Stories

Life is not a sob story. Life is beautiful. I do not write this to gain sympathy. I write this to share my story, my life.

           

            I cried today. Yes, I am well aware that it was largely due to nasty hormonal swings thanks to mother nature’s horrible timing, but still. The tears I cried today represent a long, long story. It is one that, when I set out to write my spiritual autobiography, ended up dominating a large portion of it. More than I expected it to, honestly. Were I to write it again, today, other things would take its place. But that is another story.

            Life is nothing but a long succession of stories.

            This story begins in my childhood back yard. Oh I have such beautiful memories of that place. Sometimes I am tempted to go back there and simply bask in the memories. It has changed much, and it would definitely freak out whoever lives there now, but to see those trees again, to climb them, to lie beneath them and gaze through their leaves at a clear blue sky… Someday I will return.

            As a child, I literally have almost no memories of being inside. That back yard was my home, and most of my earliest memories run together in a blur of blissful days. My brother and I were inseparable companions, adventurous imps, tree-dwelling sprites. I’m quite sure our elbows were never quite free of dirt and our knees were permanently scabbed, but our joy was the inexpressible joy of children in childhood. When I look at pictures of those days, I am never without the biggest grin my pixie face can stand without absolutely exploding with joy.

            Oh for those days to return.

            In summer we were tree fairies. There is something magical about trees. Their bodies and branches must hold old souls. They must be crotchety old men and wise old grandmothers. They simply must. There is no other way they could hold such fascination for children. Nature is alive for all who choose to see it, who choose to dwell in its beauty and bask in its personality, but children are more open to such things. They have not yet learned what is improper and what is acceptable. They have not yet been taught nature is dangerous. To them the wide world is a friend, the brook is still playful, the grass still a carpet, the sky still looking down on them with benevolent eyes, the trees still hold out their arms to shield them.

            Our feet were bare, our faces covered with freckles. Our hands were sticky with tree sap, our hair in knots from wind and climbing and simply not caring. We built tree-houses worthy of remembrance and utterly unsafe. We dug holes in the earth, utterly pointless but entirely exciting to our young minds. We relished stolen rhubarb, eaten raw until our mouths puckered.

            In autumn we basked in the leaves that fell from the ancient oaks that towered over us. Their long arms shed their summer garb and we, with childish relish, raked to our hearts delight until we amassed what seemed to us to be mountains of leaves, simply waiting for us to hurl our tiny bodies into their musty embrace. I still remember the smell of slightly damp oak leaves and the innocent bliss of being buried to the neck in leaves, watching clouds scud across a crisp autumn sky.

            In winter we played king of the mountain on the giant piles of snow at the end of our driveway, burdens to our dear father, but gifts deposited by the plow just for our especial enjoyment. We bundled up like mini Michelin men until only our bright eyes poked out of hand-knit scarves. It was a constant struggle to keep the snow out of our mittens. I still remember the swish-swish of our giant snow-suits as we tromped up the wooden stairs from our basement, ready to brave the outside world.

            Sometimes we stayed out for hours, captivated by the wonders of the magical world, building forts, throwing snowballs, or simply chasing each other across our playground of a backyard, our footprints crossing and re-crossing as we adventured in our own world. Sometimes we stayed out for approximately ten minutes, got bored, and returned inside for hot chocolate with marshmallows. But always we were together.

            In spring our tradition was two-person mud football in the previously deserted side of the house. Mud football day was the only true marker of spring’s arrival, the harbinger of summer’s joy. Our snow pants made one final appearance – this time paired only with old sweatshirts and our giant boots. I’m not sure how children’s snow boots always seem too large. But we could never do a thing but clomp in those things. Perhaps that is what comes from having nothing but hand-me-downs until the age of ten. The mud stayed caked on those pants til the next winter when the snow washed them clean once again.

            I would pay money to see that spectacle again – two skinny little white kids attempting to play mud football. I would pay almost anything to see all of those days again, really. They strike me as excruciatingly beautiful.

            I think perhaps the most tragic thing about childhood is our inability to properly treasure it. Part of what makes childhood so beautiful is the utter abandon with which children live. They do not ponder their lives - they simply live them with joy. Yet this same innocence also brings a certain superficiality to the way children live. They cannot appreciate it for all its worth because they do not know the alternative. They have not understood great sorrow and so they cannot know the depths of joy. I think that is why we so often look back on our childhoods with such longing – we wish to tell ourselves to treasure those moments. We seek to return to them with all the painful things we have learned of the world because we now understood how invaluable those simple days were.

            It is a treacherous balancing act. Looking back, I wish to return. The present seems far more bitter than those sweet days. Yet would I return to the childish ingratitude? Never. I have learned to be thankful for joy in the face of pain, of bitterness. It makes it real, gives it depth, color, flavor. It gives life and maturity to joy.

            I could go on for days of the joy of childhood. But now I must move on to the more painful days. It is simply another story, another piece of the grand story. Our lives are stories, and every tale must be told.

            It seems the question that must always be asked is Where to begin? Where do we begin to tell the tales of our lives? It is not as though as we live we realize Oh, an important story is starting now. Pay attention, dear heart, you will want to remember this later. Someday, you will look back and hope to remember every detail, every emotion, every word spoken. Sadly, we can only ever realize too late that something of importance has begun. Best to live each moment as though something great were beginning.

            I remember moments though details. This one is built around a surprising mix of The Little Mermaid 2, brown carpet, an air mattress, listening at the door, and an entire pan of my mother’s fantastic pumpkin bars. The detail of Little Mermaid 2 places this particular memory around 2000, when I was eight or nine, my brother Michael 12 or 13, and my brother Daniel around 17. For Michael and I, this was a night of general confusion. We were sent upstairs for a sleepover with a seemingly endless supply of rented movies and an entire pan of pumpkin bars. Translation: Do not disturb. Do not come downstairs. While we were understandably pleased with this situation, we also understood that something was wrong. Something important was happening downstairs and so we listened at the door of the stair, hearing only snatches of angry conversation and raised voices.

            We didn’t understand what was happening. I still don’t understand what happened that night. Sometimes I look back and wonder if things could have been different, if that night could have ended another way.

            Daniel didn’t learn from music, he learned by ear. Our mother tried to get him to play what was printed on the page. He played what he heard in his head. Looking back, I think maybe that says a lot about him. He was simply different. He was utterly himself and refused to be his two older siblings. My parents wanted what they thought best for him – to be the perfect children Matthew and Anna had been, go to college, and graduate with honors and a ring. But Daniel didn’t learn from music. He learned by ear. He told my parents he wanted to learn from his own mistakes. And he did.

            I do not blame my parents. I do not blame my brother. I can never understand what happened then. It is not my story to tell, and I have not heard it from those who lived it. I have only my memories of scattered moments and conversations.

            Family is such a tricky thing. I really do not understand it.

            Where to begin? My dear, beloved Michael. He and I were always so close. I looked up to him as I looked up to no one else. If I ever have a daughter, I will name her Michael, for him, in honor of him. He has no idea. Perhaps someday I will have the courage to tell him.

            Sometimes I wonder what really happened. There is so much of his life that I simply do not know. I do not know what he has experienced, what he has seen, heard, felt. In so many ways we are so alike, both passionate, artistic, personal. We both have a tendency to hold onto things, to be moody, we both are a sucker for weepy, depressing music. But yet, what do I know?

            It is the strangest feeling to go my brother’s wedding, look around at those there, and think, “You all know him so much better than I do. You have experienced life with him, you have laughed and cried with him, you understand what makes him tick.” It is moments like these that make me despair.

            There are literally years of my life in which it seems like I really didn’t have brothers. Most of my days seem as though I don’t have brothers. It is easier to forget than to try. My brothers can make me cry like almost no one else can. Like I said, family is a tricky thing.

            It’s far easier to live in the past – to look fondly back on how things used to be and to wish for those days to return.

            Newsflash. Those days are never coming back. And to cry for their return is foolishness.

            Sorry, that was for myself. Sometimes I have to curb my dramatic tendencies.

            Life is a story. One long, beautiful, tragic, romantic, horrendous, excruciating, joyful mess. And it is constantly moving, constantly continuing. We tell stories for a thousand reasons, to entertain, to remember, to pass the time, to teach. When I began to tell this story, it was mostly to dwell in the past. I began it by saying it was not a sob story, but to be honest, that is what it was fast on the road to becoming.

            Writing brings out the sappy sentimentalist in me.

            But at the moment, I have another reason for telling this story, and that is to remind myself of the love I carry for my brothers. Family is a tricky thing. You simply cannot stop feeling love for them, and yet it seems nearly impossible to properly express that love. I will tell anyone I meet that my parents are two of the most deeply wonderful people I have ever encountered in my short life. I am unbelievably blessed to have them as my parents and I love them more than I can say.

            But it’s nearly impossible for me to tell them that.

            I adore my brothers. I think they are unbelievably talented, brilliant, and despite everything that has happened between us in the past, I love them more than I can say. But that love is so meaningless, simply because I do nothing about it. I cry for the past, but I do nothing to alter the future.

            The days we are living today are tomorrow’s stories. The stories of childhood write themselves, for we simply live. We simply flow with life’s days. But now we have the power to reflect, to understand and experience joy in spite of and in the midst of pain and difficulty. We have the power to write our own stories, stories with meaning, maturity, and life – the kind of stories we will relish telling.

            But we need not long to return to them, because the story we are now living is just as beautiful.

            

Facing Demons - 6/9/12

            It’s amazing how memories work. Sometimes the smallest things can bring you straight back to an experience. The other day the smallest taste of mint on my tongue transported me back to my childhood days of running beneath the trees and digging in the dirt, traipsing along like an adoring puppy behind my older brother. It was truly as if I was picked up and placed back under the Indian summer sun, feeling every emotion as I did when I was eight years old and life seemed so simple. I became utterly oblivious of my present reality surrounding me, and coming back to it seemed as waking from a dream. All from a bit of mint on my tongue.

            The smell of new building conjures up images of Highest Praise, my favorite place on earth throughout all of high school. It was the place where I met my best friends, perhaps my first true friends. And while time has worn away those friendships, still those memories are cherished in my heart as the first tastes of the beauty of God-given community. It never ceases to amaze me how simply walking into a building will suddenly take me 500 miles south to Missouri, music, and melodrama. Yet I always return from that split-second journey down memory lane with a smile on my face. It is an unexpected gift, as was my momentary return to childhood.

            There is no choice when these moments hit me, there is no refusal to go where my memories take me. And sometimes… I wish I could refuse.

            Because sometimes… it feels as though my memories rape me. It is not a romantic feeling of being swept away, but a feeling of being attacked, pinned down, and left hopeless.

            Church seems an odd place for this to happen. But one of the clearest and most vivid memories I have of being accosted by the past was the last time I stepped into Oak Hills Baptist Church. Now, first and foremost, let me say that this has nothing to do with Oak Hills as a church. The pastor there is one of the most brilliant teachers I have ever encountered. Three of my favorite professors in my college experience are members there. It is a beautiful, holy place full of genuine people.

            It is simply a reality that for me, it is a place full of some of the most painful memories I have to face.

            I walked into church that day flanked by two of my favorite people in the world. On one side was my sassy little ginger Nikki, my other half, the person who understands my past better than perhaps anyone ever should. She taught me how to be brave. When my life fell apart, she helped me learn how to become myself and how to stand on the foundation of Christ. Her prayers over me have spoken more truth into my life than I can ever say.

            On the other side was my ox, my protector, my best friend Jake. He is the person in my life who has shown me what it means to love someone, not with words, but with actions. Long before he ever told me he cared about me, I simply knew he loved me, not in a stylized, pressurized, romanticized way, but simply, authentically. It was what made us best friends, what gave me the courage to come to him at my weakest moments. He has given me so much courage, so much joy.

            Yet despite these two gorgeous people that so willingly came alongside me to support me, the moment I stepped into that sanctuary, the moment I took my seat, memories settled in on me like a pressure on my chest, stealing my breath. Nikki took my hand and whispered, “Hey, stay with us,” but I knew I was slipping away… back into the past.

            When I started attending that church, I was neck-deep in an abusive relationship. As I reflect upon the actual memories I have of the summer I attended there, they fly by in snatches and snippets of sunshine, smiling faces, car rides home, bulletins, silence. As I said before, it is not Oak Hills or the teaching that haunts me, it is the way I felt as I stood to worship but found the words caught in my throat, suffocating me. It is the mornings I stood, praying desperately and angrily at a God I had once loved. It is the man who stood beside me, happy and blissfully unaware of the turmoil in the small heart next to him. Each bit of soul he took left a quieter and more submissive partner. He was often frustrated by my sadness.

            I grew up loving God. I grew up believing I could be great. He took both those things from me.

            When I began attending Oak Hills, I had been with him for about a year and a half. It had started out my freshman year of college, on my eighteenth birthday, actually. Two years older and extremely persuasive, he quickly hooked his naive prize and we started dating. Whenever I look back, I expect to say that it started out as a fairy tale and then soured, but really, it never was a fairy tale. Within the first two weeks of dating, my father took my to Culvers for a frozen custard intervention.

            “I’m just not sure this is the kind of man you want to be with, Esther.”

            Well fuck. I guess I should have listened to my dad.

            We almost broke up a couple of weeks in. I’m not entirely sure how we didn’t. There were so many times I was determined to end things, determined to finally stand up for myself. And I would walk away, still with him, nothing changed, and wonder what had just happened. I was completely and utterly powerless with him. I wanted so desperately to have power, not over him, but simply power to affect him in some way. Yet even my tears were of no consequence.

            I cannot count the number of times he saw me absolutely broken, utterly crushed, sobbing so hard I could barely breathe, begging him to stop, to relent, to hold me.

            And he never did.

            He simply told me that I too was flawed, that I couldn’t expect him to fix things that I did myself. My tears only frustrated him, only drove him to more anger. His anger possessed him like a demon, and while he was in its grip, there was no hope of changing it. Hopeless and powerless. That was my reality for so long.

            These feelings became living things inside of me, and they controlled me. I have always been a bit shy, a bit reticent and unwilling to show my true personality to others. But with him my true personality was so pushed down, so buried for so long, that I forgot what it was like to be myself. After it ended, he said he felt as though he didn’t even know me.

            Well, you never did. You knew what you created me to be – a girl pushed down, stripped of hope and power, and placed firmly in her appointed place. And the strangest thing is, I truly believed it was my place. God had placed me with this man for me to help him, to transform him. That was God’s plan for me, and so it was where I should stay. For as long as it took. This was my lot.

            And this brings me to a Sunday morning when it all broke. I came to church, sat in the second pew, and fought back tears throughout the entire service as I came to grips with the thought that God hated me. It seemed only logical. This was my lot in life. My lot in life was slowly draining the life from my body. Therefore, the God who placed me in this situation hated me. Because, you see, God never wanted us to be happy. He had greater plans than simply our happiness. So my depression was simply the means to God’s greater plan.

            This logic seems so utterly pitiful now, but at the time, it was the only way I could survive. Surviving was all I did then. I strove not for happiness, but for something above despair. I sought only to avoid the fights I knew would come. Keep the status quo. Keep him happy.

            Walking into Oak Hills that day brought all of this back. Though I had been out of that relationship for six months, the feeling of being wretchedly weak, utterly powerless, tragically hopeless took me over once again.

            It will perhaps make some people uncomfortable, but I frame these kinds of feelings in terms of possession. Yes, as in demon possession. I believe wholeheartedly that demons are real, and I also believe that possession is real. I simply think that the devil realizes that for the American church, it is far more useful if he disguises it in terms we can sterilize and therefore make socially acceptable. But possession to me is the person who cannot escape depression, who cannot free herself from addiction, be it to alcohol, drugs or pornography, who is a slave to greed, to insecurity.

            We accept these things. We call them struggles. We say you should pray for me. But we have no intention of actually getting rid of them.

            You see, we like our demons. And truly, we have no idea how to get rid of them. So we put a pretty face on them and pretend everything’s all right.

            And for a long time, I could do that. I thought I was ok. My demons were long gone, right? It’d been six months. I’d tried to deal with them. I really honestly had. God had taught me so much about relying on Him, on the people He had placed in my life, and letting go of the past. But walking into that church threw me into a frenzy. I came home and screamed. I never scream. I hit Jake so hard I left bracelet imprints in his arm.

            Never in 20 years of life do I remember such an outburst. But it was almost as if I was speaking to all the feeling that possessed me for so long – trying desperately to convince them that I. am not. worthless. I. am not. powerless.

            Fast-forward almost two months. Tomorrow I will enter that church again. I will sit in the pew, stand for worship, listen to a sermon. I will see the sun stream in the windows, see the smiling faces, hold a bulletin. He will be there.

            But I will be holding someone else’s hand. And while I don’t know what will happen tomorrow, I know exactly what the outcome will be. I will walk out of that church, and I will smile. Because I will face my demons. I will stare down all the feelings of hopelessness, powerlessness, worthlessness, and I will win. Because you see, the outcome is already determined. Christ has defeated death, and when death dies, all things live. I will live. I will no longer simply survive, I will live deeply and richly. I will grow, and I will learn. Evil holds no sway. Lies have been overcome by truth, darkness by light.

            I am free.

            

Leather Lady

            I saw her walking, well, make that staggering, down the street the other day.  It wasn’t the first time I’d seen her, but it was the first time I’d actually thought about her. Every summer without fail she appears on 41^st Street, walking back and forth, up and down, as constant as the traffic that rushes frantically past her. I’m really not sure either party notices the other. She is either seemingly utterly absorbed in a book or so drunk her focus is entirely on putting one foot in front of the other in a semi-straight pattern. Those that pass her in their cars have a thousand things on their minds, but she is not one of them.

            They call her leather lady. I’m not entirely sure who they is, but that’s what I’ve heard her called. From summer immemorial she has held her lonely course in shorts and a bikini top, her skin baked into the mess of tan wrinkles that earns her her title. I couldn’t tell you how old she is. I would guess mid-sixties, but really who knows? And, if we were to be honest, who actually cares?

            I know, I know, it’s a downer of a question. But it must be asked. Even as I write this, I’m not sure I can say I do. Let’s just keep that in the back of our minds, shall we?

            I wonder sometimes what she does when she’s not walking those streets. Does she have a home? Does she at least have a house? Because let’s be honest, she probably doesn’t have much of a family around. Maybe she has some, but they just don’t talk. Maybe she has friends, some drinking buddies. Who knows? Who cares?

            To be frank, she’s probably kind of a bitch old lady. Either that or straight up bat-shit crazy. I don’t think you can really get to a place of wandering 41^st street in a bikini top without at least one of those. But who knows? Maybe she was happy once. Maybe she fell in love once. Maybe he was a jerk. Maybe he abused her. Maybe we have more in common than I would care to think.

            Well that’s an uncomfortable thought. “There, but for the grace of God, go I.” John Bradford said that. And it’s the line has forced its way to the front of my brain and is currently knocking on my forehead saying, “Um, Esther, you might want to pay attention to me.” There, but for the grace of God, goes Esther Nissen.

            I had a bit of a breakdown the other day. I was at a worship service at Central Baptist and I was struck by how close I came to losing everything I treasure. Eight months ago I was two years into an abusive relationship. I had been cut off from most of the friends I’d made at school, basically stopped talking to my family about anything of any real importance at his “request,” and had all but lost my belief in a good and loving God. The relationship itself had reached a place of complete inevitability. I knew that it was unhealthy, I knew I was miserable, but I had lost hope that I would ever escape.

            Fast forward eight months and I am free, happy, and in a healthy relationship. The change in my life is stark and as I worshiped the One who rescued me from my past, I was overwhelmed by just how much He had saved me from. I sat and wept as my friend prayed for me, thanking Christ for His transforming power, begging His truth to saturate our lives.

            Which brings me back to leather lady. What if she was in such a situation once? Cut off from friends, from family, from faith. What if there was no one there to rescue her? What if she married him, hoping and praying it would get better, and it simply never did? What if it got worse? What if it escalated to physical abuse? What if she had kids? What if one day she was simply not strong enough anymore?

            What if that had been me?

            Maybe that’s a little dramatic. But maybe it’s not.

            I wrote recently that perhaps wonder is a lost virtue – that we must be constantly amazed by the human souls around us. Maybe I was just struck by wonder. Wonder at the grace of God, at the soul staggering down 41^st Street. Wonder that there, but for the grace of God, go I.

            A few weeks ago I woke up at an ungodly hour (or rather, was woken up by my friend stealing the blanket from my arms as I grumbled at her), drove sleepily downtown (or rather, sat in the passenger seat, still grumbling, while my friend drove downtown), and helped serve breakfast to about 200 people at The Banquet (that one’s actually accurate. To be more specific, I poured milk.)

            When I finished (well, after my nap), I reflected upon my experience. I was nervous going into it, simply because these people seemed so utterly different from me. I’m not 100% comfortable around people to begin with, at least until I get to know them. Consequently this whole serving milk to homeless people thing was a little foreign. I don’t know these people and I obviously don’t understand where they’re coming from. I appear to them to be a scared little white girl serving the less fortunate.

            I can’t imagine they’re a big fan of people like me. It’s not like they can’t tell that I’ve never known hunger, never had to wonder where I’m sleeping at night.

            After we were done, the lady in charge said that we were no longer servers and those served, we were just 219 people who had eaten breakfast that morning. I thought that was a nice sentiment. But now I think I understand a little better what she meant.

            As I listened to Mutemath this morning, a line stuck out to me – “I’m growing fond of broken people as I see that I am one of them.” This is another one of those lines that, like an annoying 2-year-old, refused to be ignored. And it struck me that we are all broken – our brokenness just manifests itself in various ways. Those at The Banquet have been broken in a visible, sometimes physical way. I have been broken in a far less tangible, but just as sincere way.

            And so serving these people is not a matter of fulfilling duty or of serving the less fortunate. It is a matter of one broken person showing another broken person where she found healing.

            I have no idea what leather lady’s real name is. I don’t know where she sleeps at night. I don’t know her story. But I care. In a real way, I have no choice but to care. Because, well, I grow fond of broken people as I see that I am one of them. 

Brushstrokes

            It was just another gig, just another dinner. Yet another time to come, play some music, and leave. It seems every time I have a gig, I seriously consider simply not showing up. I certainly had that thought this time. But the prospect of making $75 in an hour and a half was too tempting to turn down. So off I went. I walked to the stage. I played music.

            People began to trickle in as we played. Mostly old. A few very young. I thought perhaps it was a retirement party or something. Some Sanford thing. Mostly I really didn’t care. We play for a lot of things, a lot of people. I usually don’t know who they are, and I rarely care. This time was no different. We played on. The people took their seats at banquet tables.

            We received a few smiles from little old ladies in their Sunday best, a few compliments from old men with grizzled beards and still-smart suits. We gave our obligatory smiles and thank-yous and played on. We gave our names to the man in charge so he could introduce us and everyone could promptly forget who we were. We paused and the speaker gave his opening remarks, commenting on the great turn-out, thanking all the right people, saying all the right things. We got ready to play on.

            I almost missed the significance of my opportunity. It was my third year playing for this event, and the past two years, I haven’t honestly given a shit who sat in those tables. I was far more concerned with playing music, getting paid, and getting out of there. What was one more year, one more event?

            But this time I noticed something. I realized where I was. I was in the presence of heroes – individuals who have gone through far more than I could ever imagine, faced demons I can only pray to never encounter. And they have won. These people, these sweet old faces sitting in chairs, these young children fidgeting in their seats, they had survived cancer. And I got to play them music. I got to be the background for their celebration of… living.

            We don’t often celebrate living. That may be what birthdays are meant to do, but rarely do we actually consider it. Rather we think about parties and gifts and attention or lack thereof. We do not consider what a gift it is simply to be alive, to take another breath, to put your hand on your chest and feel the beating of your own heart. To fall asleep in the sunshine, to run wildly in the rain, to climb a tree, swim in a river. To understand what your best friend is thinking without ever saying a word. To get goosebumps. To remember for days the feeling of a single kiss.

            Ironically, the only thing I can think of that is described as a celebration of life is a funeral. And yes, we should be able to celebrate life at a funeral. But isn’t that a little late? Shouldn’t we celebrate every day we are alive? Sometimes we act as if life is such a struggle that it’s almost a burden. We complain about getting out of bed, about being so busy, about all the little things we have to accomplish. We’re constantly running. And we forget to celebrate that we are alive.

            When the strange thing is, all of these things - all of these everyday, mundane things - are what make up our lives. They are the brushstrokes that paint the picture of our lives. And if that picture is what’s left at the end, what’s on display at our funerals… shouldn’t we celebrate every brushstroke? Perhaps they would be a little more beautiful if we did. Perhaps we’d have more to celebrate at the end if we appreciated every heartbeat.

            Because you see.. there is no such thing as just a day. There are not important days and unimportant days. Every day is a brushstroke. The mark it leaves is indelible and will be a part of the picture forever. It may be disguised later, may be woven into some greater beauty. But it will always be there – will always be visible. It is a sobering thought to think that each moment, each wasted minute, is building a life.

            Perhaps that is why Christ told us to give thanks in all circumstances and to pray continually. It is hard to miss a moment of beauty when you’re thanking God for it. It is nearly impossible to waste an opportunity when breathing a prayer. I think perhaps that is also why we must surrender every moment to Christ’s control. It may be a clichéd metaphor, but when we surrender the brush to the artist, He can see far better than we can. Our perspective is tragically limited – He sees the whole picture. Only He can take our sad attempts and transform them into something beautiful.

            Lately I’ve been possessed by the idea of living richly and deeply. I think perhaps this is a start of a way to do just that. Celebrating life, every heartbeat, every breath, every conversation.. it transforms you. It takes you from living as a jaded adult to seeing the world with the wonder of a child. Everything fascinates a child. Everything is new and beautiful. I think perhaps wonder is a lost virtue. We have become accustomed to seeing a hundred faces a day, and we forget what an absolute wonder it is that there is a soul behind that face. A soul that can be discovered and understood, a soul with which we can find community.

            To be entirely honest, it sounds very tiring to live this way. It sounds utterly exhausting to consciously see every day as a gift, every face as a soul, every breath as a miracle. And perhaps at first it may be. It is not something to which we are accustomed. But maybe that is the tragedy. We are not accustomed to what should be the most basic truth of our existence – that life is a gift.

            As a Christian, this idea has especial significance to me. After all, when we look forward to a heavenly reality, a realm in which all pain and suffering disappear, why are we still on this earth? Why are we not carried away the moment we come to know Christ and accept salvation? Because for some odd reason, this life has been judged worth it. You may say that it is merely a responsibility, that we are here to serve and to convert – that it is our solemn duty. Perhaps it is our duty. But it is not solemn. It is joyful. I am not convinced that this life is all the drudgery we make it out to be. If it were we would not have so much beauty. There would be no need of it. There would be no love, no community, no laughter. These things are gifts, gifts from above. They are a taste of heavenly realities and must be celebrated as such. According to Simone Weil, the same is true of pain.

            Whether or not that is true, I cannot say. But if we speak of heavenly life, then life itself on earth, existence, breath, is a reflection of a heavenly reality. So let us celebrate it, as we look forward to the consummation of all good things on earth. May we celebrate life as it looks forward to eternal life.

            

Thoroughly Uninspired

            The other day a friend of mine and I painted a wonderful castle in the sky. It was a picture of a little hole in the wall coffee shop, the walls covered with artwork created by my dearest friends, my friend behind the counter, and me, nestled in the corner, hunched over a computer, writing brilliant thoughts. There would be other people in the coffee shop, of course, but they would serve only as inspiration to my scribbles. Once I became uninspired, the coffee shop would close, only to reopen the next day as I once again moved in to write insufferably creative things on my computer, fingers flying over the keys as the sheer originality flows from my brain.

            Ha. That’s funny.

            I love painting romantic pictures in my head. But currently. I am thoroughly uninspired. Rather than flowing, purring along like a little yellow sports car, my thoughts are lurching along like my best attempts to drive a stick shift. Rather than focusing in on one brilliant thought, I am jumping from document to blog to photo to facebook, trying desperately to find inspiration.

            The ol’ brain’s shut down today, apparently.

            Writing is beautiful when it works – when the words really do flow. Sometimes my mind becomes captivated by a picture, by a phrase, by an idea, and from there it seems like I myself am not even writing. It’s like I’ve been possessed by the spirit of beautiful writing and when I am finished.. I am amazed that such things could really have come out of my brain. The best writing reveals thoughts and emotions you didn’t even know you had.

            Well. I guess I don’t have any thoughts today.

            Come on, brilliant writing fairy. Sprinkle some of that dust on me. Throw some thoughts over here. Ok, brain, ready? You can do this. Ready… set…. Brilliance! Oh, that didn’t work? What a shock. Well. It was worth a try.

            My piano teacher always used to tell me that when you’re an artist, there will be days when things just work out great, when everything flows, when it comes easily and you hit every note. And yeah, those days are great. But you don’t actually learn anything from them. In fact, it’s the days when everything seems to be going wrong that you learn the most. You cannot run from those days, because it’s those days that teach you how to endure, how to work. To be utterly clichéd and unoriginal, talent is never enough. Ok, just kidding. It’s never ok to use that cliché. One cannot simply sit around waiting for inspiration to strike. You have to run, even on the days you don’t want to. You have to push yourself.

           

            Basically, you have to grow a pair, man up, and stop being a baby.

            Life isn’t inspiration in coffee shops. It’s late nights and too many cups of coffee, head in hands, ripped up flannel, staring out windows, fits and starts, missteps, mistakes, some incredibly dumb writing, some horrible clichés, headaches, too many trips to facebook and twitter, frustration, laughter, giving up, taking breaks, five different Pandora stations in ten minutes, ranting about nothing, staring at computer screens, noticing the chips in nail polish, trips to the bathroom after too much coffee, shifting position every two seconds, fighting desperately to focus when it’s the last thing you want to do.

            And all these things later… you might come away with something worth reading.

            Sigh.

            I freaking love writing.

Courage, Dear Heart

It's been a while since I've been so captivated by a dream.

For a long time, I didn't have a dream. I settled comfortably into life, willing to follow wherever someone else led. Well, now that person's gone and I've realized that life is worth living - worth living deeply and richly. And right now, that means living a dream. It means chasing it down. Yet to chase it down, I have to learn how to run. I have to train, have to be committed, have to be willing to endure some difficulty, some setback.

Is a dream really worth it?

Dreams are terrifying, to be honest. In a lot of ways, it's easier to not have a dream. It's easier to float through life, assuring others that you have no idea what you'll be doing, but things will work out somehow. As long as you don't think about it too hard, it's downright peachy. Or it's easy to have half-hearted visions of what you may want for the future. Maybe a husband. Maybe kids. Maybe travel. Maybe seminary. Maybe grad school. If nothing else, it gives you something to tell all those people who keep asking you what you're going to do after graduation. If you tell them you're considering grad school (even if by considering you mean, thought about it once) they look far less concerned, and their parental worry is assuaged.

For a long time, that was how I lived. But sometime recently, a dream snuck up on me, grabbed me by the heart, and wouldn't let go. It's not a new dream by any means. In fact, it may be the oldest dream I have. It predates even my dreams of becoming a musician, wandering all the way back to when I could barely write legibly and had just read the Chronicles of Narnia for the first time. I became convinced that I needed to write a book, just like C. S. Lewis. So I wrote about a girl who was caught up in a magic mirror and transported to dogland - a magical place where dogs could talk.

C. S. Lewis would be so proud.

Needless to say, those first efforts were less than stellar.

But they were efforts. And the desire to write something meaningful never really left me. I've always been fascinated by words - by their ability to capture, to elicit emotion, to transform. For as long as I can remember, I've been fascinated with the way words are strung together to form sentences, paragraphs, stories, that can crawl into the hearts of those who read them and make a home. When I reached high school, I wanted to be an English major and become a writer, but that was pushed aside by my talent and investment in music. The dream was forgotten for a long time, lulled to sleep by the busyness of life.

Then literally one encouraging word changed everything. And now the dream of writing is back to stay.

I want to think creatively and write brilliantly.

But what if I fail? What if I'm not actually as good as I think I am? To declare a dream is to open yourself up to all kinds of criticism. It's to lay bare the deepest things of your heart. And let's just be honest. Not everyone's gonna like it down there.

Ultimately. Life is worth living. It's worth living deeply. Yes, I'm terrified by this dream. But I am also captivated by it. It's something I'm willing to work for, sacrifice for, accept criticism for, fail for.

I hope.

Courage, dear heart. I believe God has given me this dream and whispered these words to me. The place where my passion and talent meet is the place where I was meant to dwell. So lead on, God. Carry me to my dream.

The Bride of Christ can be a Real Bitch

            We’ve all seen her. Bridezilla. Big blonde hair, fake tan, fake nails. And let’s be honest, we’ve all wondered how she can possibly be that excited about everything. Her wedding is a perfectly staged event, planned down to the smallest detail. It comes off without a hitch and the guests are sitting comfortably in their seats, enjoying the romantic event. But behind the scenes lies a frantic wedding planner, broke parents, and a screaming bride. Perhaps I’ve simply seen more than my fair share of rich spoiled brides, but this image is all too clear in my head. And often I look at the groom and think, “That poor bastard.”

            Maybe I’m just bitter, but this picture seems to translate well to the image of the Bride of Christ on earth – the church. Big pretty buildings, fake smiles, fake lives. And let’s be honest, we’ve all wondered if the people around us are actually this excited and happy to be at church of all places. The services are perfectly staged events, planned down to the smallest detail and coming off without a hitch. The guests sit in the pews with pleasant smiles upon their faces, comfortable with the music, the length, the sermon that tells them exactly what they want to hear. And behind the scenes lies a tangled web of power games and corruption.

            And I simply have to think… this is what Christ chose for Himself? Poor bastard. It’s probably sacrilegious to call Christ a bastard. But you know what I mean. No wonder he chose a prostitute for Hosea to marry. He thought that was the most accurate representation of His people, and in my humble opinion, He was right.  In my short life, I’ve experienced more unfaithful churches than I care to consider. If I didn’t think it would bore you, I could go on quite the rampage about various churches that have hurt various members of my family. The short list, however:

Two of my brothers are atheists.

My father was unfairly fired.

My sister-in-law left the ministry.

My brother’s family moved across the country.

My cousin is an atheist.

My cousin lost the job she had been promised for four years.

My brother worked two jobs, in the end for nothing.

And these are only the physical scars.

            The trail of broken hearts left by the bride of Christ would make him blush. Sometimes I want to look at Him and say, Dude. Seriously. Do you see what this bitch is doing over here? Did you know she’s cheating on you? Selling herself to fame, power, selfishness, hypocrisy, and rejecting You? Have you noticed what’s going on down here? Come do something about your bitch.

            I had a moment of complete and utter terror this morning. I looked into the face of a pastor I had just met, saw his scruffy face and piercing blue eyes, took in his tattoos and hipster clothes, and realized that I liked him. Legitimately liked and respected him as a person. And that terrified me. Why? Because he’s a pastor. He leads a church, and I love that church. I love going there, I would love to get involved there. And all at once those things hit me and I simply wanted to turn and run.

            I was in a bad relationship for a long time. As in, emotionally and verbally abusive for two years. It was my first relationship too. As a result, I ended up with some scars. And the moment that I realized I liked a boy, really, really liked a boy.. All of the shit from the past, all of the terrible feelings of being trapped, of being helpless, powerless, hit me like a train on the tracks, to borrow a phrase. But, it wasn’t happiness that hit me. It was fear. It was like a physical force on my chest, stealing my breath, and all I wanted to do was run and hide.

            I met a boy recently. For a long time, I legitimately never thought I could be in a relationship without having that kind of flashback – where I am struck with physically paralyzing fear. And I was right, actually. I do still have those flashbacks. There are moments when I feel as though I am right back where I was, and I begin to retreat within myself. The urge to run overwhelms me. But the strange thing is, I don’t run. I have someone there to hold my hand, look me in the face, and say, “Esther. You promised not to run. Now. Let’s work through this.”

            And we do.

            The scars are still there. The old Esther, the old way of functioning, the way that lives in abuse, is still there. But the crazy thing is, things have been made new. It’s a new relationship with two new people, not just one. I am a new Esther with a new man. A wonderful man. And slowly, sometimes painfully, I am learning that we are new. We are something beautiful and healthy and blessed by God.

            I had a bad relationship with the church for a long time. I was burned the first time. I thought I found something different, and that burned me worst than the first. And now I am stuck with flashbacks, with trains of memories running me down in the middle of conversations, and fears that threaten to strangle me. But that’s life. We get burned. There are some bad people out there. But that doesn’t mean we have to give up on people. We can meet someone new. Someone wonderful. There are some bad churches out there. We can find a new one. A wonderful one.

            I met a church recently. A church that I really like. It seems really great. It’s a new place, perhaps even a wonderful place. But guess what? I have to be a new Esther too. I can’t carry all the crap and bitterness from old places to this new one. I have to let go of the old relationships, the old hurts. I have to forgive. And then I have to start with myself. I have to be open and willing to trusting someone new.

            One night a while back I was sitting in a tree, (Yes, I do that on a semi-regular basis) and I told my friend that I didn’t think marriage was worth it. I thought it was simply something that caused us pain. And I just didn’t understand why God would ordain such a thing for our lives. What’s the point? Don’t all relationships just end up causing us more pain than they are worth? Her response, however, is one I won’t forget.

            She told me that a lot of life is pain. That seemed pretty obvious. Didn’t I just say that? But the thing is, she said, is that God realizes that. He understands better than anyone else, better than we ever could, actually, just how painful this life can be. And he loves us. So he decided to give us a friend, a partner to walk through life with. It’s a relationship of unity, of trust, reliance, and unconditional love – a relationship you can rely on when you’re weak and beaten down. He did that because He loves us.

            I believe that’s also why God gave us the church. He gave us a family of people, a body to support us when we are broken. Somehow, mystically, almost magically, we are built together to become the body of Christ. I’m not sure I entirely understand how that works, but the more I study the Bible, the more I realize just how many of Christ’s promises are made to the church as a body – not simply to individuals. We need each other. Christ knew that. So he told us to get together, stop whining, stop pretending we’re self-sufficient, and lean on each other. He did that because He loves us.

            And yep, that body can be a brat. But you know what’s crazy? I’m part of that body. Every time I plop myself down in a chair, I become part of the whiny, beautiful, broken, spectacular group of people who have surrendered themselves to Christ and are stumbling down the path, doing their best to follow Him. So yes, the bride of Christ can be a real bitch. But thanks be to God He is a God of grace. Because let’s be honest. We’ve all been fake as a spray-on tan.

            So. Yeah. The bride of Christ can be a real bitch. But the thing is, we’re stuck with her, because each of us is a part of her. And that’s a beautiful truth. Because Christ gave Himself up for His bride, laying down His life to make her whole and beautiful and pure. Yes, He did that for each of us individually, but He also did that for us as a group, as a newly-made unity. He did that because He loves us, because He knows that somehow, all of us broken people need each other. So we promise not to run. We promise to work through this together.

            And we do. 

            

Life and Death

Life and Death met today under a blue sky. The sun beat down and the wind blew, nearly capsizing Life like a lifeboat in a sea of rolling green grass. She was pushed about by the wind as she ran through the grass, but she ran undeterred. Rather than a hindrance, the wind became a playmate, lightheartedly pushing Life along as she frolicked, dancing her strange dance with Death. Her partner, however, stood unmoved by both the wind and the dance. As she weaved in and out, he unflinchingly remained, ever present, yet forgotten in the midst of Life’s joy. The wind joined the dance, pulling at her skirt, mussing her hair. Life pretends to be angry, but her radiant smile breaks through and she chases after the wind.

            She knows not that it is hopeless. Rather, she pursues the wind as a child pursues her father, becoming breathless and exhausted, eyes alive and cheeks red. The joy is in the chase and it will not end in frustration, but in a fit of giggles as he finally allows himself to be caught. Together they will collapse into the green grass, his arms around her. As you watch, you cannot help but think that perhaps the wind will allow itself to be caught, just as the father does. Even such a thing does not seem impossible as Life sprints for all she is worth after the wind.

            She pauses for a moment, however, to consider Death. He has caught her attention with his dark beauty, his regal solemnity. Within him live histories untold. In his depths he holds lives lived full of days, of memories, of love. He has welcomed those who chased him and those who fought him, those who studied, who knew of his embrace and those who had barely understood a mother’s warm arms. He was a riddle, an enigma, his depths unplumbed by Life’s understanding. The secrets remain with him, buried under darkness. Those left behind stand before him, wondering, aching, pleading for what they do not understand. Death stares back, cold and hard as granite.

            With such a face he now regards Life. She tilts her head and impatiently pushes the hair from her face. She has tired of her game with the wind, and now wants only to meet death’s gaze with clear blue eyes. They stand for a moment like that, the wind forgotten as it whistles and screams around them, whipping at them both with all its might. But for the moment, Life is still as Death, regarding him with wonder and confusion. Why do they all fear you? And with a grin as bright as the sun beating down, she dances away, hiding behind death only to burst out with a triumphant laugh. She dances over him, forgetting to fear him. Having faced him, she has returned to dancing with the wind. Death has lost his power. Still he is there, unmoving, holding his secrets in. But life dances on.

            O death, where is your victory, O death, where is your sting? 

Strength

            Swinging legs. White walls. A small room, too full.  A little boy, hands gripping the edges of his chair, legs swinging involuntarily back and forth as his sneakered feet can’t quite reach to the floor. His bright eyes are fixed on his grandfather.

            A mother, a daughter. In this small room with white walls sit son and father. One with swinging legs, one with shaking hands. Her heart is torn between joy and pain as she sees her son’s legs swing away, a thought not spared to consider anything but his grandfather. He adores his grandfather, as she adores her father. Yet she can remember a time when those hands did not shake; when they were strong. When they held a worn Bible in his hands, when they rested on a pulpit and gestured ardently as she sat in a wooden pew with the sun streaming through the windows, listening to her father preach. But now those hands shake. A pen falls to the floor.

            A wife, a mother, a grandmother. She held those hands as a girl in love, felt butterflies as his fingers entwined with hers. Those arms had held her at her lowest moment, had given her strength to push on through the darkest night. But now, she must be his strength. She is happy to do it – she loves him more than anything. But she cringes as the pen falls once again.

            Frustration. Once I was strong, towered above the rest. I held my children in my arms, took shit from no one. Now they look at me with pity, as the pen falls to the floor one more time. But his bright eyes still look at me with adoration. She still loves me, after all this time, after my strength is gone. My daughter will always look up to me. Yet where has my strength gone? The pen just keeps falling, and it almost seems like a cruel game.

            So many eyes on me. The white walls seem to close in. Do they know I am trying? The little boy that watches me so intently has never known anything but these shaking hands. Why have I become this? Why have You taken my strength from me?

            “I lift up my eyes to the hills, where does my help come from? My help comes from the Lord, the Maker of heaven and earth.” The words of Psalm 121 flood through my mind, seemingly in answer to my questioning. On its heels come the words of Paul, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” How many times have I preached these words, have I spoken them as hope in dark places, comfort to those I love most? Yet now they seem nothing more than trite clichés. The words that seem more fitting are “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”

            Why, indeed? I know He has not indeed forsaken me, but why must it have come to this? I’ve wrestled with weakness as with a demon, fighting its approach, trying to stave off its advances. Yet still it has come, possessing me like a living thing. Stealing from me all that I once was.

            He smiles at me hopefully, as if to say, “You can do it, Grandpa!” His grin is infectious, a ray of light to my dark musings. A thought pierces through the veil like his smile. All is not right with the world. But my strength lies beyond this world.

            With a sigh, she picks up the pen. A whisper. “One more time.” She braces herself for the clatter, the sound of the pen falling one final time. But it never comes. The swinging ceases. Breath stops. A hand trembles.

            His signature has never been so beautiful. A gift of Strength. Weakness overcome. A memory for a little boy.