Big Girl Intimacy

“Can we talk about the incident?” she asks, and I make sure I have something in my hands to fiddle with before I answer softly.

“Sure.”

I knew we’d have to talk it out eventually, but the confrontation-avoidant girl inside of me whispered that I could ignore the problem and it would just evaporate in the heat of other-things-to-do. And she’s probably right. Except true friendship is forged from stronger courage than that. Little girls have little intimacy; big girls have to step up and build big intimacy.

So we talk about it. And we both try to be careful, to be listeners, to soften the edges of our words.

“You said you’d be there. You leave me in the middle of conversations, only for him. It happens a lot.” And I can hear her disappointment entwine with her hope that I’ll show up the next time.

“He was bleeding, and I wanted to help. I was trying to be attentive to both of you. I was coming right back.” I can hear how much they sound like excuses, despite their truth in my story.

And I’m still little-girl nervous — fidgeting hands, shifting foot-to-foot, eyes on the worn wood plank floor. We press on, and I’m grateful when the wind of reconciliation blows quietly through the kitchen. We check in to make sure we’ve both survived the battle.

We have. All words in tact; all limbs intact. And I put the thing down and make eye contact. And she puts a hand on my shoulder to squeeze.

We meet in the same messy kitchen a few nights later, the smell of popcorn drawing us together. And we chat late into the night, hurt feelings forgotten, laughter returned. And we lick the buttery yeast off our fingers as easily as we open our boxes of secrets. And now, we are known just a little bit better, loved just a little bit deeper.

And a little girl is so quietly grateful for big-girl friendship.

I’m sharing this story with precious friends at:

Have you ever had to heal an injured friendship but found the conversation more difficult than you expected? Is it easy or hard for you to say you’re sorry? Is it easy or hard for you to forgive when you’ve been wounded?

We are not beasts of burden

At that time Jesus said, “Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me; for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.” (Matt. 11:28-30)

I do not understand my own actions. For I do not do what I want, but I do the very thing I hate… For I know that nothing good dwells within me, that is, in my flesh. I can will what is right, but I cannot do it. For I do not do the good I want, but the evil I do not want is what I do. Now if I do what I do not want, it is no longer I that do it, but sin that dwells within me… Wretched human that I am! Who will rescue me from this body of death? (Rom. 7:15, 18-20, 24)

The daylight falls like heavy yoke upon weary shoulders.
Another morning to face.
Another mistake to erase.
Waking feels like burden, weighed down.
What I’ve done… What I do… What I want…
curled into tangled mess of spirit,
aching and swollen from fear.
What dwells in this heart –
like dark disease, insidious, growing, malignant.
What bleeds the sickness from this body.

But this voice, softly, a whisper carried on breeze,
caressing sweat-stained brow:
“Gentle, now. Gentle. We are not beasts of burden.”
Head shaken, side to side, to dispel the fog,
to dismiss the myth of invitation.
There is so much work to do.
What I do… What I want… What I need…
curled into tangled mess of flesh,
knotted and sore from labor.
What claims this being. What binds these limbs.

But again, insistent, and present:
“Easy, now. Easy. Rest here.”
And hands brush my back, ease my aches, remove dense chains.
The lightness without them – for a moment –
I’m sure I rise up from the ground – mere inches –
surrounded by air, held by breath and spirit,
for the span of an instant that seeps into memory.
“There is something more. Feel it?
You are something more. Do this.”

The voice is loud now, but I can question still,
Who? Who will rescue me from this body of death?
Who will soothe this wretched soul?
Who will be captive in my place?
What will I be slave to if not for this?
What will dwell in these veins I let go?
There is no voice to answer this time, but breath.
Mine, maybe, or someone else’s, like a steady pulse
in my feet and ears, calling like a dancing rhythm,
that leads the way to wildness, to freedom.
Something deep in my body awakens and answers.

Stop trying to fool Jesus

Jesus says, “Deny yourself.” What was he thinking when he said that? What did he mean? I know where we usually go with this, but are we right? To deny myself is to sacrifice, like Abraham, and like Jesus. I have to give up something, give up some focal part of myself. Only then will I be worthy, be able to follow. Does that sound familiar?

Who do you think you are kidding? If that is what it takes, what could you or I possible do to render ourselves “worthy” to follow Jesus? And what have you ever known of Jesus that makes you think Jesus doesn’t want all of you, doesn’t love every smidgen of you? Every bit, even the bits you pretend are not there?

What “deny yourself” means, I am coming to believe, is to stop kidding ourselves about who we are. Drop the pretense, drop the privilege; drop all the hesitations, excuses, and justifications. Don’t wait, don’t try to smooth things out, stop fooling ourselves, and above all, stop trying to fool Jesus.
William Brosen, The Preaching of Jesus: Gospel Proclamation, Then and Now

This week I have been falling into some old patterns, re-living some old lies. How beautiful and necessary it is that God’s mercies are new every morning.

Sometimes it seems we fight the same battles over and over, but that is the way of grace.

So my gifts of thanks this morning are offered without pretense or disguise, without doubt or fear, straight from a heart filled with joy and hope:

44. Big decisions made, new opportunities on the horizon, the hope of security at last!

45. Reconciliation between good friends, late-night kitchen conversations, shared morning coffee

46. Deep-rooted hope

47. The opportunity to travel

48. Lessons learned about connection, even across all those thousands of miles

49. His homecoming soon! And love that is stronger for the time apart

50. The beautiful escape of fantasy books, curled on a couch in late-afternoon sun

51. The chance to say yes! after so many no’s

52. New insight, new commitment, new energy

53. Long(er) runs along the water, late into the evening

54. The beauty in the tiny things, the subtlety of creation

55. Church, again, after much time away

56. The excitement and anticipation of new adventures this summer… particularly a wedding celebration

Shared with Ann and friends at A Holy Experience:

Share something you’re thankful for this week. What mercies have been renewed for you this morning? What parts of yourself do you need to “deny” in order to fully accept the love of God?

Prayer slows me down

How important it is to walk along, not in haste but slowly,
looking at everything and calling out

Yes! No!

… Imagination is better than a sharp instrument.
To pay attention, this is our endless and proper work.
(Mary Oliver, excerpt from “Yes! No!”)

Noticing the smallest of details can change our perspective. Our focus can wander unless directed, unless called back to now. How easy it is to miss things because we rush, because we imagine that we don’t have time to slow down.

Sometimes having a camera in hand is what helps me be intentional about looking at the world differently, soaking in its detailed colors and textures.

Sometimes prayer does the same thing for my heart.

Prayer usually doesn’t feel productive, you know? It feels silly at first, like I’m talking to myself, or like I’m trying to prove something.

But it’s the very intentionality of committing myself to it anyway that changes me. The transformative power of prayer is subtle and slow. It doesn’t burst in; it seeps in.

Prayer slows me down.

When I pray, I change my perspective, and I notice things — things there all along, just new to my eyes.

And I think that’s one of the most important reasons for taking time to pray: not necessarily because it changes the world, but because it necessarily changes us.

Our hearts are molded and softened by the very act of making space to stop and pay attention.

So friends, let your prayer slow you down! Let it reveal beauty in something small that would have been missed in haste, passed over in productivity. Let it offer perspective on your life, on the world, that surprises or challenges you.

And then come tell me what you see/learn/hear/smell/understand/desire/change/feel…

Want some more inspiration?

Check out Emily’s 10 ideas for making art in under an hour, or Ann’s recent post on really looking at the world, or my own suggestion for practicing attentive prayer.

A Note for plant nerds:

Twinberries and California Thistles are both native to the California coast. Queen Anne’s Lace (the lovely wild carrot plant) came from Europe, as the name implies. These days, though, it’s naturalized pretty much everywhere across North America. The root is edible — it really is a carrot — as are the flowers, but this plant looks dangerously similar to poison Hemlock, so be careful! Even though Twinberry plants are part of the Honeysuckle clan (whose berries are usually poisonous), these are technically edible. They’re just really bitter, so I hear. Thistles, however, have a lot going for them: they’re super useful and entirely edible (but spiky!)

Hand-made Humans

This past Sunday, the lectionary text included the creation narrative from Genesis 1. The church year is entering “common time” now, and over the next few months, the lectionary will be all about Genesis. So it’s the perfect time for me to start reading Avivah Gottlieb Zornberg’s The Beginning of Desire: Reflections on Genesis.

In her essay about creation, Zornberg notes that humans are made by God’s hands, while the rest of creation is made by His speech:

What does it mean to be created by the hands of God, rather than by His word – (“Let there be an expanse in the midst of the water”)? Man comes to be differently, it seems. Even before God breathes the breath of life into him, the circumstances of his physical making are radically different. (Avivah Zornberg, The Beginning of Desire, 18)

It reminded me of Rainer Maria Rilke’s folktale re-telling of the creation story, “The Tale of God’s Hands.” If you’ve never read Stories of God, I recommend it.

Now, for such states of mind there is nothing so healing as work. And busy as He was with the fabrication of human beings, God quickly regained His happy state of mind. He had the eyes of the angel before Him as mirrors, and in them He took the measure of His own features and slowly and carefully formed, on a ball in his lap, the first face. (Rainer Maria Rilke, Stories of God, 5)

Patrick Steyn, “Muddy Hands” (Photograph available here)

So this week I’m sharing my own reflections on God’s hand-making of humanity…

This God, who makes with voice,
who calls the deep and the mountain into being,
who heralds the crawling small and the roiling sea monster,
this same God
forms humans with His hands.
He is speechless at their making,
until he blesses them.
This God molds them with his muddy, worn fingers
until they are ready to be life-breathed with his ruah,
his blowing wind of being.
And then, mysteriously, they are.
They stand, these humans,
and their hearts pump, slowly at first, sporadic,
until the blood catches up, eyes flutter open,
and there — there – says God, is good.
And he pushes his thumb into the small of their backs,
an image of Him alone,
for them to carry into the world of crawling and roiling,
to set them apart
as Holy, wholly His.
“Be mine,” he whispers to them
(as if preparing a valentine)
when he sets them into space,
“be mine and no other’s.”
And there is a precious moment where they look only to him
before their eyes go wide at the world,
a precious moment never forgotten
by either –
not by Him with mud-stained, tired hands,
not by tall-standing, thumb-printed creatures –
a memory held in deepest spirit being,
until forever unites them again.

Friends, you are indeed the precious handiwork of God, whose name is Majesty. What insights (new or old) do you find in the creation narrative? What does it mean that humanity is created “in God’s image”?