The Fabric Of Our Lives

Okay, first off, I know how to party like a rock star.  I like biker boots and metal studs on any (or all) article(s) of my clothing.  I have tattoos.

So with that out of the way, this last weekend I went to church camp with a bunch of girls and made a quilt.

I can't tell you everything because, 1) I don't do that, and, 2) I hope those ladies have another one of these "spend the night in the woods, hand-stitching stuff" retreats and I don't want to spoil it for any who might attend.

But I also need to read mine to you.

It's necessary that you know we heard a talk, first off.  It was about some things and about how we should choose fabrics for this thing in accordance with things that mean things to us.  Got that?

"Choose fabrics that have meaning."  And then the first step was to choose the starter kit...which was a bag containing the center cross portion, the six strips around it, the batting, and the backing.  Read:  we didn't have a lot of choice in that part of the assembly.  And we had a (necessary) time limit in which to pick it.

The next step was to choose the two longer pieces in the middle portion and the last step [(before starting the actual stitching steps, needless to say) (but I've obviously just said it anyway)] was to choose the two largest strips on the outside.

Now, I don't know if y'all've realized this by now, but I need stuff to mean stuff.  When they told me to choose fabrics that meant something, I was all up in that, you get what I'm sayin'?  But since I didn't have time to choose pieces that told my life story, I decided to tell a color story and it started with that darkest and most colorful piece.  I was enamored with that fabric and began to work everything else around it. ...

Meaning that I wound up acting a little like a diva or a completely spoiled brat.  In my defense, I saw another lady trade one piece of fabric between her starter kit and one of those kits not chosen so I didn't actually start it.  (pointless grin, here.)  Anyhow, I began a process of switch and switch and switch until I had everything just the way I wanted it ~ to tell my color story.  (One of the very gracious leaders kept assuring me that it was okay ~ they wanted me to be happy with it at the end.)

So it's also necessary for you to know that we heard another talk.  It was about how we don't always understand things while they are happening but often in the hindsight...and that's when I started to see.

First, I realized that my first favorite fabric was the first disciple¹, Peter, the one with whom I most relate, that sometimes crazy-acting guy who did, in fact, turn out okay. This means something to me.

This is not just colorful, but living.

And then I saw, in the second piece I'd chosen, my first scripture passage, the one from which my grandma taught me to read, the one from which my faith was established.

“Let not your heart be troubled; you believe in God, believe also in Me.

In My Father’s house are many mansions; 

if it were not so, I would have told you. 

I go to prepare a place for you." 

John 14:1-2

Here is my guiding scripture.

"I have been crucified with Christ; 

it is no longer I who live, but Christ lives in me..."

Galatians 2:20

Here is one of my favorite passages, Psalm 139.

I suggest clicking through to read all of that one!

The Trinity.

My family.

And the unknown future.

Unknown to me, that is.  And that brings me to the last piece, which happens to be (from) the first that I chose - that starter kit - and the piece that I actually liked the very least of all because I did not think it went with my story.  I did not know at the beginning of this process why it was, but I could not make myself replace that piece.

"In this you greatly rejoice, though now for a little while, if need be, you have been grieved by various trials,  that the genuineness of your faith, being much more precious than gold that perishes, though it is tested by fire, may be found to praise, honor, and glory at the revelation of Jesus Christ,  whom having not seen you love." 1 Peter 1:6-8

My genuine faith in Jesus Christ, more precious to me than gold, has always been at the center of it all.

And while I planned and planned (read:  attempted to control) this whole thing, only He knew where it was actually going.  In the end, "my patchwork has become God's artwork." Gemma Parmer

Okay, that's all I'm gonna tell ya.  Except for the P.S.

P.S. Those of us sitting right together kept trying to wind up each having a same piece of fabric in our quilts.  Finally, we chose a fabric that none of us had and did this so that we would leave that place carrying a piece of one another's hearts with us forever.

You May Now Party On!
For-ever, I pray!

1 I've since realized that Peter was not the actual very first Disciple, but you get it.

Public Hearing

There’s a line that exists somewhere between acceptable public discourse and “hiding your crazy.”

There’s a point at which you’re sharing too much.

A boundary that can be crossed.

Apparently, I’m not so good with boundaries.

And that’s just one of the things I’ve heard - repeatedly - through the years.

But you know, it’s usually right after I’ve been brought in on something, have had some trouble or crisis disclosed to me, and then after hearing the same statements or rehashed ideas over and over again ~ whether in any particular conversation or over the course of good-grief-will-this-Ever-get-better ~ when I state my opinion or I ask my questions or I share what I honest-to-goodness believe and intend to be encouragement that I’m told I’ve crossed a line.

I also hear that I carry on a bit.  Thought I’d make an example with that previous sentence.

I hear that I’m too often thinking of what I want to say rather than listening. Thought I’d highlight that here with my use of I.

I also hear - repeatedly - that I’m abrasive.  And that, friends, is my favorite.

Gentle and quiet.*
Sweetly listening.

This is what I’m supposed to be, right?

Yeah, I don’t know.

And probably one of the coldest implications I hear is that I will never change.

Yeah, I don’t know.

Not that I was an exactly gentle and quiet child but I don’t think I used my words back then.  Not for most of my life, in fact.  Not properly, at least.  Certainly not the way I wanted to.  (Though, I can see that I didn’t actually know for most of my life how it was that I wanted to use my words.)

I’ve changed in that way.

I have, in fact, tried to change into the quiet, gentle listener but it always winds up looking as if I’m sitting on eggshells.  And then I’m accused of “treating someone like a child.”

There’s another accusation that doesn’t trouble me because I know the truth and this is that I do my best to be truthful.  I try to share my own experience of life without unfairly exposing the lives of others.  I try to share in a manner that displays the manners taught to me.  I try to hide my crazy.

But maybe I am, in fact, still on the wrong side of the line.  Maybe I’m still not using my words properly.

So here.  This is not self-deprecation but for the public hearing:

I am sometimes abrasive, sometimes curt, sometimes critical.
I am sometimes long-winded, sometimes crazy-acting.
I am often thinking of what I want to say next.
I am often thinking of how your story relates to mine and how mine relates to yours.
I am probably never going to be the keep-my-mouth-shut-if-I’ve-been-sought type.
I am usually thinking about how many of us are dealing with private struggles.
I am almost always thinking about how much better the world would be if we could all just stop being so critical of one another.
I am including myself in “we.”
I am doing the best I can.
I am not really always doing the best I can.
But I want to be.
And that’s the truth.

Is that really so crazy?

*“Rather, it should be that of your inner self, the unfading beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, which is of great worth in God’s sight.  For this is the way the holy women of the past who put their hope in God used to adorn themselves.”
1 Peter 3:4-5
I hated to take a verse out of context.  I tried to expand this passage into the message but it became what it became.  I believe that much of 1 Peter 3 is relevant to the message of this post.

Someone Else's Daughter

Fair warning:  this is not my happiest post.


I looked through pictures of someone else's daughter.

I know that I know what I know.

Ask

The oldest g'baby and I talked some this morning about the process by which we call on Jesus.
Pretty basic stuff, really.
You know - if you're in trouble, ask Jesus to help you.

So this afternoon, we were getting ready for church...
When she got out of the bath, she asked me several times to wrap her in her towel but I was in the middle of something else and asked her several times to hold on a second.

Then she said, "Jesus, I'm in trouble. please help me."

For maybe a millisecond, it crossed my mind that I hadn't been "teaching" her right.
But then quicker than that, it hit me. She'd just called on Jesus and was I gonna leave her standing there cold?!

So there it is. Pretty simple, really.
If you're in trouble, ask Jesus to help you.
BE the help if He calls you to be.

And I need not worry about how she's learning it. Once she was all wrapped up, she started blowing kisses upward, and saying, "Thank You, Jesus. Thank You."

Sackcloth and Ashes

By the time I will have finished this, it will have become the most convoluted thing I've ever assembled.  Somewhere, I make a reference to "a month" but I've been coming back to this for monnnnttthhhs, not editing so much as inserting.  Or maybe I've been like some abstract artist, flinging my paint at the page.  I've decided not to erase or white out any of the seizure-like quality here.  By the end of it, I trust the thing will have been worked out between me and Him and I'm leaving anything past that entirely to His management.

I'll be amazed, quite frankly, if anybody even gets to here.
In fact, just the publication of this one might be worthy of a monument, some small altar.

Easily, this could have begun with

uuuuhhhhhhhh ummmmmmmmmm

and gone on that way for several more lines. 

For a month or more, it seems, I've been like this.  I keep returning here, only to sit and stare at just this many words.

There's something in my head, some emerging idea or barely grasped concept and it's just nearly a tangible thing like a splinter working its way out. 

There's an element of pain involved.

[Long, deep exhale.]  [Push forth.]

I facilitate a small group at my church on Wednesday nights, have done it for some time, six or seven years, maybe.  And yet, to this day, I've adamantly insisted that my group-mates not refer to me as their teacher.  (yep, I think this is it.)  I don't teach.  I don't lead.  I ask the questions.  I fa-cil-i-tate. 

And it's seemed reasonable to me, this model.  I've noticed that Jesus was frequently asking questions ~ ones to which His listeners already knew the answers.  If I am His disciple, then surely I'm "doing it right" if I'm interrogating people, right?!

And yet...

In my heart, I keep hearing "sackcloth and ashes."

I close my eyes, I see myself

kneeling in the dust,
rocking, wailing,
tossing the cinders.

Why am I so troubled?

I know why I am so troubled.

I take back what I said before about the white out.
I'm leaving the parts that show my attempt to dodge,
but deleting the attempts to close that loop.
This thing is really about just one thing.
One thing that plagues my mind.

Zion’s leaders are silent.
    They just sit on the ground,
tossing dirt on their heads
    and wearing sackcloth.
Her young women can do nothing
    but stare at the ground.

 My eyes are red from crying,

Jan Swart Van Groningen

my stomach is in knots,
    and I feel sick all over.
My people are being wiped out,
and children lie helpless
    in the streets of the city.
 A child begs its mother
    for food and drink,
then blacks out
like a wounded soldier
    lying in the street.
The child slowly dies
    in its mother’s arms.

Lamentations 2:10-12

I've made my excuses, have let fear, self-centeredness, laziness stop my tongue. I've been stone-cold when I should have been swift.  I've not taught the things I should have to whom I should.

I can't change my past.  I can only tell you about it.
And say,
See Here: 1, 2, 3...

Teach your children in the way they should go.
Teach them from their very first breaths, believing everything you've ever heard about the formative years and about their coming back to it after the rebellion.
Teach them, knowing that when Jesus said to "love your neighbor as yourselves," your children are among your very first neighbors.
Teach them as if their lives depend on it.

Write, Schmite

I've said this before:  I really don't know why I write here.  I have, at moments, believed I'm under some sort of divine direction.  Other times, it occurs to me that I should just go back to writing in my journal.  Maybe that's all this is:  my personal, digital diary.

In any case, what I do here is record my experience, share my story and maybe, just maybe some insight.  I am always, always in the process of working something out and always, always need every bit of insight I can get.  It makes sense to me that if I gain so much from reading other people's stories, then maybe I can drop a grain of helpfulness for someone else.

In any case, we're all just humans on this planet, doing this life one way or another.  Some of us write about it.

I have a draft I've been working on for six months or more that's not so much about a particular thing as it is about my responsibility to speak about any particular, given thing. What I mean is that I've wondered if I might oughta be more forthcoming about things I know.  You know, less of the lyricism and poetry, more of the "See Here: 1, 2, 3" kind of stuff.

But something in the blogosphere recently has put me a'kilter.  And of all the things I think about, read about, am working out, I did not expect the subject of servanthood - or, more specifically (by God!), the subject of female servanthood - to be the catalyst for this kind of unravelling.

I mean ... there's gun control, gay marriage, abortion, greed, hunger...
A lot of stuff to think about.

I have thoughts about all of this stuff.
I have oh-pin-yuns.
gasp, oh Lord, I have convictions.
I have some stuff I could write.

...

hello?

"Female servanthood" probably isn't even the right ... "  ".

Please allow me to be vague...

Somebody wrote about it and I, personally, thought it was a great, grounded article.  It made sense to me, made me think for a bit.  I never - at any point - had the idea that the author portrayed herself as a scholar, as a theologian, as the only one having the only answer.

But somebody else didn't like it.  Mainly, I gathered, because it wasn't right.  And I mean, perfectly, like "your root meanings of Hebrew words aren't put together right" right.

Somebody else didn't like it because "nyah nyah, nyah nyah nyah."

Some of the finest, smartest writers that I've read showed up - and quick! - to point out the errancy of this woman's way....that way being a good and fair attempt at pointing out a better path for certain others of us.  You have doubts about that?  Haters hate?  Maybe I'm simple-minded or slow but I was encouraged by the article - not to be less than any man but to be more like Jesus.  And that's my favorite kind of encouragement in the whole, wide world.  I don't care a lick if that turns out to be simple-minded.

The negative responses from all the deep-thinkers?  It's had exactly the opposite affect on me.  Is that what higher education and IQs are really all about?

You know, I'm really grateful for root meanings and for people who study them and for folks who have alternative perspectives and are willing to share them and for the great "out there" of open discussion where everybody can tell everybody else to &*%^ off*... but in the nicest, most intellectual ways, of course.

But I'm also reminded of high school.
There were all the cool kids that I'd wanted so much for so long to join.
What was it that made them so cool anyway?
Was it really just their ability to find the un-cool-ness about everybody else?

Why?  Why would I ever want to be a part of that?

I don't even use Hebrew words.
Maybe that's why I'm not so much the "everyman's writer" as the "onlyman's writer." Maybe I should start locking this stuff up.  Before somebody tells me I'm not right.

By the way, can somebody please tell me the root meaning of the word "schmite"?




*Maybe this is one of those times that I should have just said "&*%^" but I happen to believe that there is such a thing as foul language (and I struggle with it sometimes, and am aiming to end that) and I happen to know that my resistance to blogging such language does not indicate my apathy toward starving children.

Mantra

This will be very, Very hard for me to say, but...

I may, in fact, possibly have taken on more than I can handle.

There are women my age who are just now having their kids...or having more kids.
I've seen, continue to see, have heard references from throughout history of grandmothers taking care of their g'youngins while the baby-parents go plow the field.  Or whatever.

It's embarrassing, to be quite frank.  A little depressing.
I feel thin-skinned, see-through, tired.  Tired.

My tired mind starts looking for reasonable explanations:

it's the gluten.
it's the gmo's.
it's the government.

Then I start wanting to say to friends (and sometimes random people in the store, too, to be honest), "Hey, you know I work too, right?  That I do actual, sit-at-a-desk, earn-grocery-money, work?"

I want to say to my kids, "Hmph.  Don't think I've forgotten that weird, secret (latent-guilt-inducing) thrill that comes in getting to drop your kids off and goooo to work."

So far, I've managed not to actually say these things.  I think.
Did I already say that I'm tired?

Help does come, though.  For instance, this: Stuck In the Doldrums, Jen Hatmaker.  It was impressive how invigorated I was just in reading that.  I was just sorta wishing Jen Hatmaker could have come to fold my laundry too.

A friend asked if I was drinking my water and I answered a resounding, "yes."  Truth is, I probably need to be asked again and again in order to keep it on my tired mind.  I'm grateful for friends who keep me on track.

And that brings me to my greatest help of all.  I have found that some of what I thought would be my most challenging days turned out to be some of my most successful just by remembering to practice (a prayer of) gratitude.



Every time I print a contract,

thank You, Lord.

With every push of the vacuum,

thank You, Lord.

Every fold of a shirt,

thank You, Lord.

When I glue the zebra's leg back on,
When I brush the crumbs from the paper dolls,
When I change the diaper,

thank You, Lord.

When I can sit and listen and hold and love,

oh, thank You, Lord.

thank You, Lord. 

And He reminds me that this is but a season of my life.
And I feel a little less tired.
And a lot more aware of the ways that I am blessed.
Thank You, Lord.