven’t brought their babies here to drink for more than two years now. I wish they would, but I’m content just to see them live and move and have their being right outside our kitchen window.

Turkeys aren’t known for their beauty. Maybe that’s why I’m drawn to them. Cats and dogs, dolphins and horses have many admirers. But turkeys, with their tiny pink heads, their thin legs, and their sleek, dark bodies, aren’t the recipients of as much love. But still they go about their lives, unconcerned with the world that only notices them for their meat.

I notice them, these wild friends of mine, and I never tire of watching them walk, run, sit, drink, explore, and fly into the tall pines at twilight to sleep in safety.

Sometimes I feebly gobble to them from above or across, and sometimes they reply. But more often I just watch them, like I’m doing right now, not wanting to alarm them and thus hasten their departure.

I watch this corner of the turkeys’ world, knowing that when I’m no longer living here, my heart will still thrill at the sound of their gobbling, one of my favorite sounds in the world.

Are These My Glasses?

glasses
photo by Iain Browne at flickr’s creative commons.

They gave me that look and those words, critiquing my lodging arrangements on our trip. She stood in the middle of the street and started singing beautifully, and I realized she would always be better than me at everything. She came up to me and touched the mole on my face, the one that sprouts black hairs.

Two nights ago, I dreamed all those scenarios, one right after another, and what an insecurity bath it was!

Sometimes my confidence is off-the-charts, and I love being me, and “weird” is a badge of honor. Then my world opens up a bit more, or I’m plunged back into an earlier time with earlier people, and it all comes back.

I’m not invincible; I’m fragile.

Two autumns ago, I knew the steps and I walked in them. Literally. I knew that writing helped me understand myself. I knew that walking brought clarity to thoughts and prayers. So I did both often, and the steps were simple, and life was sweet.

But it was easier to carve out the space for these life-giving habits then. I had just returned home from seven months abroad. I was reunited with my cats and the majority of my wardrobe, and everything looked a little newer and fresher than it had before I left. I was afraid of this return, afraid of falling back into depression and old, hated patterns, but I was healthy, the world was new, and I had time aplenty on my hands. And so I slid smoothly into the new rhythm.

But once you slide out of it, as I did after a few months — gradually and imperceptibly — it’s hard to regain that footing.

It’s been almost a year and a half now since those (perceived) idyllic days.

It terrifies me how fragile this is, how fragile I am, how easily I can and have lost my way on the slippery slopes of self-loathing and comparison and laziness and many others.

Writing again has been like exchanging someone else’s glasses for a pair that’s actually my prescription. I’m grateful to be able to see again, but I’m also fearful. What if I lose them or break them or forget them somewhere? What if I forget to clean them and they get all smudged and blurry and I’m so used to the new normal that I don’t realize it’s time for a reset?

And how do I even know these glasses are the “magic formula” for seeing? What if there’s a better, sharper pair somewhere else, and I’m unknowingly settling for ones that may work for a while, but will give me headaches in the end?

In which I am light and bright and sparkling

More of my writing happens when I’m a mess than when I’m radiant.

But I was radiant today.

bright filters of tree
photo from liquidnight at flickr’s creative commons

I looked in the mirror and saw nothing I didn’t like. My own words pleased me. I saw nothing to complain of, nothing to disprove of, nothing to cast a shadow.

My arms were overflowing with containers and books and pieces at the end of the day when I stepped into the home warmth, and that’s when my personality really began to overflow. I find Jane Austen’s description of her best-known work, Pride and Prejudice, a fitting description for this phenomenon of self-satisfied being: “light, and bright, and sparkling.”

I love these days, but I wonder if they are entirely good for me. I wonder if I’m as ill equipped at emotionally processing the good days as I am at processing the bad ones.

Two words come to mind: “frenzy” and “narcissistic.”

And yet in this sparkling there is so much of true self that I can reach out and grab onto. My laughter can fill many barrels, and everything seems open and possible. Life is here as a gleam and a glare.

But even if I were to curb the self-absorbed aspects, I wouldn’t want to be radiant like this all the time. It takes another corner of my true self to weep with the weeping, and to feel something for those who see life as closed and impossible … to ask hard questions and sit in silence … to see the world beyond my blankets.

These blankets of mine — some colorful, others dour — bring comfort in their time, but there is more.

The Lizzie Manifesto

Pandora is filling my borrowed room with lovely sounds akin to Pachelbel’s Canon, and I am restarting my blog with hope that it will continue even when the feelings aren’t there. Because writing is one of the things that, in the past, has helped me recover who I am, and I have confidence that it can do it again.

embraced by words
by Robbert van der Steeg, from flickr’s creative commons.

My church began its annual missions focus this week, with a sermon on the Great Commission from a woman only two years older than me. I walked in numb and flat, as I have for a while now, but I left with a few flickers of inspiration that stayed with me into my car and into the quiet. Not to knock on my neighbor’s door or deliver hope to strangers, as you might expect, but to knock on the doors of my own heart and find out what’s inside … to deliver hope to my own cracked and broken pieces.

I want to listen to myself and accept the reality of where I’m at right now. This roller coaster is nothing to feel afraid of, ashamed of, or less-than because of. It’s here, and I’m on it, and it’s okay. Normal, even. I will settle in and appreciate this view and that exhilaration, and when my stomach drops and the g-forces throw my tears back at me and I can barely see through the squinting, it won’t be a nasty surprise but an accepted — if not welcome — part of the ride. We’re all on different roller coasters at different times, and even the most extreme and, conversely, the most slow-moving ones don’t last forever. This too shall pass, but in the meantime …

… Who am I? What makes me come alive? What do I need?

I asked myself these and other questions from the wicker chair in the sweltering shade, while the dogs looked on.

This is what I want:

  • A safe community that brings life
  • Energy and motivation to write, explore, breathe, and enjoy the simple things of life
  • To find purpose, passion, hope, and truth and carry them with me in my being and doing
  • A strong foundation spiritually, emotionally, relationally
  • New opportunities and experiences for the stretching, invigorating, experimenting, and the living of life to the fullest
  • To truly see the people and the world in which I live — to laugh and cry and feel and taste — rather than going through the motions
  • To always be honest and true to myself
  • To find life and refreshment in discipline
  • To be good, but not safe
  • To have the courage to move when the place I’m in no longer brings life, but also to recognize that my cocktail of purpose, passion, hope, and truth can be found anywhere.
  • To love well
  • To value quality over quantity
  • To press on with or without the feelings
  • To be released from feeling like I have to be there for everyone all the time
  • To be okay with journey and process without outcome or destination
  • To have a heart and mind always open to learning