Mayer Christianity > The Message?

For some reason I can't get into the guts of my musings vis-a-vis blogging so a little more monkey posts until my blog and my "deep thoughts" reconvene.  A friend recently brought this post from the fabulous blog Stuff Christians Like to my attention, knowing I have a penchant for both God and John Mayer.  It's called "Mayer Christianity," and there is a quiz at the end of the post, quoting Mayer lyrics and The Message Bible. Our job is to decide which words are the Almighty Yahweh's and which words are um, John Mayers. Hysterical. Illuminating.  And tricky I might add.  Test your biblical acumen and then pony it up with the Mayer lyrics that have seeped into your memory, through osmosis.  And then either pray for forgiveness or to John Mayer, whichever feels more appropriate.  

Question of the Day:

What are the fruits of your being?

Humans do not have the patience or the humility of God. We want things done tomorrow, today or yesterday to achieve our immediate goals.

Spiritual power, however, is the ability to influence events and others through one's very being. 

Evolved people change others interiorly through who they are, and through their sharing of wisdom, but not through mere external pressure. It is a slower process, but much more long lasting. 

-Richard Rohr, Bias from the Bottom

Celebrity wedding musings

I went to a second wedding the other night.  Both bride and groom have been married 10 plus years to other people, as evidenced by the seven children they brought to their union (bride –three, groom –four).  The experience was a first for me.  Being a star-studded wedding –the nuptials of country singer Sara Evans and former Alabama quarterback Jay Barker—it was my first “celebrity wedding.”  But even more curious was the fact that, if my memory serves (which it often doesn’t), I think this might be the first wedding that I’ve been to where both parties have been divorced.  There were many beautiful elements to this experience, namely: the venue (a farm on a lake close to Leiper’s Fork), the mint juleps that were served as we stepped off the shuttle (we were shuttled from Cool Springs, TN), all the sassy black dressed ladies and sharp suited men (invites requested all black), the elegant décor and ambience of the open air barn, doubling as a cocktail hour suite; I could go on.  The night was both eye-catching and fabulous.

That said, what has lingered in my minds-eye is the actual ceremony. The groom was courted to the front of the outdoor alter by his three gorgeous children, no groomsmen.  Sara, a stunning bride, was walked down the aisle by her son, and greeted by the groom, her other children, and his children, her loves—old and new.  It was a family affair; the vows and ceremony took on an air of reality, in turn making everything that followed thoughtfully devoted, honest and real.  I have never been married so I can’t say, from a visceral perspective, that I understand what it must be like to promise life and death and then live an in-between that ultimately serves divorce papers. Nor do I know the weight “I do” takes on a second go ‘round. I can connect in small ways: I have the soul-window of my therapy office to inform me how long-suffering a hard marriage can be; I have my own experience of men and dating, narrating my desires and reservations about giving myself forever away to someone; and I have divorced friends, with whom I’ve walked intimately, trekking their own harrowing paths of failed marriages and second-chance, grace-driven dreams.  Jay and Sara’s ceremony was not embellished with early life idealism and hallmark moments.  I was struck by the humility portrayed in the hand-written vows: I will do my best to love and respect you; I will love your children as they are my own; I will listen and do my best to understand your dreams; share; be faithful; pray; be thankful.  Everyone, including myself, was holding back tears—an intuitive response to the truth, vulnerability and mindfulness to how hard life can be, yet we still love, we still hope, we still believe, we still laugh; a soft spiritual sobriety echoed through the picturesque backdrop of twilight on a tranquil lake and gently sloping farmland, God’s merciful embrace.  More than a sentimental moment it felt awe bearing, perhaps even sacred.  It was as if the couple, with fear, trepidation, wonder and mercy, was bartering with the gods: We know how hard this is.  We won’t take it for granted. Thank you for a second chance.  Thank you!

There is something beautiful about getting married young.  With a life ahead of you and a partner with whom to share and experience, there is a vitality, vigor and youthfulness that infest the wedding experience.  The promises are made with hyperbolic excitement, a sense of: this will be perfect and amazing! Most young couples with whom I’ve worked or lived life clutch to a strident optimism that they will beat the odds.  And it’s good.  I’m sure I would have been the same way.  I was the same way. At a time, early in my life and closer to a marriage possibility, I was that bright-eyed, romantic girl, believing I—or we, rather—had the edge on all aspects of communication and connection: verbal, spiritual, mental, physical. 

At any given age, you only know what you know. 

That said, there is something equally as beautiful, and perhaps, as we get older, even sweeter, about second chances.  Seeing a couple give it a go again—you know they’ve had their share of suffering, which we know builds character, temperance and perseverance.  The vows take on a different dimension, a melody of sobriety, hope, humility and gratitude.  We (wedding party and guests) have the opportunity to understand something of God’s true character.  God really IS the God of second chances, and third and fourth.  God doesn’t run out of grace, hope or patience with us.  God really is good.  And we experience God’s goodness through our humanness, not our super-humanness.  He or She comes around and makes things good again, even after we eff things up.  He forgives and heals.  She loves with mercy, without shame. The Blood and Body make us whole.  The Spirit sets forth a path where we can find our rhythm. Dance. Play. Move forward. And relax.

A celebrity wedding has its obvious perks.  The music was outstanding.  Marcus Hummon, who penned the Rascal Flatts song God Bless the Broken Road, played a baby grand piano and sang his very apropos song.  The reception was a blast.  Celebrity or not, I love, love, love a good dance party and a rocking DJ.  Sheryl Crow was on the dance floor, dancing with me, and the gaggle of hip-hoppers, with whom I aligned myself. Trumping our polite small talk bonding, “I know so-and-so, do you know…bla bla” was when Peace Up, A-town blasted through the airwaves and Usher’s song Yeah started in. Auhhh yeahhh was my m.o. We were all, stars and lay-persons (aka me) alike, on the barn-made dance floor shaking our 30 and 40-something year old booties. The music was the perfect blend of classic rock, 80’s hits and current hip-hop.   I danced, with and without my date, until our respected shuttle picked us up, and I was reminded of the truism that Prince pointed out in his classic hit, 1999: Life is just a party but parties weren't meant to last.  We were given a down-home cherry pie as a party prize, and then, shuttled back to the Hampton Inn, we got in our car and turned on the radio.  Party over.

I went home that night, splayed out on the grass with my dog and sussed out the constellations while chatting up the night on the phone with a friend.  I came in and read this quote before I went to bed:

At the heart of any real intimacy is certain vulnerability. It is hard to trust someone with your vulnerability unless you can see in them a matching vulnerability and know that you will not be judged.  In some basic way it is our imperfections and even our pain that draws others close to us. -Rachel Maomi Remen, M.D.

Then I washed my face, brushed my teeth, put on my pajamas, fell soundly asleep and missed my bike/run race the following morning.  It's hard feigning the life of a rock star and a quasi-athlete; late night fun and early morning exercise calls don't really go hand in hand.  Unfortunately.  But that, my friends, is another blog.  

This is a part of Watercooler Wednesday.  Check out other creative musings!

Amsterdam

About a decade ago, age 25, I found myself tooling around Amsterdam in the freezing cold December winds, with two male friends.  We had just spent six months working in England at L'abri, a Christian artist retreat center. We went to Holland for a last little hoorah before heading back to the states. On this specific night in Amsterdam we were lost, I was cold, and being cold and lost is the perfect brew of crank for me.  Oh yeah, and somebody spilled a beer on me earlier in the night as well.  Cold, lost, crank and wet. Good times. I think I was complaining about something or other when Sam, my friend, stopped in the middle of our aimless amble in the red light district, weary of my whining, took my hand and said, “Ang, Be. Here. Now.”  

“I don’t want to; that’s the problem,” was my curt response. 

He smiled, comfortable in my honestly, and gave me a well you are so deal with it look. I knew he was right. And, of course I didn’t WANT to; I’m justified, right?  I mean who wants to be in the skeezy red light district in the middle of winter, with soul-searing shamelessness (which dials in as sadness for me) all around: pimps, prostitutes, drug dealers, peep shows, a sex museum, a torture museum--not really the leisurely bike rides through tulip fields stretching out to Anne Franks little attic hideaway that I’d envisioned, when signing up for an Amsterdam trip with the guys.  I wanted to be anywhere BUT that moment.  Strangely though, Sam settled me.  I remember doing a quick self-assessment: I was pissed at no particular somebody, just the dangling carrot of my tulip expectations.  I remember challenging myself to stop complaining. My mental check-in went something like this: I’m cold.  Okay.  My pants are wet with a beer stench.  Okay.  I’m with two young guys hopped up on all the red light decadence and perversion. Okay.  What else? It was as if there was some clever mastermind behind my protests, not even willing to settle on a check mate.  It was all true and still God gave me the big so what back.  Not a so what, I don't care but rather a so what about this can we not handle? Or perhaps a so remind me again about your entitlements? 

Slowly Sam’s words morphed into a lovely nugget of wisdom that I’ve since remembered.  He wasn’t suggesting that I pay for a peep show and get stoned by virtue of “when in Amsterdam” rhetoric, consequently being someone that I’m usually not.  But rather, he challenged me to just relax and let go of that which was out of my control.  We were there.  And there were no plans to leave anytime soon, it was early in the night. (A little sidenote – there was a small rat in our hotel room, so I was freaked to go back to the hotel alone.  Yeah, it was a great trip!) So there was some tough self-love and a big dose of let go let God that needed to happen.  I did need to deal with it, reckon with the reality of my situation, as Sam, in his unassuming insight, pointed out. Ultimate freedom would’ve been to gracefully accept it.  I can’t remember if I got all the way to acceptance.  But I did chill out and let the guys have their mostly innocent fun without being the judging naysayer or their self-appointed conscience.  They were smart young men, not responsible to me.  Or for me.  They were really good friends and I knew they wouldn’t let anything happen to me. (They didn’t want to go back to the room and deal with the rat either.)  

In the end I sauntered around the red light district, letting go of my own dis-ease the best I could, realizing that most of the people around me were much more lost than I.  It turned into a sociology experiment that I actually, on some weird level, enjoyed.  Or at least found interesting.

This is true freedom: when you (and when I say you, I mean me) have the ability to regulate your own anxiety, self-soothe (versus expecting everybody else to make you feel better) and realize that being in the moment, even if the moment totally blows, is not the worst thing. Worse is resisting the moment and slapping a pissy, self-entitled mood on a less-than-ideal situation.  That just adds insult to injury. 

This is the long version of my last entry, perhaps the difference between ego and soul.

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Salvation belongs to our gods

Salvation belongs to our God.  That was the refrain the crowds bellowed at church a few Sunday’s ago.  I sang along, in full voice, clinging to the emotion and truth that this lone lyric evokes.  Oh dear Jesus, salvation is yours alone, praise God, halleluiah!  Now, if you could work these few things out for me –boy, would I feel saved then! 

Isn’t that how it goes? God must get such a kick out of us: We want and get, plea and pledge, all in predictable rhythms, while bumping into the bigger picture on Sunday mornings, eating bread like voicemail promises and drinking grape juice to seal the deal.  God is Elvis; communion is the hand jive.  Then we flit around in our cars, on our small phones and at our favorite eateries, chatting up good sermons and busy lives, surreptitiously gearing up for all of the pocket sized salvations we’ll cling to during the week.  And our great Salvation song, the gatekeeper of reverence and reality, inflates us, like a Christian steroid, and is then set aside, for next weeks fix.  Salvation becomes next Sunday. 

I do believe, quite emphatically, that salvation belongs to our God.  But we often miss it, settling for counterfeit salvations, in their many guises.  We find salvation through our schedules.  When we’re busy we feel important; when we’re important, God morphs into an endorsement, the champion to our "popular" selves.  We find salvation in our friends and family.  When our needs are unmet or unnamable, we cling to the people we love; often times they save us from ourselves and the dark, unscathed terrains of our own faith walk.  Salvation is bliss; ignorance belongs to our god[s].  Sometimes, when others need us we are saved from tending to our own needs; we find salvation in playing savoir.  We may brand our self-less acts charitable and humble, while witless and fearful in the deep crevices of our own souls.  God becomes the lay-down; salvation is co-dependence.  Salvation can be encountered through our talents, when we are lifted up and adulated with sanctimonious praises; delivered by default.  Some, like me, find salvation in words, spoken or written.  When I can articulate myself, keeping my lexis of words and feelings in tandem, I am saved from the subtle god of misunderstanding.  Superfluous thoughts keep my heart encrypted; salvation becomes insight and God, mere therapy.

Of course salvation is all these things at different times in our lives.  God gives us our friends, our loves, our successes and our abilities.   But this song gives me pause: Do I really trust that God will “save” me. Webster’s defines salvation as: 1. Liberation from ignorance or illusion, 2. Preservation from destruction or failure.  Do I go to God for liberation from illusion and preservation from failure?

I try to go quiet at least once a day, usually during my morning walk with my dog, where I make a conscience effort to not get caught in the web of my own words, thoughts or prayer requests and just be.  It’s hard.  I’m not that good at it.  But everyday it’s my goal to be still and pay attention.  Whether that's getting lost in my dog’s funny antics with squirrels, having a stare down with the black crow that visits my neighborhood or chatting up the elderly German man that is blind and always sitting in front of his home, it's being available and open to what is. The idea of presence and being in the moment is becoming more and more vital and life-sustaining the older I get; I am starting to believe that it's the only way to our deeper truths.  It is in our still, unruffled selves that we begin to grasp this idea of salvation.  The idea that: no matter our struggle, our heartache, our longing or our grievance, it’s all going to be okay. God is here. Right now. With. Us.  And with a sober awareness and gratitude we can sing, pray, chant or just know: Salvation belongs to our God.

This post is a part of Watercooler Wednesday. Check out other creative posts!

A Lesson in Love

I had one of those perfectly placid nights last night, you know those times, when you have that ineffable sense that everything is right in the world.  It was that night where you take a muscle soothing bath early on, your house is clean, your sheets are soft and Downy fresh—just out of the dryer, your favorite candle provides temper and bouquet, your current read feels like your BFF, you’re present, serene and it’s only 9:00 pm!  (This happens about twice a year for me.) Twenty minutes into my read I got a phone call from an out-of-town friend.  She had some heartbreak pushing her around and needed to talk; she was feeling confused, vulnerable and despondent due to a round of pretty potent misfires with her boyfriend.  I listened to her and hurt for her; the disappointment and fear in her voice were palpable.  And I understood her plight: after hearing her perspective, I understood why she was confused, mired in mixed-messages, intuitive enough to know she isn’t crazy but feeling as though she is.  Ugh.  We’ve all been there, no?

Our conversation was cut short, for reasons insignificant to this post, but it left me thoughtful about issues of the heart, the essence and definition of real love, and the fleeting and intoxicating feelings of falling in love, posing as actual love in the short-term, but in many way’s, it's opposite. I left my current BFF  (The Audacity of Hope by Barak Obama) and settled in with an old faithful, The Road Less Traveled by Scott Peck. Peck defines love as thus: The will to extend one’s self for the purpose of nurturing one’s own or another’s spiritual growth.  When we love someone our love becomes demonstrable or real only through our exertion- through the fact that for that someone (or for ourselves) we take an extra step or walk an extra mile.  Love is NOT effortless.  To the contrary, love is effortful.  Using the word “will” helps transcend the distinction between desire and action. Desire is not necessarily translated into action.  Will is desire of sufficient intensity that it is translated into action.  More aptly: the desire to love is not itself love.  Love is as love does.  Love is an act of will –namely, both an intention and an action.  What was confusing for my friend is that her beau desired to love her.  He had the intention of loving her and she believed that, in essence believing him. But his desire wasn't being substantiated into anything besides the feeling he had for her at whim.  She was mixed up because intuitively she knew it wasn't enough and she was despondent wondering if it should be.

I think we are all vulnerable in our quest to love and be loved: in a culture where glamour (desire) often passes for love, feelings (which change every 5 minutes) become our primary navigational tools, and the stimuli and ramped up pace of daily existence can subtly work against us, keeping us daft and inattentive to other people (and ourselves), it’s hard to stay attuned to true spiritual growth, maturity and mindfulness.  Last night while I was reading I got a random text message from a friend.  This friend is a guy to whom I don’t feel romantic attachment but enjoy and respect.  After getting his text I thought: X is a small example of how I am loved well.  He is aware of me. His acts of kindness toward me require nothing of me.  He does little things for me, not all the time, but every now and again, and I’m never left feeling exhausted or guilty by his benevolence.  If he does have romantic feelings for me he is restrained and discreet, respectful of the non-verbal cues I probably give out.  In light of Peck’s definition, X has a will of love towards me; his love for me in based in actions and integrity, not a payback.  I feel grateful as I have a handful of friends and family by whom I feel well loved.  But I am again reminded of what it is TO love. And that this love business is not for the faint of heart.

I am not intense, per say. My blog is mostly smack talk and my friends and I are deeply (probably too) committed to the pursuit of pleasure.  But it is my honest desire to not confuse good times with immaturity, being childlike for being childish or social networking with relational ADD. I hope to be part of the system that generates and contributes to real love versus a self-fulfilling mimicry of such love.  Love well my friends. I’m trying to do the same.

This post is a part of Watercooler Wednesday. Check out other creative blogs!

Richland Park Greenway

This morning I rebelled from my workout agenda and took my dog for an hour-long walk.  This is not something I do often, especially this close to racing season, but you know those mornings when you wake up tired, begrudging the morning and it’s duties?  It was one of those mornings. On the docket was weight training and a run and my trinity of body, mind and spirit just weren’t in the mood.  Self-care is not always my strong suite but this morning I heard that small, still voice saying, “Maybe it’s best to slow down this morning.  Give the morning to MT (my dog).  Take her for a leisurely walk.  Avail yourself to daybreak and it’s mystery.  With all due respect -chill.”  I must say that that small inner voice served me well.  Strolling down the Richland Creek Greenway I let the morning sun warm up on me, took time to really pay attention to the spring blooms, quiet streams and enjoyed my sweet dog enjoying herself.  What a great way to start the week.  Tomorrow I have a long-ass run ahead of me but I'll be ready for it. If you are a West Nashvillian I would recommend that you find your way over to the Greenway this spring. Bustling with pedestrians, runners and bikers, I do believe this little footpath is one of Nashville’s hidden treasures.

Good news from the vineyard

On Easter Sunday, after the fanfare of Cadbury Eggs and chocolate bunnies, I decided to take myself (by myself) to a small church across the street from my cousin’s homestead.  It was a Southern Baptist church (I initially thought it was Episcopal) that somehow landed right dab in the middle of West Hollywood, an area primarily known for its large population of homosexuals. Those crazy, brave Baptists.  It was a funny experience.  Growing up Baptist, a sweet nostalgia held me, keeping me from goofing (too much) on the pastor’s “resurrection tie” (yep, the last supper to the empty tomb, a witnessing tool for all to see, on a JC Penny’s wrinkle-free button down oxford) or the snappy sermon theme, “Good news from the vineyard!”  We sang songs like Victory in Jesus and The Old Rugged Cross and the sermon was capped off with a good, old-fashioned alter call, similar to the one in which I gravely walked forward 25 years ago, to be born again (the first time, anyway).  I remember my days as a Baptist fondly.  There were do’s and don’t's and the club had pretty defined rules: to be in the club you accepted Jesus in your heart, were dunked in water, and then you were good to go.  The alternative was fire, damnation and gnashing of teeth, which sounded so not fun, comparatively.  And I was all in.  I loved my church: my jr high youth group, going to Burger King on Tuesday nights, being the leader in my discipleship group, family camps and praise songs, rededicating my life to Christ when the mood struck and estimating Jesus as that faithful friend that is always there, no matter. My growing up years, heavy on emotion and experience, light on depth, (depth and emotion are often confused, or fused) were good, foundational years.  Although that which moves me now feels much more simple and unassuming, I am grateful for my early Christian experience.  I am thankful for my grounding in a local church, and the armor of the Good News.  God works in mysterious ways and through equally mysterious people and even more interesting than critiquing a style that feels outdated, exploitative or just plain out of fashion is the reality that God is still bigger than it all.  He may use my office for healing, or He may work through a redemption tie; it’s really a crapshoot. And who am I to judge?

Good Friday in Santa Monica

I woke up this morning overlooking the Marina Del Ray, from the window of my family’s apartment in Santa Monica, CA. The picture is literally from where I’m sitting right now; I just took it. And I’m feeling a little conflicted as this is Good Friday on the liturgical calendar but I’m feeling nothing of death right now. Au contraire, I’m feeling light, renewed and excited for the run on the beach I’ll be taking after my sizeable cup of hazelnut coffee sets in. But today is a day of darkness and death in the Christian Easter tradition; today is the day that we linger in the remnants of “My God, my God; why have you forsaken me.” It is hard to live in the tension of death; we are not comfortable in things that don’t add up, feel right or, for me, are laughable and fun. We hate ambivalence, which is the coexistence of positive and negative feelings towards the same person or thing. But I think it’s important to remember that Christ did die. He left. Period. Push yourself to not avoid this pain, this tension, of The Passion today. There are things in life that don’t make sense, that just are. And because the story doesn’t end in death, there is hope. But hope, resurrection, life, (insert your favorite word here) is not fully experienced without it’s opposite. Having even a moment of sobriety today where we remember the story, sans the luster, aware of each of our parts in Christ’s death, will give us all more to celebrate on Sunday. Happy Easter weekend everyone. I will try to feel the ache of the resurrection sometime today, although it’s going to be a hard sell, as it’s a gorgeous day in L.A. and we’re running to Manhattan Beach.

The Enneagram

Those of you that know me well, via sitting on my couch or as a friend, know that I do a great deal of personal and professional work with the Enneagram.  Just today I was talking to a colleague that utilized this tool in her office with a married couple -husband 9/wife 7- (there are 9 personality types) and was sharing about the "ahha" moment this couple had,  (finally) feeling understood and articulated after years of confusion, total ambivalence or misunderstanding.  For a wife to realize that her husband is not just “lazy” and “passive” but rather he’s a 9, which also carries traits of being reassuring, self-possessed and a peacemaker, is both healing and hope bearing, for both parties. The Enneagram, in my estimation, is the best personality assessment out there.  It helps us understand who we are, the grid from which we interpret the world, the strengths that shape us and the pitfalls by which we’re plagued.  It gives root to our virtue and sin (dignity and depravity), shedding light on why we do what we do and why we respond generously to certain people while we’re intolerant of others.  You will recognize yourself in one of the numbers; you will feel identified, known.  Knowing the number of those you love cultivates an empathy towards their struggles and a deep gratitude for their goodness. You will begin to observe the behaviors of others versus constantly judging them.  This tool fosters understanding, which can leads to grace, mercy and ultimately redemption.  I would highly recommend taking the test, and delving into the dual truths that define you:  your light and your darkness.  Remember that truth always sets us free, which is the one (maybe only) thing I know to be true.

Another great resource, adding the spiritual component to this test, is  The Enneagram: A Christian Perspective by Richard Rohr and Andreas Elbert.

Holy the Firm, by Annie Dillard

This is a jackpot.  It's a little gem of a book, one that I pick up when I'm feeling wistful, reflective or creative.  Dillard's word dance with nature and philosophy is transcendent, often reminding me that sunshine may illuminate God's graces, but the raven hues of nightfall hint of His power; and both must be evoked.  Annie has my attention this afternoon.  Today's deep calling the deep contemplations:

There are no events but thoughts and the heart’s hard turning,

The hearts slow learning where to love and whom.

The rest is merely gossip, the tales for other times.

 

In the deep are the violence and terror of which psychology has warned us.  But if you ride these mothers deeper down, if you drop with them farther over the worlds rim, you find what our sciences cannot locate or name, the substrate, the ocean or matrix or ether which buoys the rest, which gives goodness its power for good, and evil its power for evil, the unified field: our complex and inexplicable caring for one another, and for our life together here.  This is given.  It is not learned.

                                                      - Annie Dillard

Talk gratitude

Sometimes during the course of a day I have these overwhelming feelings of gratitude for the life work that I'm in.  I listen to peoples stories and am constantly surprised by the ways in which people estimate their pains, their joys, their passions and their anxieties.  Often someone will say something that will challenge me in my own journey.  Or I will be encouraged by the art of counseling, and it's usefulness.  Today a client said, "When you said ..., that really helped me."  Of course it was something simple and I don't remember saying it, which is usually the case. As a therapist, I am often misguided by what I "think" is helpful.  I have to continually remind myself that people don't generally transform through analysis; they transform through their own realizations, when they can put their pieces together, see their own disintegrations, have their own eureka moments, sometimes epiphanies.  The therapist is there to bring them to their moment and be present, not to "be" their moment. The difference is everything.   To sit on the other side of the couch, to be invited into a person's most personal space, is a profound honor.  And it's fascinating to listen to the ways in which people assess their lives and the intricate ways they imbue meanings on the world.  When something clicks for someone-- a fear is dismantled, forgiveness doesn't feel so far-reaching, self is perceived through kinder eyes-- goodness and righteousness permeate, as if we just did our part (we -as in client/therapist team), in 50 little minutes, to fight evil.  It's a quiet, bad-ass sort of feeling, like swimming in proper form when you're tired.  

Love Changes Things

We do not love each other without changing each other.  We do not observe the world around us without in some way changing it, and being changed ourselves.  To listen to or read the news is to be a part of what is going on, and to be modified by it.  But how on earth -or heaven- can that be reciprocal?  We are changed by wars, famines, AIDs, poverty, but how can we in turn change what changes us?

There are some obvious, small ways: We can volunteer our time, be generous with our resources, write our senators and congressmen about the injustices close to our hearts, sponsor children in Third-Worlds...

Those are a few of the obviously active ways.  But there are less obvious ones, equally important. I was recently asked how we could pray for our planet, with the devastating wars and famine tearing it apart, with greed fouling the air we breathe, the water we drink.  And I replied that the only way I know how to pray for the body of our planet is to see it as God meant it to be.  For me, it is to see the sky as I did in Idaho growing up --wide, open, crisp with stars, or to remember my current Nashville neighborhood with spring moving across it --daffodils shooting up, awaking the sun.  We need to have a place in our memory where all is well.  In turn we will have the ability to respect and love life, people and the planet, when all is not well. Love well today.  Happy Valentines Day.  (Eat some of that lovely sugar for me!!!)

The picture above is of my sweet God child, Gabriel Gutierrez.  

Parts of this entry were loosely adapted by thoughts of Madeleine L'Engle, 

Glimpses of Grace

Goodbye Milk Duds

Today is the first day of Lent.  Whilst waiting to meet some friends for dinner I decided to review the purposes and themes of lent and think through the daunting task of what to leave behind for the next 40 days.  My Enneagram sin is gluttony so abstinence is not my strong suit.  That said, I'm going to stop eating sugar until Easter.  I know.  It's so cliche.  But in my world chocolate cakes, donuts, sour Skittles and a large assortment of boxed goodies and baked goods get me through the day and sadly, my life.  So goodbye emotional eating.  I'll miss you!  

But enough about my petty plights; lets get back to Lent.  Starting on Ash Wednesday (today), 40 days before we celebrate Easter, the liturgical types (like me!) have their foreheads signed with ashes in the form of a Cross.  The symbolism is rich here.  In my mind it's our human effort to understand something of the divine, reminding us of our insignificance - ashes to ashes, dust to dust.  

We cannot fully participate in life without understanding death, or dying to some part of our self.  40 days of death, surrender, awareness and sobriety make the celebrated resurrection all the sweeter.  Even more, as with all of God's truths, it gives us a forum to evaluate our own personal deaths and rebirths.  It pulls us into that liminal space, the in-between, where all that we have to guide us is our blind faith.  In our Western world and  with our Western minds it's the grand humility to not know, to not have, to resist, abstain, and ultimatel