The Unexpected Life

Today, I opened my calendar and realized that it is the anniversary of the attack on Pearl Harbor. Whether or not our government had credible intel of advanced warning, the outcome remains that over 2400 people died in horrific ways, of those more than 2300 were U.S. service members. The Japanese attack sent seven naval vessels beneath the blue-green waters of the Oahu harbor, three of which proved too damaged to return to service.

Many years hence I had the privilege of visiting the USS Arizona Memorial located in that famous Hawaiian port. Bereft, I gazed down into the waters as oil from the sunken ship continued to bubble to the surface from what had become the tomb for almost 1800 service members over 80 years ago. The oil still creates rainbow slicks on the surface. The silence enveloped me, held me, mesmerized me. The closest I’d ever felt to this before had occurred standing at the long granite wall of the Vietnam Memorial in Washington, D.C. The hush of the Arizona Memorial resonated through me. I couldn’t erase the image of men – boys, really – desperately fighting an enemy in an assault that had been lost before it ever began. I couldn’t erase the thought that every one of those boys had been a son, a brother, a best friend, maybe also a husband, and father. I couldn’t erase the terror that surely swept over them knowing they would not, could not survive that day. And, yet, they didn’t shirk the duty to which they’d been called.

My grandfather, Tom East, not yet 19 years old, was not present at Pearl Harbor that cataclysmic day. Instead, on 6 June 1944, two and a half years later, he found himself halfway around the world scrambling from a Higgins boat onto the shores of Normandy. He never talked about his time in WWII, my grandfather, but I knew that he had left his privileged life in the USA as a boy, only to return home a man emotionally unrecognizable to those who loved him. Broken, damaged, hostage to a war he would not discuss, but a war he could not forget. He was not unique.

These boy-men came home from battlefields with images burned into the skulls. These boy-men left their homes and lives in America to discover the burned out remnants of Europe and the Pacific Theatre. They then returned to a country that couldn’t accept that something elemental in these men had shifted. And, so, they – the damaged – returned to jobs and families that could not, did not, want to hear the horror their men had endured My grandfather died in 2012, and hidden in the back of his closet we discovered a photo album. He had kept a visual record of the atrocities he had witnessed as he fought his way across Europe. You see, he was a soldier in Patton’s 3rd Army, which had liberated the skeletal living victims of the Nazis’ Buchenwald concentration camp. Amongst his photos, lay the visual proof of bodies of executed men, women, and children murdered as the Nazis fled before the Allies. Flipping through those pages, my heart broke not only for the people who had been warehoused, tortured, and slaughtered in unspeakable conditions for such incredible reasons as simply being Jewish. I mourned for the Allied boys responsible for liberating these victims from these incomprehensible places. My heart ached for the soldiers who became responsible for burying the millions eradicated for the Nazis’ barbaric beliefs. I mourned for these Allied boy-men from whom innocence had been stolen as they were forced every day to face the carnage wreaked upon their world by Hitler’s evil. These young soldiers, battled inch-by-inch through towns, fields, and forests in the effort to wrest Europe from Hitler’s iron fist. With every drop of blood spilled, each of these soldiers was compelled to admit that within them existed the capacity and willingness to kill without reason or morals. That became its own tragedy. My grandfather was never an easy man, but looking at those photos – knowing he had witnessed that evil in person – I broke for him, too.

In my life, I have known people who point to the Holocaust as a reason to disbelieve in God. Theoretically, I understand their stance. However, I know that He is sovereign, that He can and does use everything for His ultimate good and His glory even in unfathomable situations that leave you gasping for breath and clinging to a shred of faith. I understand the temptation to rail against the inhumanity we seem incapable not to perpetuate. What I cling to is that even in the darkest of horrors, He is still present. In the absence of your faith, He is still present. In the breaking of your heart, of your world, He is still present. My prayer for you is that you may find a way to love and honor Him even when the unthinkable happens, even when you’re positive you cannot force another prayer, another hallelujah, Because, here’s the wondrous thing, when prayer fails to find your voice, the Spirit prays for you. And that is enough.

A few months ago, Rosie the Beagle decided that 3:30AM was a completely acceptable time to wake me.  Now, you have to understand I’m not a great sleeper.  I’m not even a remotely good sleeper on my best nights.  So, most nights, I’m just sinking into sleep about 1:30.  Two hours later, that deep unsettled feeling that comes over you when someone is staring at you as you sleep, pulls me from slumber.  Two big, sweet, intelligent chocolate brown eyes are inches from mine as Rosie stares into my face awaiting my cognizant presence.  Once she has it, the morning rounds of potty-breakfast-potty again begin.  By 4:00AM, Rosie is once again settled into bed and snoring softly while I am left wide awake and wondering how appropriate it might be to add some bourbon to the dog bowl every night.

This morning, after Rosie was snuggled back into my pillow, I sat contemplating the silent stillness of my home, silence being relative as Christian radio plays in my house 24 hours a day.  So, in my (almost) silence I thought of the peace I find in these moments.  Nothing changes once the sun peeks over the horizon; the house remains in the same state of slight chaos with clothes piled on the Hope Chest (We’ll have to discuss my feelings on Hope Chests at a different juncture.  I mean, for what are we hoping?  A man to come rescue us.  We already have that, and his name is Jesus. There has to be a better name!).  This morning’s coffee cup set down somewhere I didn’t remember that I’d placed it 10 sec after I’d done so.  Packing tape across the new door knocker to remind myself I need a different bolt.  And I whisper a prayer of gratitude for all that He has provided, even the gentle chaos that encompasses daily life on Earth. It’s in these moments that I find the thin places.  

I stepped out onto my little front patio and looked up.  No moon, no stars, clouds too heavy, but the shadowed trees, the Christmas lights awaiting their turn to shine again tonight, the barest hint of woodsmoke and I knew He was with me, enfolding me in His love.  Thin places, where heaven seems so close surrounded me.  And in this quiet stillness, I found the strength for my day to begin.  I pray the same for you for today and always.

In April 1982, one month before my eighth birthday, my parents did the unthinkable and left the Mormon church. Now, if you know nothing else about Mormonism, know this: baptism occurs after a child turns that eight. And it is a BIG deal (or ordeal depending on who you ask). The Mormons don’t do the holy water sprinkle bit, but instead go all in for the baptism by full immersion. The child to be baptized walks into the baptismal font and greets the baptizer, often the child’ s father. Then the actual baptism happens followed by what 8-year-olds everywhere will tell you is the main event: the PARTY. And, boy, how I’d wanted that party, been awaiting that party since my brother had his own baptism some 18 months before.

And, now my parents had eliminated that glittering possibility. I was crushed.

When we left the LDS faith, we began attending mass at a local parish. My mother who had been raised Roman Catholic, found familiarity in that denomination. Several months later, we had relocated to Phoenix, and my mother began teaching at a Catholic school in which she enrolled us. Unbeknownst to me, she had also signed us up for afternoon catechism classes with my least favorite nun, Sister C. The woman was just plain grumpy and ornery, but she achieved her goal – to prepare my sister and me for baptism and my brother and me for our First Communion. And so it was that I received “the sprinkle” baptism sans party instead of the LDS Big Deal event.

As an adult, I have attended mostly non-denominational Bible churches that baptism by immersion, but each church said that they would count “the sprinkle” as baptism. That is until I moved to my current city and began attending a church affiliated with the Southern Baptist convention. A prerequisite for church membership was baptism by immersion.

So, a little background here: my current church building transforms from sanctuary to basketball court during the week Unlike many Baptist churches, it has no permanent baptismal font. Instead, on baptismal Sundays, a large white tub is wheeled onstage during one of the morning services. The individual being baptized must climb up a short flight of steps to get to the edge of the font and then navigate several steps down into the water where the baptizer waits. As the two people stand in the font, someone reads a very short version baptizee’s testimony. Then the baptizer gently leans their baptizee back into the water until they are completely immersed. When the newly baptized arises, they must retrace their steps to climb out of the tub.

Now, for me, I envisioned several hazards in this baptism- in-a- tub scenario. First, I am an introvert by nature, and the mere thought of exposing my innermost spiritual life to hundreds of strangers overwhelmed me, setting my heart to screaming, “NO!NO!NO!” Second, my disability sometimes rears its ugly head, and I have to use a cane for stability when walking. Ingress and egress over wet, slippery steps seemed a sure-fire method to require another hip replacement. Third, the pastor barely knew my name much less my personal history. And fourth, did I mention I am an introvert?

I had been praying for wisdom and guidance regarding my baptism, knowing that for me the tub version wouldn’t be the expression of faith for which it was intended.  At best it would leave me feeling that I had merely ‘checked the box’ and, at worst, end in a 911 call and ambulance ride.    Neither option sounded appealing.  Instead, I wanted to be baptized by someone who knew my heart, my strengths, and my flaws and still loves me.  Who but my own father would fit that blueprint?

So, what to do? The only thing possible – I waited for God to answer.

Ocracoke Island, NC, is one of my favorite places. My family history is there, and time seems to downshift as soon as you step off the ferry. Before this year, my mother had steadfastly refused to go as she wanted it preserved in its 1970 version of her memory. This year, my mother changed her mind, and so I was able to bring my parents with me.

So, one late Thursday afternoon in July found us at the little beach at Springers Point. The few beach goers that had braved the Springers Point nature trail to arrive at the little jewel of a beach had decamped for dinner leaving the soft white sand and calm water deserted  but for my parents and me.  Soaking in the late afternoon sun from my beach chair, I stared out at the waters of the Pamlico Sound,  and He called to my soul, ‘Right here, right now.  Come, it’s time.’

My parents walked with me out into the waters surrounding Ocracoke, my father holding one arm and my mother the other. My father prayed to Abba and then, with my mother’s help, in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit lowered me wholly into warm waters of the Sound. These very waters that had physically sustained generations of my mother’s family, these very waters where my grandmother and her family fished and swam, these waters provided my spiritual rebirth. The privilege of that blessing stills leaves me slightly agog.

 

Coming onto the beach from the water, I noticed two young men sitting several yards away facing the Sound. At their feet was an old-fashioned boom box, and it was pouring out Christian songs. I knew that these two men had not been on the beach when I walked into the water, and they left shortly after my parents had rejoined me on the sand. The only verbal exchange with the two men came when my mother told them she liked their music. They both smiled and acknowledged her comment, and moments later, they were gone having disappeared into the scrub brush along the shore.

 

As we walked back along the nature trail, my mother seemed lost in concentration.  Then, she said, “Those two young men, they were watching the whole time we were baptizing you.  I believe God sent His angels to witness your baptism.”

 

I thought for a moment what I had seen and heard, and I slowly nodded.     “Yes.” 

 

That Thursday in late July, God bestowed a gift: His angels with me on the beach at Ocracoke celebrating my spiritual homecoming. Decades on, the not-to-be baptism that so wounded my 8 year-old self became His gift.

 

I am His, and He is mine.

Song of Sol 6:3

 

 

My friend died last week.  Her departure wasn’t sudden, nor was it a surprise.  Her departure was not even something she wished to prevent. In fact, she had told more than once that she’d considered having “Do Not Resuscitate” tattooed across her chest. You see, the first day I met her, she announced to me that she was “92-years old” in her Western Alleghenies’ accent, nodding her head to emphasize the accomplishment of having reached that age, not yet perishing due to illness, accident, or making someone mad enough to just outright kill you.  That was almost three years ago, and the last time I saw her, I’m positive she’d she still have insisted that she was 92 if asked.  I’m not quite sure of her actual age, but I’m very sure that the number of years mattered not at all, simply as a way to mark time, as if the creaks in our joints and the creases in our faces weren’t enough to remind us that youth had fled.  

Every one of those 92 (give or take) years she had lived, I’m sure, would ‘ve proven to weave a tale worth telling, but she’d long grown weary of sharing much of her own personal history. She’d been married three times (“And not a one of ’em worth anything.” direct quote), had babies, been a nurse, borne loss, accepted more heartache than most people can withstand, and still, she could sit and talk about music, theatre, or nothing at all.  Despite, or maybe because of the pain to which she could bear witness, this tiny woman whose life had spanned nearly a century wore her faith as her armor, and she left me in awe. 

She told me that she was ready to go Home to her Lord and Savior more than a year ago. In her pragmatic way, she began tying up the loose ends she saw trailing behind her here on Earth, and when there were no more strings left to tidy, she went Home.  I didn’t get to see her before she left; I was too sick.  She’d have understood, but it was my heart that was left wide open with that ache that reminds you that no matter how many times you look up, that person you’re missing, well, they’re just never going to walk back in the room again.  My lovely friend received the blessing of going Home, going to that place we inherently know we belong and literally are dying to go, but the being left behind just, well, sucks.  

Being the one left behind, whether by death, divorce, or any other means of separation, when you didn’t get to make the choice (or even sometimes if you did), can drive that double-edged blade called choice, destiny, fate, or simply time straight into the heart of you, twist the handle until the sharpened steel edge hollows out the very core of you, then delight in striking the match that lights the fire that conflagrates what remains of you leaving you to wonder if you ever existed at all, if the heart you thought beat in your chest might not just have simplybeen ash from the very start.  And the questions echo up and down empty hallways: How many times do I start again?  How many corners do I turn?  How many times do I say goodbye?  Or maybe say nothing at all because I didn’t get the chance?  And those words I never said are acid eroding the pieces of me that I thought I knew.  

Or maybe that’s just me. 

In the pre-dawn, Rosie and I stood in the April chill.  I listened as the forest started to awaken, my nose twitched with that loamy delicious Spring smell peculiar to the Blue Ridge.  The sky, streaked in that glorious tint somewhere between pink and orange (but calling it salmon feels like sacrilege because salmon in nasty), spread out as a gift newly opened, and I closed my eyes and pictured my sweet friend’s face.  Rosie pulled on her leash until I opened my eyes to see my little beagle staring up at me.  As if she knew what I was thinking, my little dog tried to lope across the yards from my back patio to where my dear friend had lived.  And for the first time since she’d gone Home, I felt tears cascade down my cheeks. And I knew those tears weren’t for her but for me.  

The summer of 1978, when I was three, my mother decided it was high time I learned to swim. We lived in Allen, Texas (World renowned known for its pristine white sugar-sand beaches and bathwater warm turquoise waters. Please Google the town.), where the owner of Allen Meadows Day School, my pre-school, had fantastical realization that if he built it, they would come. In other words, if he, Joe, added a pool, his students’ parents would pay their hard earned Texas Black Gold for their babies to learn to swim. My parents needn’t shell out a dime, though, because Momma worked at Allen Meadows part-time, and she was determined I would reap the benefits of that pool. I was less than enthused. I had seen Jaws and was positive that when he wasn’t filming, he lived in the deep end of the Allen Meadows pool.

Going through the basics (i.e. face into water, kicking, dog paddle, floating, etc.), failed to send my heart into arrythmia.  We pretty much stayed on the shallow end steps or the very shallow water directly in front.  So, I reasoned that I had a decent chance of clearing said steps should a dorsal fin approach.  (I’d yet to discover that most shark attacks occur in less than three feet of water.).  Then, to the apprehension and loathing of the handful of we wee ones in the class, we ‘graduated’ to the pool’s deep end and the diving board.  For me, well, what had been a mostly neutral exercise revealed a sinister dimension.

So, the diving board process looked something like this: Joe would tread water a few feet in front of the board, smiling benignly as one by one, we little ones launched ourselves from the relative safety of the board into midair.  Feet-first we plunged down into the icy depths of water three times deeper than we were tall.  Then, we’d kick our chubby little legs with all our might until, by God’s almighty grace, we broke through to the surface, gasping and gulping in as much chlorinated water as we did air.  Frantically, we’d paddle to the side of the pool and cling to that aluminum ladder until our toddler brains convincingly processed that we were still alive.  Finally, we’d climb out of the pool, kneel down on our little dimpled thighs, kiss the solid ground, give the suspiciously smiling instructor the finger, waddle inside to crack open cold ones then collapse in our Barkaloungers.  That last part, not so much.  Nope. Instead, we lined up by the diving board and repeated the whole process. Again and again and again. The word “lemming” comes to mind.

One afternoon that sun shone down from the wide open Texas prairie blue skies, I could feel the hint of change carried on that prairie wind.  Probably because it was the last week of the eight-week paid session, but that just might be cynicism.  Anyway, we lemmings lined up by the board patiently waiting to play our assigned role.  Somehow, this time, I was first in line.  I cannot explain that phenomena, but there you have it.  The blonde teenage assistant instructor waved me forward to step up onto the diving board.  If you know me, you know I’m pretty darn good at following instructions.  So, hop on up there I did.  And I stood and waited.  

And waited.  And waited.  Because as willing as I was to brave Jaws with Joe two feet in front of me, I WAS NOT jumping into the murky depths without an alternative shark snack available.  Joe equaled safety, but guess what.  Joe, benign smile, and all, was sitting way, way, way far down on the steps in the shallow end.  Uhm, no. No, I was not playing that game.

“Rachael, go ahead and jump.  I need to see that you can swim from the diving board to the ladder all by yourself,” the man said.  

Uhm, nope.

“Rachael, I need to be able to tell your mommy you can do this.” His voice had that long suffering patient tone adults who work with miniature, unreasonable people adopt.

Now, I know I was three, but I was not a stupid three. I knew I could swim to the ladder. Joe knew I could swim to the ladder. He’d been watching me swim to the ladder for four weeks. So, uhm, he could just tell my mother that. Who did he think he was kidding? So, there I I stood on the end of the board and gave him my best three-year-old stare down

“Rachael, come on now. Everyone wants a turn,” he cajoled.

I turned a disbelieving eye to the little faces behind me, and I can promise you that not a single one of them longed to trade places with me.  In fact, could they have managed to superglue themselves to the fence, I’m pretty sure they’d all still be there.  Not a one of us wanted to plunge into Jaws’ lair without Joe dangling there in front of us as bait.  You know that saying, You don’t have to outrun the bear…

I heard my little voice say, “Can you please come closer?”  I saw my little finger point to the place the Joe was SUPPOSED to be.  Yes, for the love of all that was good and holy, I was bargaining with the man to become shark bait so that he, the bait, could then tell my mother something both the bait and I – and quite probably my mother as well – already knew: I could freaking swim to the stupid ladder.  But the bait wouldn’t budge.  So, instead I resigned myself to a tragic shark-related fate, and I jumped.

I didn’t drown.  Jaws didn’t eat me.  And I have a point.  Please read on.

Life terrifies me. Most of the time I get through the day by not thinking, not feeling, now wanting, not hoping.  And, really, that’s why my keyboard has remained untouched for weeks at a time.  I live a life that I don’t understand and, much of the time, do not want.  I live a life I do not know how to live.

When I was injured more than 20 years ago, I never imagined how different my life would look from what I had planned.  (Man plans; God laughs.).  I wanted a husband, a law degree, and more than anything else, a house full of babies.  I have none of those things.  Instead, I live mostly alone with an illness that almost no one, including myself, understands.  Isolation equals insulation because when my brain, for lack of a better word, spasms, it can appear to mimic anything from drug use to seizures.  When people have described what they see when my neurological system stops playing nicely, my heart breaks for the witnesses because they were absolutely terrified.  But for me, my heart dies just a bit because no matter how close I am to that person, fear whispers until it roars, and then, they, too, leave.  

I treasure the friends who have passed through these years of this nightmare, even tiny portions, but I’m guessing it wouldn’t surprise you to know that I allow almost no one closer than arm’s length.  I simply can’t stand the thought of more loss.  My parents come the closest, but even our road hasn’t been straight or easy.  Humanity makes us frail, vulnerable, mortal.  Eventually, they’ll not be here, and selfishly, I can’t imagine a world without them.  Besides loving them, what, then, happens to me?

There are days I can’t even imagine opening my eyes one more time.  Days I can’t fathom why I’m still here.  And yes, there are discreet moments I feel extraordinarily sorry for myself – not often, but moments.  And the only reason I’m telling you this now is that I know there is someone out there this very minute who feels this very thing.  And I picture you standing staring into the wind screaming, “Why? Why? WHY?”

Some days I feel like I’m three again perched on the end of the diving board bargaining: please no more pain; please, no more loss; please, help me.  

Then something beautifully, mystically amazing happened.  I reread the 23^rd Psalm: “You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies.”

Please, close your eyes.  Take a deep breath and savor the image of the King of Kings laying platters of gold and goblets of crystal, folding silk napkins, and setting the chairs just so.  Hear the lions roar, shudder as the wolves howl, feel the winds buffet and fires swirling ever nearer.  And know deep through every breath and heartbeat that regardless of the havoc, you are safe.  No harm can come to a single hair upon your head because Abba has summoned you here, prepared this feast for you, His Beloved.  He will sit with you, hold you, talk with you, laugh with you, simply enjoy you – everything about you.  He delights in you.  All you must do is be present and focus on Him.  He takes care of the rest.  Remember, too, that He brought you here to this very moment with great deliberation. 

So, Beloved, standing on the end of that diving board, bemusedly focusing on where you thought safety lay, turn those eyes to Him and jump.

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I share my home and my life with the world’s neediest dog, and I don’t mind a bit.  Rosie, a 25-lbs. beagle, sleeps at this moment on the arm of my sofa, occasionally interrupting her snooze to open one eye and assess me, her self-assumed responsibility.  Once she decides I’m breathing, she closes the eye and resumes her nap.  

I adopted Rosie almost a year ago, and I didn’t just get a dog; oh, no.  Rosie took one look – one sniff in my ear, really, and decided I direly needed a nursemaid, and she was just the dog to do it!   At one time, a lovely English Lab who had been trained to take care of me fulfilled that role, and my little Rosie has determined to cloak herself in that (self-taught) mantle. 

Did you know that, apparently, and according to the veterinarian, beagles come in two varieties -supper chill or super anxious?  Guess which Ms. Rosie happens to be. We struggled through submissive pottying, terrified-new-dog biting, and an ‘I’m-not-going-to-eat; you-can’t-make-me’ phases.  We learned each other’s proclivities: she likes to bolt out the door and run through the woods around my house for 10-30 minutes leaving me to pace and worry that she’ll get hit by a car. I don’t like when she’s bolts out the door and runs through the woods around my house.  She likes to put “indestructible” dog toys to the test. I don’t like that she’s destroyed every single “indestructible dog toy I’ve ever found.  She likes to wake me up at 7:00 AM by standing inches from my face and staring creepily at me.  I don’t like to wake up to unblinking eyes inches from mine.  I have discovered that reasoning with a beagle is much like reasoning with a toddler, and just as effective. I admit that Rosie mostly wins these battles of will.  

When Rosie first came to me, I determined she would sleep in her crate in the hall bathroom, but Rosie thought otherwise.   Last night I fell asleep with Rosie on the foot of my bed; two hours later, I awoke with her cuddled next to me, her head on the next pillow.  I smiled and turned to face the other way.  Rosie snuggled closer.  

Like most things worth keeping, Rosie entered my life as I looked for something completely different.  I began a search for a goldendoodle, but never did I ever consider a beagle.  Then, a lady I didn’t know called me out of the blue and asked me to take a beagle she was fostering, a little girl beagle that had been found along with her brother wondering in the woods.  I hesitated, so very confident only a Goldendoodle would do.  But, then, I had prayed for the right dog to come…maybe there was something to this.  

So…enter Rosie stage right. 

I quickly learned that for our relationship to work, Rosie needed anxiety medicine. I needed Rosie to be on anxiety medicine.  (Have you ever seen a dog become a basket case over a baby on TV crying?  I have; it’s not pretty.)  Rosie needed me to be patient as she learned how to navigate this new environment.

Patience is not a virtue with which I was blessed naturally.  Instead,Abba has afforded ample opportunities for me to develop this trait – opportunities I have squandered.  By His grace, He continues to open His hands to me, offering that which I have repeatedly pushed aside and rejected.  And, still, He reaches out to me, for me.  Love defined; love resounded in that open hand.

At moments I’m razed by duplicity of doubt, but tonight, a little beagle asleep on my sofa is enough to remind me of what is true.

My mother never raised houseplants.  She would often say there wasn’t a houseplant alive she couldn’t kill; she insisted that she had inherited a “black thumb” from somewhere in her ancestry.  Now, any random visit to my aunt or sister’s house would’ve caused you to raise your eyebrows at my mother’s claim.  Both ladies – aunt and sister – could keep any vegetation alive.  I began to wonder if my mother secretly simply hated the idea of being beholden to a watering can, but then I agreed to help her transplant daylilies.  

The job appeared easy enough: dig up the lilies from their current abode; break them into smaller plantings; dig new holes for homes; relocate the daylilies; cover with soil; water and fertilize. Voila!  Nothing to it, right?  Wrong.  Mom harbored different ideas.

My momma raised us all to read voraciously, and sometimes the more obscure the article or book the better, and she certainly didn’t raise us to do anything she herself didn’t practice (mostly).  So, to prepare herself to plant/transplant, Mom decided to do a bit of research.  She found an article that described the American Indian teaching the first Massachusetts settlers to plant corn in the New World.  Fascinating, apparently, but uhm, maybe not something necessarily applicable almost 400 years later.  Mom, however, was determined to apply her newfound knowledge to her front yard daylilies.   

As my parents and I labored away under the afternoon sun, me prying the daylilies from their current nests and my parents settling them into new ones under the dining room and kitchen windows, my mom declared a cessation to the replanting process.  

“Wait!  I need to find the sardines,” she said.

In confusion I looked up in from the grubbing hoe I was straining to wedge under a 20-year-old root system.  I was sure I had misheard, either that or was suffering an acute auditory hallucination.  My father’s face suggested he was in it with me.

“Sardines?  Did you say ‘sardines’?” I asked, gawking at Mom’s bent back as she dug through the plastic garden storage bin muttering, “I know they’re in here.”

Dad and I looked at each other then back at her and waited.  Momentarily, she righted herself clutching a tin of something, her face glowing in triumph. 

“Here they are.  Now, what we do is put a can of these in each hole.  Then, we put the plant in on top of the sardines, cover it all with soil, water, and fertilize.”  Holding the tin of tiny fish, she stared resolutely at us as if we would inherently understand the reasonability of this instruction, as if we buried cans of potted fish in the front yard daily.

I processed this announcement.  Then, I processed it again.  Yep; nope, never heard anything quite like that.  “Uh, Mom, I think you just said that we’re planting a can of sardines with each daylily,” my voice took on that gentle don’t-rile-the-bear tone one uses with lunatics and toddlers alike.

Mom gave me that look peculiar to all mothers, that Don’t be ridiculous. Of course we’re doing ____________.  “We are,” she stated.

I could hear the incredulity in my voice, “We’re planting 5 cans of sardines in your front yard?”

“No, we’re not planting 5 ‘cans’ of sardines.  We are, of course, going to open the cans and dump the fish into the hole then chop up the fish with the shovel and mix the fish in with soil before placing the lilies on top of them.”  

Uh, huh.  Like that made more sense.

I spoke slowly as if to a very small, very dim child.  “We’re going to dump five cans of fish into holes in your front yard underneath your dining room and living room windows?  Five cans of fish that will decay and rot? Five cans of fish that smell bad NOW?”

Mom nodded.  “Yes.”

I swallowed once, then twice.  “Can I just go on record as saying that this is a very bad idea?” 

Mom smiled beatifically.  “Yes, okay, but we are still going to do it.”

My father took off his ballcap and rubbed his head.  He raised his eyebrows slightly, replaced his cap and spoke.  “Honey, why?”

“Well, I recently read an article that explained that when the Pilgrims were learning to plant crops in the New World, the Indians taught them to bury a fish with each seed.”  Considering that enough commentary, Mom calmly held the tin out for my father to open. 

Suddenly, my mind jumped to an image of Stephen Hopkins and John Alden in full Thanksgiving pageant Pilgrim regalia standing with Squanto and others nodding skeptically as Squanto said, “Now, the fish that you caught out of the ocean, they’re no good to eat.  In fact, very bad for you. We have special fish that are okay for you, given to us by our ancestors.  We will share with you.  

“What you need to do is plant each fish in the ground like wheat or tomatoes; take care of them like any other crop, and in the Fall, you’ll have a big harvest of new fish.”

In my vision, Stephen and John looked at each then shrugged.  “Thanks, guys.  We never would’ve guessed we needed to do that,” John said.  Then the two Englishmen proceeded to drop whole fish into holes, covering them with soil, watering them daily, and patiently waiting in fervent expectation for a baby fish to sprout live from the ground.  Meanwhile back in the Wampanoag village, much mirth was enjoyed over the practical joke they’d played on the new guys.    

I cracked up.

My mother must’ve caught onto my imagining, because she narrowed her eyes at me, and stated drily, “I do know the fish won’t grow.”

As I scroll through the news stories fed to my phone by an algorithm far beyond my comprehension of math, despair reaches for me.  I dodge its poisonous tentacles, reminding myself that love – that hope and faith – are a choice.  My mind consumes the factual information relayed by this broken world, but the ultimate perception by which I will live and react and interact with others occurs via the Spirit.  

News clips of desperate people falling from the wings of USAF transport planes leaving Kabul, our elected leaders stumbling through explanations of the latest tragic debacle in a country where our men and women fought and died, unadultered hate and intolerance domestically, disease divisiveness, economic ravishment.  Close my eyes and breathe.  I do not understand, and I am… afraid.  

My heart screams a prayer. 

In the still silence I hear, Do you know who you are in Me?  Do you know who you are to Me?  When you do, fear will flee because you are fearfully and wonderfully made.  I love you beyond measure.  You are My temple; regardless of what becomes of the muscle and bone, your soul belongs to Me.  Your comprehension of ‘why’ beyond knowing that this is My plan matters not at all.  Go where I lead, and trust that what I have promised, I will fulfill.  From the mess, I will create beautyl – sort of like planting sardines to make a daylily grow.

I found myself missing the desert this week – the heat of the sun as it caressed my skin through my clothes, the dust tickling my nose as I ran through the dry washes, the very feel of the parched earth, cracked and waiting for the next downpour.  I longed for the wide-open spaces, the even wider crystalline azure skies, the ancient saguaro cactus arms reaching to the sky, the hummingbirds dipping to the prickly pear mauve and yellow fruit; and hiking the trails through the craggy mountains.  I treasured the times I could jump in the car and drive four hours to REAL mountains, ones so high the sun had trouble peaking around them, where piñion pine grew and elk lived, where Navajo and Zuni and Hopi called sacred.  The pull became so strong, I almost started to look up flights.  Almost.

And then, I prayed.

I left that desert almost five years ago fully intending to return.  And yet…my plans to return did not appear to be His – or at least not yet.

Sitting now on my back patio in this corner of Virginia, I tell myself that this life is real, that this life must be the one He intended for now because, while I never imagined myself living here, here I am.  I gaze at the stands of trees towering around me; this week they adorned themselves with vivid Spring green leaves and yellow and pink buds.  For now, this city, so foreign to me, is where He planted me, where I call home.  I’m still not quite sure how I feel about this.  

But here’s the thing:  my feelings about this matter only in as far as I fight Him.  I’m wondering if that’s your story, too.  Do you fight Him for the life you think you want instead of the life He gives?

Mostly, I’ve fought Him every step of the way that has brought me here– where I am supposed to go, when I am supposed to go.  And to the tips of my toes, I wondered what that fight has meant until I understood – finally – that the struggle originated from an issue of trust.  If I truly trusted Him to guide me to where I was supposed to be when I was supposed to be there, the fight would leave me; I’d stop puffing out my chest and beating on it.  I’d humble myself and prepare to go whenever and wherever he asked.  I’d settle into a peace beyond all understanding.

And still…

I think of all the times I have fought the Almighty, but just as when Jacob struggled with God and became Israel, my tussles with Abba are no different: He always wins.  Whether I like it or not at the time, understand it or not – He always wins.  If I could see the entire picture, I’d understand that even in the small things, the consequences matter to the larger fabric of our lives and the lives of others.   If I could see the entire picture, I’d say a prayer of thanks for every time I didn’t get what I thought I wanted.  Even now, I’d say a prayer of thanks for living in this small Appalachian city.

Still, at the moment I fail to get my way, it feels an awful lot like losing, and losing sears our souls.  I can’t think of a single time that losing felt fun or good, but learning to lose in the small things (i.e., academic contests, dancing or running competitions, etc.), has laid the groundwork for knowing how to face the enormous losses life would bring later: infertility, divorce, etc.  As I move further away from each episode of worldly defeat, my heart grows grateful for every tiny cut inflicted by losing and loss.  Perhaps true spiritual maturity will be marked by the ability to be immediately grateful for loss.  But I’m not there yet.  Someday, I hope, but not quite yet.

So, for now, I live in a place that I did not necessarily choose, but I acknowledge that He did.  I tend to shut myself off from others, afraid of truly living here, but that isn’t the life He calls me to live.  He calls me to bloom where He has planted me, to offer my face to His sun (Son), and my heart to His people.  My desert may continue to call to me, but this city, this place is His will.  

I pray for the strength to live within that will and even more, to desire that will.  My prayer for you is that you find the same in your life.

Sunlight shimmered off the gentle waves of the ocean as I stood on my fifth-floor balcony delighting in the dolphins frolicking in the water just feet from a paddle border.  The sun warmed my face even as the air temperature demanded a coat, and I recognized the moment for what it was – a gift – a moment of grace – a moment of space.  If you’re like me right now, teasing these simple gifts from the cacophony that boxes us in and shouts us down with anxiety and worry, fear and isolation over the past year has developed into a full on-my- face, sometimes literally, exercise in surrender.  

I have been silent – absent from you – because my voice fled.  I should reword that; I have been silent because I allowed my voice to bury itself down where my heart could not reach.  If I did not speak, then I could not state something objectionable, could not cause offense, could not make waves.  I could not cause loss.  The last thing I believed I needed in my life was more loss.  And, so, as the sea witch stole the mermaid’s voice, I stole my own.  I believe He wept for my choice, just as I know that He never stopped reaching for me.  

And then, I saw the dolphins.  And I felt the sun on my face again.  And, finally, for the first time in a very long time, I laced up my running shoes and ran on the edge of the surf down past the statue of Neptune toward the old Cavalier Inn.  And I remembered how to breathe.  And in doing so, I found space.

I thought I’d had too much space this past year, too much enforced distance from volunteer activities and people I loved but couldn’t see face to face.  I thought space meant the signs on the doors and floors of the grocery store and pharmacy reminding us to keep 6 feet apart.  I thought space meant facemasks and the absence of human touch.  The thought of “space” began to elicit a horribly visceral reaction. But, ‘space’, carried no inherent negative denotation.  Instead, like most anything, its truth lay in perception,

Sitting in the back of church two weeks ago looking at the groupings of seats 6 feet apart in front of me, the thought, Space as rest, kept coming to my head.  And, as is wont to do with something about which I am supposed to write, it wouldn’t leave me alone.  So, with eyes, mind, and a heart that are His, what I know is that this space He has given to us is a gift, regardless of its genesis.  It’s the space to breathe and be and refocus.  It’s the space to let go of what has been or what could have been and simply hold onto what is.  It’s the space to forgive ourselves and others and decide to love better.  It’s the space to pray and worship.  Space as rest; space as Sabbath.

Space is His grace.   

Spring arrived, and we barely noticed.  St Patrick’s Day, normally heralded by parades and bar-centric revelries, saw none of that.  The cherry trees blossomed in DC, and yet no festival was held to bring people to the streets.  Easter peeks from around the corner, and we the faithful will celebrate from home in front of computers and Smart TVs as pastors and priests around the world celebrate His Resurrection in a way none of us could have previously imagined.  And, yet, this is our world for the foreseeable future.

For the immunocompromised, like me and so many others, huddling inside is the only true option.  For the elderly, sheltering in-place, whether ordered to or not, has become a way of survival.  But so many more – mothers, fathers, grandparents – must continue to work, if they’re blessed enough to have a job that stills allows them to bring in money.  The rest of us, we pray.

I hear individuals say so often, “all we can do is pray.”  I’ve said it myself.  And, yet, do you realize how very powerful prayer is?  If we did, we would claim it immediately saying something more akin to, “My privilege would be to pray for you.”  Prayer connects us to the Father, the Son, and the Spirit.  Prayer taps into the Infinite, and prayer is the way to tie us back moment by moment to our Creator.  Prayer is a language that speaks directly to Him, covers us from darkness, redirects un into the Light, and forces us to remember who we are.  

This past year eviscerated me, left me bleeding and broken on the floor, gasping for breath, and (sometimes) wanting to die. I’ve lost so much – too much for me to bear alone – and one of the worst losses was that of my voice. I forgot how to write, but more than that, I had no desire to do so. But the thing is, writing is not just my passion but my purpose, and if I’m not fulfilling that, then I’m not doing what I was sent here to do.

Finding my way back requires on-going true on-my-face time, tearfully, willingly, pleading with Abba to restore what I have lost.  The restoration has yet to happen, but it will.  I know He will restore all I have lost and more because He promises that in His Word.  And, so, I pray, and I wait, and I pray some more.  And, sometimes, to my heart’s delight, I catch glimpses of Him at work, and I know He hears me, know He loves me.

I delight in my privilege to pray for you today that you seek and find your own voice, whatever He has bestowed upon you. I pray that you find connection to Him daily and live the life he intended for you before He knit you together in your mother’s womb. Because you have a purpose, or you wouldn’t still be here. You will find that purpose when you call out to Him.

Hallelujah. Amen.