Bohemian Rhapsody

Yesterday, I got my first (and probably my last) tattoo (yes, it hurt).  It is a Celtic Motherhood Knot, a symbol of the unity of Mother/Child/Faith/Heritage displayed on the big toe of my left foot.

For a long time, I've wanted a tattoo but could never go through with it.  I couldn't justify the cost.  I thought it was sinful.  I worried that I would change my mind on where or what I wanted -a circle of flowers on my ankle, a wreath around my wrist; before long, my body would be awash in tattoo ink.  And so I put off that dream, satisfying myself with temporary henna tattoos - a circle of flowers on my ankle, a wreath around my wrist...

I have what I call my "bohemian" streak.  It's this part of me that wants to break free from conventional behavior; to satisfy the artistic side of my being; to be adventurous.  It's the part of me that paints my toenails purple and dyes my hair red and wants to bungee jump and sky-dive.  Getting my tattoo indulged this bohemian streak.

After my friend Adiel got a tattoo, I made plans for my own inking and she agreed to join me for moral support and courage.  The date was planned, I chose the design and for the next three weeks I waited excitedly.

The symbol I chose was for many reasons.  First, it's Celtic like much of my own Scotch/Irish and even German heritage.   Second, the Mother/child symbol is in memory of my own Mom, who I miss intensely.  Third, the Celtic Trinity symbol is intertwined within the mother/child hearts, reflecting my identity with Christ.

By the time Adiel picked me up for our adventure to Buddha's Tattoo Parlor, I understood my desire for a tattoo was more significant than some artistic whim.  A tattoo is a commitment.  It's permanent.  If my "bohemian" side is a simple streak, my desire for permanence and commitment is as wide as a six-lane highway.  I look at my tattoo as a "wedding ring" of sorts.  I look at it and know that I belong to someone.  I belong to the Celts.  To my mom.  To Jesus.

The Battle Scarred Princess

There once was a princess on a journey to return to her home to be with her Father, the King.  All her brothers and sisters, princes and princesses in their own right were on the same journey, though they’d all been given different paths.  Their paths were fraught with danger and each had to fight many battles along the way but everyone was amply armed and provided for by their Father.  Their wise and wonderful King also made sure they gathered together one day each week for rest and renewal in each other’s company. 

This princess’ path, she travelled alone much of the time, with none of her brothers and sisters available for help.  It was frightening and very lonely but she tried to faithfully follow the path she’d been given. However, she tripped and fell many days.  Her path also forced her in to numerous battles where she sustained many bruises and hurts throughout the week.   By the time she met up with her family on their weekly R&R, she was weary and in great pain.  Her brothers and sisters were all happy to be together and shared stories of their adventures that week.  The princess listened and tried to rejoice with them and for them but she was so tired.  As her family danced and played around her, they often jostled and bumped in to her causing her great pain; bumping her bruises and opening wounds.  They did not intentionally hurt her, but It got so the princess could no longer leave her battle armor at the door, she had to wear it in to the place of sanctuary to keep from reinjuring herself.

The princess loved her family and deeply desired to be with them on these days of rest.  She attended them regularly because she knew it pleased and honored her beloved Father, and what she heard there helped her prepare for the battles in the coming week.  But these meetings were painful and carrying her armor seven days a week with no respite was exhausting her.  Her arms were weak having to hold up her shield and sword so much.  Her head hurt wearing the helmet every day.  And her feet were aching and weakening having to stand battle ready all the time, with little opportunity for rest.  As the day for the weekly family gatherings drew near, she would start to dread the meetings.  Her defenses would start to rise, her anxiety heightened, her resent at being alone to fend for herself grew.  The mornings of each  gathering day, she would prepare but anger and rage would build inside her because she was in such pain.  There was no escape from the suffering and she was afraid she would no longer be able to wield her armor for battle.  Then she’d be overcome by the enemy and would never get home to her Father. 

(I don’t know how to end this story.  I seek solutions but no one really has any.)

The Lottery

Dedicated to RJL (Barbling #2) who's lovely innocence inspired me.

Eight years ago, I went to a King Arthur Flour baking demonstration with my friend Brenda and her three daughters, who I lovingly refer to as my Barblings.  Upon registering, we all were given tickets for door prizes that were to be drawn at the end of the class.  Each of the Barblings was given her ticket to hold.  Barbling #2 clung to hers as if it were gold and asked me when the prizes would be given.  I told her she had to wait until the end.  She said ok and took her seat next to me. 

While her sisters colored and drew pictures, Barbling #2 sat attentively, tightly gripping her ticket between her thumb and forefinger, quietly reading off the numbers to herself and watching the clock.  Her childhood excitement pinged my heart and I said a quick prayer that God would fulfill this wish of hers to win a prize.

Periodically, she would turn to me and asked how much longer it would be until the drawings.  I checked the agenda and gave her a rough estimate of when I thought the raffle would begin.  She then turned back in her seat, still grasping her ticket, a look of anticipation on her face that only one so young and inexperienced in disappointment could display.

This happened a few times throughout the show.  While her sisters played and mom and I casually remarked on some newly learned dough fact, Barbling #2 sat there waiting quietly with anxious patience.

Finally!  The demonstration had ended and the time for the door prizes to be awarded arrived.  We all pulled out our tickets with some degree of wishful hope that we might win some trinket or maybe even the grand prize, a highly treasured King Arthur Flour cookbook.

Ticket #1 was drawn.  They read off the number and everyone checked their tickets.  And…Barbling #3 won!  Her prize was a baseball cap and a dough scraper.  All the audience members clapped and congratulated her on her good fortune.  Many even cooed over her cherubic six-year-old glee.  Then everyone’s attention returned to the remaining drawings.  More tickets were pulled, more numbers read off.  All the while, Barbling #2 silently checked her ticket, carefully listening as the numbers were read off.  She followed along on her ticket as each number was called; double checking, though by this time she had to have had the numbers memorized.

A few prizes later, Barbling #1’s number was called (she won a dough wand).  Mom and I looked at each other with surprise and happiness on our good luck.  Two of the kids had won!  Just as quickly, though, dismay registered on our faces as we realized, “Oh.  Two of the three kids had won.” While people were congratulating #1 on her prize I was quickly composing some consoling words that I could say to #2 when she was let down.  I’m willing to bet mom was as well.

After congratulating #1, #2 again turned forward in her seat, still clutching her ticket, that same look of wishfulness on her innocent face.

That face radiated such hope and excitement. There was a brightness that comes from childlike simplicity.  At seven, she didn’t have frown lines or wrinkles.  Furrows were not etched in her forehead from the plows of sadness.  She was beautiful, and her lovely innocence frightened me.  I was worried about how her mother would pick up the pieces when disillusionment crashed down on her.  I was scared for her, how she would handle the disappointment.  My heart ached for her naiveté and I wanted to cry then for the pain she was going to have to endure shortly.  She would be left out of the winner’s circle – the circle in which her sisters were welcomed in to that day.  I was powerless to protect her and I could not think of any words of comfort that would soothe her pain.  So I just sat there preparing for the tears that would flow.  Or at least I hoped there would be tears.  Silent disappointment would be worse.  Tears can be wiped away.  I didn’t have access to comfort her bruised heart and aching soul.

The time came for the grand prize to be drawn.  The excitement in the room could be felt.  The announcer slowly and clearly read each number on the ticket as audience members checked their tickets.  Barbling #2 followed along.  When the final number was read we saw that she had won!  The excitement she expressed was akin to that normally reserved for birthdays and Christmas.  She shook with excitement.  And so did I.  I remember feeling such joy for her and gratitude to God for answering that prayer.

I have a ticket to which I’ve been clinging for 51 years.  I grip the ticket so hard my fingers ache along with my heart. I was raised with the notion that the prize was pretty much guaranteed.  Well-meaning friends have told me for years to be patient, my time would come.  I’ve sat by as family and friends around me have had their numbers called.  I watched them march down the aisle to be awarded their prizes (some more than once) while I still wait.  Now as their children are starting to have their numbers called, it’s getting harder to  share their joy.  I wonder if maybe my ticket expired, maybe my part in the drawing ended and I don’t know it.  Still, I hang on to the ticket.  It’s worn, its numbers are faded; it’s tear-stained.  But I still have it.

I’ve thought of just tossing the ticket in the trash and getting on with my life.  Then I hear of someone in similar straits as me whose ticket has been called.  I hear one or two numbers called that happen to be on my ticket and I get my hopes up again.  There’s no expiration date on the ticket that I can see.  If I hang on to it just one more day, just one more drawing, then maybe my number will come in.  My heart is still beating, so the raffle is still active, isn’t it? 

I don’t know why I’ve had to wait so long when so many others have won, some more than once.  I’ve seen people who stole their prizes, who didn’t wait their turn for their number to be called.  Why were they able to “win” when I’ve had to wait?  Why was I even given a ticket in the first place if there was never any chance it would be redeemed?  Why do I have to be disappointed over and over again—what purpose does it serve?  I have no answer to these questions.

But…

The same God who bestowed that gift on Barbling #2 is the same one who gave me my ticket 51 years ago.  But He gave me another ticket as well; one whose reward is not determined by chance or some random sweepstakes.  This ticket is really an engraved invitation; its ink is the blood of Jesus.  Possession of this ticket grants me eternal life and entrance to God’s royal throne room.  But I’ve mishandled it and taken it for granted way too often.  Instead of clinging to it, I’ve tossed it in my purse or on my desk, forgetting it existed until I’m in some desperate straits.  Then I find myself tearing through the house on a frantic, anxious search for peace.  I see the invitation, wrinkled, curled, torn in spots.  But that doesn’t matter to God.  He still accepts my invitation and I’m given passage not only into the throne room, but also access to Him who sits at the throne.

Despite possession of this invitation, I still would like to be able to cash in this raffle ticket”.  In the event that number is never called, though, I know Jesus has a “prize package” awaiting me in heaven that more than makes up for not winning this earthly lottery.  It will satisfy the longings I feel.  It will heal the many hurts I’ve endured.  I need only wait with the same patience and faith that Barbling #2 exhibited eight years ago.

Love at First Sight

The only time in history when there truly was "love at first sight" was in Genesis, when God looked on His creation and saw that it was good.  All other instances were just "like" or "lust" at first sight.

A Lament of Loneliness and Broken Down Cars

God will restore, confirm, strengthen and establish me (I Peter 5:10) He WILL make up for all I've suffered here on earth.  But, oh how I wish He'd do it soon because life is to very hard here.

Please Don't Tell Me I'm Wrong

As I try to make sense of this life I have - that God has given me, I struggle.  I'm not an unintelligent person.  I'm also not a genius.  And I know God confounds the most genius of geniuses.  But I've always thought I should be able to make some sense of things, with God's help.  When I don't, I figure God's help is eluding me.

But today (at least for this moment) I think...

1. The things I experience (or don't experience) are for the furtherance of the Kingdom of God.
2. The things I experience (or don't experience) are for my good.
3. Items 1 and 2 are not mutually exclusive.  That is to say, when God is furthering His Kingdom, I'm not necessarily taking second place.  I'm not being pushed to the side for something or someone more important.  Somehow, I fit in to God's plan for His Kingdom.  Somehow, by His grace, I'm important to His plan.
4. The "I'm important" part is NOT an egotistical position.  I AM important, because God made that way through Jesus.  It's nothing I did.
5. I have no idea of how this all fits together.  I just pray it's biblical and that I can believe it two hours from now.

What's in a Name

Dear God,

You named me Barbara.  It means "stranger".  Looking back over the 50 years You have thus appointed to me, I have been a stranger.  Always on the fringe.  Never really included.  Never really connected.  I have to believe You have had a bigger reason for doing this.  Your word says you know the hairs on my head, you set out my steps before me, you love me as your child.  You have a plan for me - for my good, not harm.

When You did great things to people in the past, you changed their name - Abram to Abraham, Saul to Paul, etc.  Change my name.  Please.  Change me.

Some refer to times like this as being in the desert.  It only fits - the Israelites, Jesus - all experienced a desert, a dry time.  I different.  If the wet kleenex in my trash are any indication, I'm far from dehydrated.  I'm a flood of tears and emotion. 

Your word is true, I know that.  It is because of this that over 30 years ago I was able to commit my life to You.  But sometimes, as I recite these promises, they don't ring true.  They sound like just words.  I cling to the life preserver of Your Word and I stay afloat, but I'm still afraid as the waves of loneliness crash over me.  I'm looking for the rescue plane to fly overhead.

Honesty and Sincerity

In addition to this blog, I’ve begun submitting some of my writings to a writer’s blog, The Write Practice.  The comment that I regularly receive on my writing is that it is honest and sincere.  I am complimented when I hear this, as that is my goal when I write – to be truthful and open.

My proclivity towards sincerity has been with me since birth.  Like the little girl with the curl on her forehead – when I’m good I’m very, very good and when I’m bad, I’m horrid.    I’ve been sincerely kind and sincerely mean; I’ve been sincerely happy and sincerely sad.  But always sincere.

I don’t know if this quality came from nature or nurture; I just know it’s always been there.  I consider this one of my better qualities, but it’s also opened me up to a great many hurts.  Like an open book, I’ve been exposed to rough handling, coffee stains, rips and scribbles in my margins.  But I’ve also experienced the loving touch of someone turning my pages to read my next paragraphs.

Honesty is another story.  Though I’d like to believe my honesty comes from some deep morality within me, really (honestly???) it’s because I’m such a lousy liar.  I always have been.  No poker face here.  You never want to tell me about someone’s surprise party.  I’m able to keep a secret…unless confronted by a direct question, at which point my “Who me?  I know nothing.” expression reveals everything.

I believe this quality came from God, more for my protection than as a reward.  This was His way of “leading me not in to temptation”.  Since I know I won’t succeed in lying, it’s not worth the effort.

In my writing, I try to be honest and sincere in order to help people.  I spent much of my life feeling strange, the only one like me.  Through much reading, listening and observing I’ve discovered I’m not all that different.  The rest of humanity is just as screwed up as me.  It’s just that I’m more open about it.

Certainly, many say they’re confused and unsure of things, but I don’t get the sense they believe it. They say the words, but they don’t complete the thought.  They don’t reveal the honest, down and dirty examples.  They’re not being sincere.

In these instances, I don’t think people are trying to deceive, as much as they’re trying to protect themselves.  They want to keep their book in pristine condition, revealing only the dust jacket version of their story.  It looks good on the bookshelf, but it’s not really of any use.

I want to be of use to people.  I want everything I’ve seen, heard, tasted, smelled, and touched to be of some use – the sweet and the sour, the melodic and the discordant.  I want my life to have some purpose beyond just myself.  I want to be an opened and read book from which people learn and are entertained.  The only way I know how to do this is by being honest and sincere. 

Like Siamese Twins

"Our prayer must not be self-centered.  It must arise not only because we feel our own need as a burden we must lay upon God, but also because we are so bound up in love for our fellow men that we feel their need as acutely as our own.  To make intercession for men is the most powerful and practical way in which we can express our love for them."

  -John Calvin

I Wonder...

Is it possible to be happy for someone, while at the same time feel sorry for yourself?

A Psalm for Menopause

Why is it called menoPAUSE?
It's not a Pause
but a click on the Stop button,
never to be restarted again.  Ever.
For eternity.

When I was thirteen, You pushed the Start button
and the inward parts You formed ran like clockwork.
They waited for the day when they would be put to use.
Now, they are slowing down, soon to grind to a halt.

Ten years ago I was counseled by doctors
to press the Delete button.
I didn't.  I couldn't.
I wonder now if I should have.
Would it have made things easier now?

A vacant womb,
never used.
Isn't this like hiding one's light under a bushel?
But You're the one hiding the light.
It's You who's in charge of this Dimmer switch.

You knit this body of mine
and have let me to sit untouched.
Batteries left inside, unused
have started to leak acid onto my heart.
The pain seems unbearable.

The Volume button keeps being pushed..
Louder and louder are the pleas from my soul.
Let me be used!  Fix me!
Make me whole, as I'm supposed to be;
as I see so many other women around me!

The pain seems unbearable,
but it isn't.
You are faithful and do not let me be tempted
beyond my ability to withstand.
You provide the way of escape that I may endure.

For those who love You
all things work together for good
for those who are called
according to Your purpose.
And I have been called.  Chosen, in fact.

This appliance that is me may be gathering dust here,
but in heaven, it's true intent will be accomplished.
You will press the Restart button
and my heart's deepest desires will be fulfilled
never to be Paused or Stopped.
Ever.  For eternity.

The Mood I'm In Today

Here And Heaven

With a hammer and nails and a fear of failure we
are building a shed
Between here and heaven between the wait and the
wedding for as long as we both shall be dead
to the world beyond the boys and the girls trying
to keep us calm
We can practice our lines 'til we're deaf and blind
to ourselves to each other where it's
Fall not winter spring not summer cool not cold
And it's warm not hot have we all forgotten that
we're getting old
 
With an arrow and bow and some seeds left to sow
we are staking our claim
On ground so fertile we forget who we've hurt along
the way and reach out for a strange hand
to hold someone strong but not bold enough to
tear down the wall
'Cause we're not lost enough to find the stars aren't
crossed why align them why fall hard
not soft into
Fall not winter spring not summer cool not cold
And it's warm not hot have we all forgotten that
we're getting old

-Chris Thile

Obituary

Today, my dream died. It was a long and painful death. It has taken years and the dream lived well past it’s prime. By the end it was just a shadow of the dream it was when I was a little girl and it was sapping me of my strength and my joy. Preserving it robbed me of so much emotional energy and adversely affected my other relationships.  It had turned ugly, rotted and had actually infected and was killing ME as well.

When my mom died, when friends have died, when my dog died, I knew they’d gone to a better place; someplace/someone better was waiting for them in heaven (yes, even my dog.  One as wise as John Piper agrees). I knew they were with God. What about dead dreams? Where do they go? What happens to them? I have to believe my dream will be fulfilled by my Father – at least the essence of it, the need in me it was meant to satisfy. But it’s hard. There is an emptiness inside me right now.

When people die there is a grieving period. What about when dreams die? Am I allowed to grieve for a bit?  How is one to mourn a dead dream?

Tieing One On: The Real Consequences

While dressing for work today, I was inspired by a fashion magazine to use an old, seldom worn scarf as a belt.  A proven scientific fact...there is a direct correlation between the tightness of the knot tied to the urgency one has to go to the bathroom.

The Insight of Emily Dickinson

The heart asks pleasure first,
And then, excuse from pain;
And then, those little anodynes
That deaden suffering.

And then, to go to sleep;
And then, if it should be
The will of its Inquisitor,
The liberty to die.

  -Emily Dickinson

(Unedited) Writing Project #3

She ran in to Wal-Mart to pick up a printer cartridge, but as often happened, she found herself taking the circuitous route to the needed aisle, winding her way through the Baby department. Today she looked at car seats and swings and toys. Checking the labels for the ages, 0-3months, 3 -6 months, 6+months. She imagined what toys she would pick out for her baby – today it was a son she was imagining, so her fantasy purchases were either neutral or boy colors and characters – Winnie the Pooh, trucks, tractors.

Not too long ago, people watching her might think the purchases were for her own child, but now, 4 days shy of her 50th birthday, people would think they were for her grandchild. It was cottonwood season; the white fluffy things were all through the atmosphere, so if anyone caught her with teary eyes, she would make some offhand remark about allergies.

The emotional pain she felt took on a physical sensation, such that she found her hand unconsciously rising up to her heart. Anyone watching her might thing she was having a heart attack. What excuse would she make up to cover that?

Really, she was having a heart attack of sorts. Just not one that medicine could treat. Her heart was under emotional attack and she had no defense. There was no weapon she knew to wield against these assailants. She was a helpless victim.

She’d read articles about how many infertile women cried when their periods started because once again they were not pregnant. Every 28 days, she found herself anxiously looking for traces of her cycle’s beginning; evidence that she was still able to conceive, if any man would ever find her desirable enough for a relationship.

Afraid she’d run in to someone she knew, she found her way to the printer supplies and bought the required cartridge and proceeded to the checkout. By the time she left the store and got in her car, the tears had welled up. Fortunately, it was dark and so no one would see her crying. She wouldn’t have to use the allergy lie and could save it for another day.

Friday Funnies

1.  When I was in high school, I worked at church bingo pushing the refreshment cart through the aisles.  The ladies referred to me as "pop girl".  Yesterday, at the nursing home where I work, I was pushing a cart filled with incontinence products when a resident referred to me as the "Attends Lady".  So, is this a promotion or a demotion????

2.  While distributing the aforementioned incontinence products, the following conversation took place:

• Resident:  "How long 'til you retire?"
• Me:  "About 20 years."
• Resident:  "Holy sh*t!"
• Me:  "That's what I say to myself every morning."

Sitting on Abba's Lap

"Fear of the Lord is the beginning of knowledge" so says Solomon in Prov 1; fear being respect and humility for God's ultimate authority and great power.  I understand this.  But it wasn't until I stopped living in fear of Him and started seeing Him as Abba/Father/Daddy that I started becoming comfortable in His presence (BTW, this is still a work in progress).

Yes, He is the King of Kings and Lord of Lords and I approach Him as I might the Queen of England - head bowed, small, shy curtsy - but sometimes I just want to run up to Him, climb in to His lap, and be shielded in His strong, giant arms.  Where is the fear of the Lord in that?

Thoughts on Thinking

"I think; therefore, I am" said DesCartes.

So, if one thinks a lot, does that make him alot?  Not really.

I think a lot.  I have a lot of alone time with which to think.  I think too much.  And I find out I am not much; not much of anything, really.

I think about all I am, all I've accomplished, all I need to accomplish, all I want to accomplish and I find...not much of anything, really.

Solomon said, "vanity, vanity, all is vanity.  He was more on the money.

(Unedited) Writing Project #2

Outside of her faith, there was nothing she could identify that was right. Not her job, not her home, not her finances. Certainly not her social life or relationships – she had none of either. She merely subsisted. Her goal each day was to survive until the next, but it was getting increasingly difficult to do so.

The times at home alone were the hardest. Despite her dissatisfaction with her job, at least it filled her time for 8 hours each day. But when alone, she faced the blank sheet of paper that was her life and filled it with scratches and scribbles of unorganized and unconnected thoughts. Like graffiti on a wall, her mind and heart were marred with anger and discontent and self-pity. She tried to distract herself with exercise, eating, reading and daydreams but after what seemed like most of her 50 years, these old coping mechanisms were no longer working. They were overwhelmed by the thoughts of sadness, regret and resentment. Like a tsunami of emotions, they tossed her about, one thought crashing into another, slamming her in to walls of memories and disappointments. She was drowning and no one about her seemed to notice or maybe they just had more important things with which to be concerned.

Those she loved and who loved her were involved in their own lives, with their own struggles. No one had the time to rescue her from the ocean of grief from which she was trying to escape. They were too busy trying to keep themselves and their families afloat until they found solid ground themselves. And there was her greatest fear – if she was drowning and their child or spouse were drowning who would they save? If she and their child or spouse were in a burning building, who would they save? Their loved one, obviously. And she was not the loved one – not to anyone she knew.

She’d had great parents. Sure they’d made mistakes, but all parents do. She’d always known they loved her and her sibling but they’d expended so much effort trying to parcel out there love to each of their children in equal portion that she never knew what it was like to be greatly and uniquely loved. Faced with all their children drowning at once and unable to save them all, her parents would probably let them all drown because they could not bear the unrescued ones thinking they’d been loved less.

But it was easy to focus on what was not going right - there were so many items from which to pick.  Her faith was right.  How could faith in Jesus be wrong?  It just wasn't very strong and she was afraid it wouldn't bear her weight much longer.  Somehow, she'd lose her grip and tumble into the dark abyss.