It’s easy to get into a comfortable place where we put the blinders up, shut the door for the evening, and don’t let anyone in.  Whether it’s because we’ve been hurt, or just find it easier to keep up with people and appearances with the use of social media.  The problem is, then our lives become small.

I was reminded of this smallness of life when I heard a friend read this passage from 2 Corinthians 6, from The Message paraphrase of the Bible:

“We didn’t fence you in. The smallness you feel comes from within you. Your lives aren’t small, but you’re living them in a small way. I’m speaking as plainly as I can and with great affection. Open up your lives. Live openly and expansively!”

It may feel like a small world, or you wonder about your own significance, but you are meant for more and to live a large life.  That’s my prayer and hope for all of us in our life journeys in 2012! Our lives become small when they are self-centered, comparing ourselves to others, or by living in past hurts.  Also, our worlds can feel small when we haven’t ventured out to see new sites and experiences.  That is the beauty of travel, that it gives us a lens to see that life can be lived expansively and is always filled with the possibility of new adventures.   Also, I know traveling has given me experiences that show me there is more to life than my own life, my own circumstances.  It’s humbling and helpful because it shows me there is always more to hope for, to dream about, and more joy to be found.

So, if you are feeling that your life is small, or feel isolated think first of welcoming doorsteps in your life.  What friends or family members welcome you with open arms?  If you can’t think of anyone, consider being that welcoming door to someone else.  Does your house, apartment, or room have “curb appeal”? Are you a welcoming host to a fellow world-weary traveler?  When we open up the doors of our lives, new life can come to us.

Doorway to a humble abode, the Villa Gioia (Joyful Villa) in Capri, Italy

world-weary

adj

no longer finding pleasure in living; tired of the world

world-weariness  n

It’s a word I never thought to use, but it came to me today and it describes perfectly, the experience of trying to move onwards after losing a child.

I am sad, yes. But I know I am sad. It is ingrained in my life in a way that I know it will never truly go. There will always be a part of me that will be sad, because I lost my son. The heartbreaking, stomach twisting grief has faded somewhat, leaving just this sadness.

And this world-weariness. It isn’t depression, although the symptoms may seem similar. To feel this world-weary, is to feel just so tired, that is the closest word I can think of. Tired with everything.

I am tired of trying to get pregnant. I’ve just had a baby six months ago. If anyone reading this has had a baby, imagine trying to get pregnant immediately afterwards, because your arms are still empty.

I am tired of not understanding why these things happen. Babies die. But they shouldn’t. Babies are just beginning, I don’t understand how they can die. When I hear of another loss, I reach out to them to help, but it makes me even more world weary, I don’t understand why Gideon had to die. But I do understand I will never understand.

I am tired of physical pain too. You wouldn’t think something like physical pain could pull you down so much after losing a child, but of course it does. Simple tooth pain, but every day. And there’s no obvious reason for it, it’s just there and constant.

I’m tired of things happening to me that have no obvious reason. Every time I get ill, no doctor or dentist can give me a reason. No reason for my “flares,” no reason for pPROM, no reason for Gideon’s death, not really. Most babies survive a brain hemmorhage, no one could understand why Gideon was getting worse.

I am “no reason.”

Pain without reason. So the doctors and the dentists make you think you are imagining it, that it’s “in your head” and you start to believe them. So the next time you have pain you ignore it, it’s “In my head” afterall, and then you end up losing your waters or having a tooth pulled. All because you didn’t believe your own symptoms, you didn’t trust what you were feeling.

I am tired of making myself keep going. It is making me world-weary.

I am not angry, I am not bitter. I am just weary of it all.

Because worst of all, I know my life isn’t suddenly going to “get better” there is no reprieve for me. My life has always been this way, maybe I’ll be lucky enough to have a baby one day I can bring home. But I know the weariness of the world will still be there, and I’ll have to fight every day to keep it at bay.

Where once I would face problems with feelings of stress. Oh I have no money, I feel stressed, oh I’m in pain, how stressful. Now, it’s just weariness. Sure. Why not. Life wouldn’t be complete unless you lost a baby, had constant pain AND had no money would it?

World-weary. My word of the day.

And this is the first picture google gives me for world-weary.

World-Weary

(Belonging to this person, hope he doesn’t mind be borrowing it. It’s perfect.)

It made me world weary. As always, he had some fun and interesting ideas, but I didn’t care for the absurdities and vulgarity. I’m no prude. I just didn’t care to slog through such nonsense to get to the meat of the story.

And what would that meat have been? It took him so long to get to what was supposed to be the main idea. All the diversions and polemics were more than I cared for.

The vonnegut story was quite a contrast to the Kenneth Oppel sci fi story I’d finished earlier in the weekend. Oppel’s novel was a good story and just plain fun.

As I said, the vonnegut novel made me world weary. One day God will set things right. No more doubters, cynics and skeptics. He’ll make things plain for each of us.

1 John 2: 17–And the world passeth away, and the lust thereof: but he that doeth the will of God abideth for ever.

Do you ever get the feeling that you are standing on quick sand? That you are desperate for solid, principled ground, yet it feels everywhere you step you just sink further into soft convictions and passive attitudes. Or perhaps, you hungrily thirst for cold water and everyone gives you a drink of lukewarm liquid. Maybe you feel more like the only light bulb that is shinning in a dark world… frustrated? Discouraged? Weary?

I realized today in my typical chorus singing epiphany style that I did not have many examples of strong, sound, conservative Christians in my environment. I realized today, as Noel was passionately asserting the very real presence of Hell, that in my little world I usually come across two kinds of Christians: The very conservative Christians who, professing an unpracticed, dutiful, fearing doctrine of a wrathful, and punishing God, come across as hypocrites, unloving, and rather faithless. And the second kind of Christians grasp on to the faithful, loving side of God, but have seemed to entirely miss chunks of scripture which are laid out to be immovable rules and regulations of Christ-like Christian living.

Why must so many Christian’s be hypocritical? I don’t get ridiculously angry over much, but I do have a deep sense of justice and intolerance for accepting things which common sense and God tell us is wrong. Lately, I have become rather disgusted with the people of the south. I was talking to a good friend who is African and he told me of how people will avoid his line in the grocery store, even when it is empty, and go to a longer line with a white cashier. I really couldn’t believe people would be so ignorant and brainless, especially when presented with a rare, Wal-Mart short line, until I visited this friend and actually witnessed it. All the lines around him were long, except his. Oh goodness! How it made me so ridiculously angry. How vile we behave as humans! How truly despicable we “Christians” behave. I have witnessed countless Christians who treat people the same way as the people did to my friend. What sort of message are we sharing if we treat people different because their skin, or ethnicity, or social class, or background is different than ours? What if a person was teetering on the fence, deciding if they were going to give their lives to Christ, and they were shown this prejudice, this racist attitude by fellow Christians? What if they give up Christ because of it? Do you not think that the Christian’s responsible will have to answer to this on the Day of Judgment? I shudder to think…

I don’t understand how people can keep quiet. I don’t understand how people can be without godly zeal, passion, and justice. I don’t understand how people cannot care enough to care. I don’t understand how people can sit in church and not sing praises to God; I don’t understand how people can profess generosity, yet give so little of their time to God; I don’t understand how big brothers and fathers can let their precious little sisters or daughters indulge in immodesty—wearing shorts that are too short, necklines that are too low, and shirts that are too tight. They are men, they know how hard it is to struggle against impure thoughts—shame on all of you!!

It seems in today’s world if you stand up for anything other than tolerance, unquestioning love, and acceptance of everything, you are labeled as hypocritical and judgmental. And yet we are called to use godly judgement. People will always be charged, ready for a debate. And in such arguments neither side will listen and simply becomes further entrenched in their original view. This is so discouraging to me. I don’t consider myself wiser or better than anyone. If anything I consider myself one of the lesser Christians, a silly girl who seems to constantly fall to doubts and worries of this life. I just fail to understand why people reject what seems to my simple mind as common sense, plainly written out in the scriptures… why do people no longer fight? Why do people no longer take a stand against sin? They preach a doctrine of love…but if you really love a person and care about the residency of their eternal soul wouldn’t you do everything in your power to teach them? Lovingly and firmly, instruct them? Where are all of God’s soldiers? What has happened to Christianity?

But it will be okay. You are loved. You are precious. You are all things lovely in my heart. One day you won’t be afraid anymore, you won’t be sad. You will grow and then understand. You will learn that I did this, not because I wanted to hurt you, but because I love you….so dearly, and so deeply.

 You see, I want only the best for my child… and sometimes that means taking away people who hurt you, or making you grow stronger through trials, or…getting a hair cut.

Someday you will understand. But today, just hold my hand and try to be brave.

Life will get better, dear one!

   Just a few months ago, the citizens of my mind, lets call them Jennians, revolted against the ruling oligarchy. You see, for many years now the burdened Jennians have been oppressed by a few, elite tyrants. Fear, doubt, disbelief—to name a couple. After years of being afraid, my people have stormed the dungeons and freed the army of Courage which Fear had long ago imprisoned. After nearly a lifetime of being controlled by Doubt, the brave Jennians attacked the throne room of this dark, existential ruler and sent him away to be torn apart by lions.  And as for the worm-tongued, nasty defeatist of a lair–Disbelief–well, I shall not tell you what the Jennians did to him. It is far too gruesome for a happy place like this. I shall just assure you this vile, loathsome creature shall think twice about trying to slither pass the borders of Jennie again.

No, Winston Churchill does not live in my mind. What a silly thought.

It has been a long journey for the Jennians. And it is far from over. But a new dawn is rising and my people are courageous for the battle ahead.  The revolutionaries have triumphed! They have torn down the high places of idolatry; no longer to be enslaved to these princes of the world. Victory for the Jennians!   

Down with the Oligarchy! 

Do you ever get totally overwhelmed with life? Maybe you get physically exhausted from all the work you do, all the people you must please, all the responsibilities you are trying to accomplish. Or maybe you just get frustrated with the world. World weariness, I call it. It’s that nagging little feeling deep within the caverns of your soul that tell you this world is not your home. Maybe it is lonesomeness, that soft, quiet whisper in your heart that longs for people who just understand you. Perhaps, it seems like you just can’t get it together. That there are holes in your life and gushing out faster than you can handle, goes the very oxygen of your world.

I don’t know how Paul did it. He faced so much more in his life than I ever have, but he remained strong and hopeful of what is to come.

“Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles, and let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us.” Hebrews 12:1

I had a thought hit me the other day. What if what we call “life” is really death? And what we call “death” is merely the gateway into life? We get so caught up with busyness and working and thinking about preserving our age, but what if we are missing the bigger picture? What if all this messy and frustrating exisitance is simply our endurance through death? And then, when we cast off these mortal clothes, what if then, and only then, will we truly begin living? Eternity will consume our earthly years; I know when we get to Heaven nothing that happened in this life will bother us again: the long, exhausting work days, the bitterness, the hurtful things people have told you, the backaches, the nightly sighs, the stub toes, the broken families, the lost friends, misquotes, failed classes, sleepless nights, and all the other plights of this life will not be remembered! If this life is death, and in death we have but only to look forward to true life, that should bring such joy to our hearts. It is, indeed, a very encouraging thought!

Can you imagine living back in the days where people communicated with each other by letter writing? Can you imagine instead of whipping out your phone and in a blinding thumb flurry sending a message to your bff that you want to go to the mall, having to sit down at a desk, pull out a sheet of parchment and manually pen your thoughts? And to vex the modern soul further, can you imagine having to wait days, or even weeks for a reply? The whole idea is quite foreign to many of us, I am sure.  

I think we should use Facebook to encourage other people with happy posts, encouraging statuses, and very little complaining about life. Wouldn’t it be great to live in a world where instead of being reminded of how awful everything is, we are reminded of its beauty? Or instead of squabbling in useless debates and argumentative pointless quarrels, what if we reminded each other of how great our God is? And wouldn’t it be so comforting to know that we are surrounded by brothers and sisters in Christ, and not people who are self-centeredly thinking only about posting their hour-by-hour agenda? 

<3

“Do not let any unwholesome talk come out of your mouths, but only what is helpful for building others up according to their needs, that it may benefit those who listen.” Eph 4:29

“Don’t let anyone think less of you because you are young. Be an example to all believers in what you say, in the way you live, in your love, your faith, and your purity.” 1 Tim 4:12

all around us, sometimes, the walls of the world seem to be crashing in. i read the pages of the newspaper, and soak up stories from faraway and not so far. stories of thugs and mobs and rapes and shootings at close range. i read of fathers who kick children with steel-toe boots, and dump lifeless toddler bodies in bags in the woods.

it gets to be deadening. to the spirit. to the soul. to the sparks of the hope that won’t be snuffed, not yet anyway.

and so, with a world whirling around, a world scaring me, making me wonder, i find myself clinging–like oxygen straight from a tube–to the wisps and the inkblots of God’s world that won’t be daunted, won’t be dulled, won’t be wiped away.

the great orange glowing orb of a moon that clung last night just over the skyscrapers along lake shore drive.

the clouds that skittered by, played peek-a-boo, made faces along with the moon.

the wisp of green, lime green, spring green, starting-all-over-again green, here on my kitchen table, branches clipped and brought in from the cold by my dear neighbor who must have known that by week’s end i’d need an infusion.

it is these scant stitches of beautiful, of infinite, that hold me in place, that keep me from sliding off into the pitch- black abyss of human nature gone haywire, and the aftershocks that do in souls like you and me.

there are readers and listeners, i suppose, who take in the day’s news and scurry along, undaunted, undented.

i am not one of them.

last night, riding home on the el, the clackety train that is chicago’s–and my–answer to swift public transit, i pored over the dispatch of nicholas kristof who found himself on the streets of bahrain, in the capital city of manama, and who wrote: “as a reporter, you sometimes become numbed to sadness. but it is heartbreaking to be in modern, moderate bahrain right now and watch as a critical american ally uses tanks, troops, guns and clubs to crush a peaceful democracy movement and then lie about it.”

he writes of seeing corpses with gunshot wounds, of a promising and prominent plastic surgeon who went out on the streets to tend to the wounded and wound up bloodied, unconscious, and nearly raped (the police pulled down his pants, threatened to rape him, before the idea was abandoned and an ambulance allowed to rescue him).

he writes of ambulance drivers pummeled, guns held to their heads. of hospital corridors full of frantic mothers searching desperately for children gone missing in the attacks.

i shuddered, sank low in my hard plastic seat on the el.

but then i glanced out the window, as the train emerged from its underground tunnel, began its rapid ascent to the tracks that run above street level. a bright orange something caught my eye. hyphenated by all the houses and towers the train passed by, i had to hold my gaze to catch that orb again and again.

it locked me. i couldn’t keep my eye from searching the sky. i wanted to tap the shoulder of the long-haired woman next to me, the one plugged in to her wired-in sounds. i wanted to say, “isn’t it beautiful?” but she wasn’t looking. wasn’t open for business. she was locked in her unnatural bubble.

at last i emerged from that train, stood for a good long while on the platform, waiting for the next of my trains. i didn’t mind.

the wind blew. played with the clouds, that played with the moon. while i stood watching, witness to the unending beauty, the light, the certainty that reigns in the sky.

that same moon, i thought, is the moon shining down on bahrain, on egypt, iraq and iran.

it’s the one constant. the one shared link i have at this moment with those souls on the streets, those frantic mothers searching for children.

and here on my table for the last two days, the serviceberry branches, laid on the counter when i wasn’t looking. now upright and sipping up waters, opening, unfurling, reminding: life comes again. the cycle begins, returns, life comes from death.

i find myself returning my eyes to the branches. i can’t get enough. i seem to need to remember, need evidence. i seem to need to deep-breathe the beautiful.

it’s the one thing bigger than us, even in the utter humility of its whispers, the moon in the nightsky, the branches unfurling weeks before their time, coaxed along by the warmth of my house, by the vase full of waters.

it is the beautiful that is eternal, ever here and always.

it is more breath-taking, perhaps, because we need to search for it, peek behind branches, poke through the woods.

once found, though, it sustains us. fills us. offers its grace to all of our emptiness, our shadow.

it is the hand, i am certain, of the Holiest.

it is offered for those of us who get light-headed from all of the darkness, who can’t read the stories and carry on as if all’s well with the world.

when it’s not.

thank God for the balm that comes with the gracenotes of beauty. for the whispers that remind: beauty won’t go away. it’s there, deep in the heart of all that pulses and breathes. and we can’t let the darkness take over…..
where did you find the beautiful this week?

October was supposed to be the new turn, but I must have been waiting for Godot because all I’ve got at the start of November are cuts on my hands and legs that are grazed, bruised and tired. Not exactly turning over a new page, more spilling coffee on the page and dwelling on how to fix a page that’ll stay wrinkled and ruined anyway. You get the picture.

I don’t.

Bursting and healing. And learning on the way.
Here we go again for November!

Most of the people working in the Congressman’s office were in their mid 20s, so The Washington Youth Scene remark was on target, but I realized it hit the bulls-eye when the entire building was evacuated for a fire-drill.

After scanning over the huge crowd, I turned and remarked to my friend and roommate Finch, “Geez, I feel like I’m in college again.” It was on a Friday, during a Congressional Recess, making the whole scene seem even more relaxed with the dress code entailing a lot of denim, tennis shoes, flats, button downs, Spring pastels. Standing en masse in a nearby park, it was as if we had all gathered to see one of those shitty student government run Spring concerts, where Akon or Ryan Cabrera spend an hour boring you till you hear the one song they were unfortunately famous for in the first place.

After the drill was over, we funneled back into the Longworth House Office Building, and everyone scurried into their office to work on policy, or like me, grudgingly have to deal with being yelled out by the public.

But it made me wonder what the net effect of having such a young staff would have on Congress. I don’t really have any clear-cut opinion on the matter. But one thing is for certain, only these affluent, post-graduate types can afford to work in this sort of environment, due to it’s low pay and educational requirements. It provides a unique way of life where an individual may feel that he or she is immediately making an impact on the country because of the efforts they lend to their Congress(wo)man.

However it only served to make me a smidgen more world-weary, where people’s itemized, fleshed-out opinions on issues were simply reduced to a tally in the Pro or Con columns, to be totalled and handed to the Congressman as just a number.

Pragmatism over humanity, though. I suppose that’s just the way things are.

Meanwhile, at home, far too many people are adopting a cynical, world weary attitude.  Shame on you!

Barbara Ellen, sexy new columnist at The Observer says “Call off 2012, Beijing Is Boring”.  Well, she may be appreciable eye candy (useful for all those soirees columnists just have to attend) but she is resorting to the oldest trick in the journo’s book – if you can’t say something sensible then slag it off.

More disturbing is the pub talk, the man on the Clapham omnibus who also claims to be bored.

Listen killjoys, cynics, non-Welsh Brits, in a fortnight’s time there will be a tear welling up in your eye.  You’ll want to and, undeservingly, will, feel part of it.  Your patriotic spirit will be reborn and you’ll be screaming as the next British runner, cyclist or egg and spooner takes gold.

The Olympics are a wonderful, inspiring celebration of mankind.  I remember them throughout my childhood and I am cheering for our boys and girls from the very beginning.  The rest of you are welcome to the party however late you arrive.

the news seeping into my little world isn’t so swell these days. nothin’ at all to do with today being that unlucky friday. phooey, i say to that. that’s ol’ superstition. and superstitious i’m not. not so much, anyway.

i’m talking about the front page of the paper. and, lately, the business page, too. they’re the ones spelling out the downs and the more downs; whole columns of type, sprinkled with words like recession, inflation, and war that won’t end.

oh, and bosses at work being shown to the door. and other ones, new ones, saying they don’t like what we do. and we don’t do enough. and, oh, by the way, they’re cutting the pages, and the numbers of people paid to fill the ones left.

all sorts of talk, all day in the newsroom, about what’s going to happen, and who’s going to leave. anyone left, we all wonder, still reading the news? anyone left who loves turning a page, not knowing just where your fancy might land, soaking up something wholly brand new you might never have known? getting grabbed by a photo, or maybe a headline. seeing a byline, sinking into the words of a friend you’ve not ever met but feel that you’ve known for ever and ever.

it’s all very shaky. and it’s not only newspapers.

here in the village where i now mostly walk, or pedal my bike, to save the gas in my tank, i see houses for sale. hear stories of folks needing to move.

i know my dear friend the breadman isn’t baking so much. because no one is buying quite so much anymore. and cash registers, all over town, seem to be rigged with an odd little button that makes all of the totals twice what they were.

even at home, there are reasons to worry. the tall one is stiff, with a pain in his back. and all of us grownups, on pins and on needles.

so what do i do when it’s shaky all over, when the world at my door gets blurry and buzzes and is all out of sorts?

i crank up the dial on the parts of my life that matter the most.

i pay attention to what i’m cooking for dinner. i set the table with just a little more care. i cut more and more peonies from out in the garden. i tuck them there by the bedside, even in rooms strewn with little boy’s clothes.

i walk to the library. i sit with my sweet little starting-out reader. we pluck books, chapter books now, from shelf after shelf, whole piles too heavy for one of us only. we take turns with each chapter. we take turns with the book bag. sometimes, each one of us takes one of the handles. we lug it together.

i buy pie for no reason. i promise to learn to make my own crust. i snip herbs from the garden, snip with abandon. it’s summertime now and i needn’t be stingy.

i work in the garden. i pull weeds and more weeds. i stand back and admire the one-inch-by-one-inch that‘s finally weedless.

i sit on the stoop. i let ice melt on my tongue. we stuff chocolate-chip cones with mint-chocolate ice cream. then, for no reason, really, except for the joy of redundance, we sprinkle jimmies on top, those bit-lets of bite-able sugar. then we try not to bite, but only to lick. not once have we made it, not once without biting. these are the games that we play when we play for no reason, ’cept for the pure joy of playing at play.

as the world around me feels all very shaky, i sink deeper and deeper into what i love most, on a scale that gets smaller and closer to home, closer to heart.

it’s almost, you might want to think, like whistling in the dark. only that’s not what it is if you look from the soul side. it’s whistling, all right, but with very deep roots.

it’s the whistling of grownups old enough and wise enough, and humble enough, to know that the whole of the world we most likely can’t change.

but we can keep the ones that we love from feeling the bumps and the worries, from noticing that all around the edge of this boat, the waters are sloshing, are getting quite queazy.

we can make this place we call home a fine and true respite. the place we come back to, because it soothes us and calms us. because in a thousand small ways, we can dust off the dirt, and polish the places that just might maybe shine.

we might not steal headlines. we might not cinch deals. we might not be brokers of peace ’round the globe.

but what we do with our days, and our hours and minutes, just might make the difference in just a few blessed lives.

and those lives, some of them, were handed to us, for just a short time, really and truly.

someone wiser and truer than i’ll ever be, someone infinite, someone you maybe call God whispered once upon a time, spoke to each of our hearts. said, this is my beloved, and this is yours, too. i’ve breathed in a life, i’ve sculpted with love. it’s your job, should you so choose, to cradle, to take by the hand, to teach the words and the poems and the stories. to tuck into bed with a prayer, to draw tight the sheets. to kiss sweet blessed heads, and send dreams off to dreamland.

give the gift of your calm. give the gift of your grace. give laughter. give whimsy. give ice cream with sprinkles.
make each hour count.

make it be simple. make it be rich.

and then that Someone reached out and gave us our loves.

a wise friend of mine tallied the world as some of our children have lived it: 9/11, afghanistan, iraq, columbine. then there’s tsunami, new orleans under water, virginia tech, and gas at 4-plus-bucks-a-gallon. and, sure as heck, i’m leaving out a thing or two that’s kept you awake.

now, in grade school and high school, even in pre-school, they practice drills year after year, in case of intruders. our cold-war atomic-bomb scares replaced with very real fears that a classmate, or passing-by kook, could burst through the door, carrying guns.

some nights, as i lie in my bed, whispering prayers, and begging for mercy, i ask for a cloak of untattered peace to fall on my house.

and then i wake up, and give it the whole of my heart: i crank up the oven, i tuck in a pan of cinnamon rolls. i wait for the sound of the feet that i know. the big ones and little ones. even the cat’s.

and i do what i think i do best: with all of my might, i aim to sew even though i can’t thread a needle (not anymore anyway, not without my old-lady glasses). i stitch this old house with gracenotes of beauty, and fumble for even a loose knot of calm. i pay attention to nooks and to crannies no one might notice. i iron out wrinkles. i wring out the worries.

it’s called housework. and mine is of and for the soul.

i owe it, i do. to the ones whose everyday stories are being inscribed at my old kitchen table.

and besides, long long ago, i promised: dear God, bless me with life, and i’ll make it most noble.

how do you make your world a little bit calmer, a little bit richer, when all around it feels like the walls are starting to crumble?