The Miscarriage Club

It was an ordinary Thursday. We got up. Made breakfast. Zach headed out to help a friend move. I was headed to Costco, but I was so tired and my breakfast wasn’t sitting right with me. I texted Zach and told him breakfast had made me sick. I sat on the couch for a bit. We were headed out of town the next day, and I thought, well, it’s been a bit, maybe I’ll just see. See what the weekend had in store. So I did it. For the first time since September, I peed on a stick. I couldn’t believe it. Before the timer was even up, there it was. That beautiful blue plus sign we had been waiting for these past eleven months. There it was. The answer to the question that had been silently gnawing at both our souls, “Is it going to just be us?” There it was. Zach texted back and asked why breakfast had made me sick. With shaking hands, I sent him a picture of the pregnancy test. “Um??!!!?” “Yep!” I called him. He was sitting on the floor sipping a ginger ale shaking. We couldn’t believe it. It was happening. The thing that we both have wanted so badly all our lives. The beginning of that journey was here. The next three weeks passed so incredibly slowly. It was like time was weighed down by our excitement, our anxiety, and our complete inability to think of baby names we agree on. We made a baby shopping list. We contemplated which room we would change to accommodate our new arrival. We did all the things you do. We even told people. We couldn’t help it. No matter what happened, people were going to find out. Why not share in the happiness? I wasn’t too bothered by pregnancy. I was tired. I could smell everything. The only complaint I had was that I don’t like food enough to be this hungry all the time. But all in all, I had it easy. So the day came for the first ultrasound. As we walked from the car, Zach said, “I’m a little scared.” Me too. But I reassured him that we didn’t have any reason to think anything was wrong. I laid on the exam room table. Answered the tech’s questions as she squirted jelly on my belly. “I’m not getting a good enough look. Do you mind using the restroom?” I skirted to the restroom with a sheet around my waist. Returned to the table. “Did you empty your bladder? See here, that’s it, it’s still pretty full.” My heart started pounding as she moved around my uterus. “I don’t think you are as far along as you think you are?” “Um…yes, I am. “ “Have you had any blood work to confirm this?” “Yes. What’s wrong?” “I’m going to get our physician to look at this.” We waited. Hoping against hope that the tech was as bad at her job as she was at communication. The physician came in, examined me and said, “Yes, see this is just a clump of cells. It’s not a viable pregnancy.” There it was. In two insensitive sentences, she had shattered my heart. We cried. Held each other. Made apologies for what was neither one of our faults. Gathered ourselves and walked over to my doctors office. She said she was so sorry. Said I didn’t do anything wrong. Said we were all so excited about this. And then she told me they would do a d&c and test the “tissue”. Ten minutes before it had been a baby. And now it was…tissue. I walked around in a haze for the next several days. For the first time in my life, I felt like a stranger in my own body. My brain knew that there was no heartbeat, no baby, but my body was still acting like there was. It was the moist bizarre biological betrayal. Never felt like my brain was in an earthly shell until the day my body became a tomb. We left town. Went to Holiday World with our nieces. We cried. We told people what was going on. Zach said that he felt like he had been tricked. Like feeling foolish was his brain’s first reaction to the loss. And we tried to be positive. It is so common. 25% of all pregnancies end in miscarriage. Not 25% of women, of pregnancies. We DID get pregnant. That was all good. But statistics did nothing for me. I don’t care how many people this happens to or how many people go on to have healthy babies. This was our baby. I was ready for THIS baby. And if you have known me at all at any point in my life, you would know the deep devastation this is to me. A few days later, we headed to the hospital. As I waited for the procedure, the nurse said to me, “I’m so sorry this is happening to you. It has happened to my wife and I more than once. It is so hard, but you are going to be alright.” Tears just streamed down my face. Next thing I knew, it was all over. I was being taken back to my recovery room. It was all over. We could go home and grieve and move on. Two days later, my doctor called with the pathology report. “It was a molar pregnancy. We will need you to come in every week for a while and have your blood tested. It is recommended that you don’t get pregnant for a year. If things go faster, we will revisit that.” ARE YOU KIDDING ME!!!! A molar pregnancy. There are two types. One is where there is an egg with no genetic information that is fertilized. The other is when two sperm fertilize the same egg. Either way, it never becomes an embryo, but it still grows. And it can even become cancerous. 1 out of every 1,500 women has a molar pregnancy. Most people have never heard of such a thing. The problem is that you still have hcg (the pregnancy hormone) racing through your blood. You have to wait for it to flush itself out. Your body thinks it is still pregnant. As long as there is the presence of hcg, there is a chance the tissue is still there and still growing. As though the loss was not punishing enough. It was a baby. No, it was tissue. No, it actually was a tumor. A tumor. I fell in love with a tumor. It tricked me. It took up residence inside of me. It grew. And worst of all, it wouldn’t leave me in peace. This story isn’t over. It isn’t over for a while. It changes our timeline. It limits our chances. And it gives credence to the fear that we might never hold a baby of our own. It’s a funny thing having a miscarriage. You sort of join a club. A club that you had no idea had so many members you already knew. Most people don’t tell you they are pregnant for exactly this reason. So they don’t have to go back and tell you their hopes were dashed. Nobody really talks about it. And when they do, it’s not for very long. Your loss is a little undermined, but I’m not even sure why. Because everyone I have ever known, feels this deeply. Anyone that talks about it, talks about it with palpable sadness. My dad said that he never planned our lives. He was just happy we were a part of his. But once you lose a child, you realize that you aren’t just invested in what you can see, and feel, and know. You are immediately invested in their future. Their future that just became inextricably woven into your future. And that love. The love of a parent, it never leaves you. Even if you were only a parent for a few weeks. Once you are in the miscarriage club, you start to hear other people’s stories. You start to share in their grief. You see tears in their eyes for you, for them, for all of us. And you don’t feel so alone. I’m glad we told people. I really am. Telling the story of woe can get a little exhausting. But people shared in our happiness. We got to be excited with friends and family. And they all had an investment in our family. They had the same investment in our grief. They had been on the journey with us. And they grieved with us. What more could you want than people to laugh when you laugh and weep when you weep? Grief is exacting. It is cruel. It has no time limit, and arbitrary triggers. We don’t want to be the “sad” people. We don’t want to have to recover. We don’t want to have loved and lost. And we really don’t want people to look at us like…that. We are just bad at grief. And we are especially bad at miscarriages. I loved the baby we lost. Tumor or not. I loved it. I’m devastated that it never was. And I fear, I truly and deeply fear that I will never know the redemption of a happy and healthy baby. I fear that hope was sucked out of me. But I know a few things now that I didn’t know before. I know that I married a man that doubles and triples his efforts to love and be close to me in hard times, no matter how much he is hurting too. I know that I have the support and love and empathy of an extensive circle of women and men that have experienced this loss. And I know that I am loved by so many far and near that offer deep and heartfelt sympathies. That makes me a very, very blessed person. That knowledge gives me the strength to walk through this with as much grace and dignity as I can muster. So I will wipe the tears away, open my heart to hope, and find greater compassion. I am not alone. People join our club everyday. And they all need us to listen to their stories with tears in our eyes.

It's Been a Long Cold Lonely Winter

After living in Tennessee for 6 months, I had to have a blood test. It was discovered that my Vitamin D level was less than optimal. Surprise, surprise leaving Southern California affected my Vitamin D level. It also turned my long blond hair to brown. When speaking with the doctor he said one of the reasons for our population having lower levels is that we are a little obsessed with showering. Sunshine on our skin needs some time to absorb into our system. We wash it off before it has a chance to soak into our skin and lose the value of standing in the sun. It’s also the best antiseptic for germs. In a world of known’s and unknowns, the magic of sunlight resting on our skin and being absorbed kindled a sense of wonder that I often forget. At least, I forget to renew it.

I have had several conversations with friends and family lately regarding the uncertainty of my life. I have wrestled out in the open. But I am not sure that I have wrestled in the light long enough for the germs to be eliminated. And certainly not enough for the sun drenched wisdom to soak into my soul. A friend sent me a quote the other day by Henri Nouwen. “Self-rejection is the greatest enemy of the spiritual life because it contradicts the sacred voice that calls us the "Beloved".” Self-rejection is a particularly insidious quality we all posses. I think we all surrender to it more often than we realize. And I think that surrender comes on the heels of other rejection. Friends, parents, lovers, employers, teachers, and strangers reject us or call us less than, and we reject ourselves. We absorb the rejection and let it addle our brain and heart. It is in that rejection of ourselves that we reject the one who made us. And no matter how much sunshine might be there, we take a shower to wash off the stink and don’t metabolize the light.

I have been offered countless encouragements that have not been platitudes. No “fake it until you make it”, “Happiness is an attitude”, “ Smile. It improves the value of your face”. No, no. I have heard sincere and loving encouragements. Ones that are acutely suited for my heart and spirit. I am learning to be a little more determined to let them shine a bright light on my worries, fears, and pervasive thoughts of my own inadequacies and failures. And I am learning to be a little more determined to let those words soak into my system and metabolize. My hair won’t turn back to blond, but maybe my heart will.

When I don’t sit my ass down in the sunlight, I can’t get any. When I don’t absorb it, I cannot reflect it. When I don’t reflect it, I leave others to wallow in their own rejection. And then I have failed in my endeavor to be and do what I want to be and do. Sun, sun, sun here it comes.

Unwritten, Yet Known

Part of my Lent this year is writing more about my contemplation. Trying to work it out with words and not just thoughts. Maybe my thoughts will have a fighting chance of making it to deeds if they are processed. So…there will be some more meanderings into the inner workings of my brain this month.

I saw a bumper sticker yesterday that said, “I came here with nothing and I have most of it left.” It’s funny. It’s clever. It made me laugh. It reminded me of a song a dear friend of mine wrote. It is my favorite of his songs. It is simple, beautiful, and profound. Always making me a little uncomfortable, but inspired. These are the lyrics:

I have nothing.
And this is beautiful to me.
Came here naked, screaming, and penniless
We cannot take the money with
When we go.
So baby, let go.

I am no one.
And this is beautiful to me.
Came here nameless, no one of consequence
With only so much innocence
And then it’s gone.
So baby, hold on.

My friend is an exceptional songwriter. He has a rapier wit, an astounding capacity for empathy, and an extraordinary mind. The first time I met him, I thought he was a bit odd. The second time I met him, I was convinced he was odd. I think he became friends with me because I listened to him. He has a unique way of communicating. And by unique, I mean that the meter of his conversation is usually adagio. He doesn’t really work in allegro. Most people get lost in the pauses and miss the melody. But one time, in one place, I remembered what he said and it made me think and I talked about it with many people for the next week. After I told him he made me think, our friendship began. I think his speech is interrupted with pauses because he is deliberate with his words. And don’t think I am not completely envious of that quality. He takes the time to let his poetry work itself out before revealing it. Or he is just odd. No one knows for sure. The perils of being an introvert in an expressionist’ body. But his process comes with pacing and many, many head bobs. This paragraph is not necessarily germane to the rest of the blog post. More of a “Hey, I said nice and funny things about you. So I hope you don’t mind that I published your lyrics on the interwebs without paying into ASCAP” kind of thing. He might and this entry will promptly be deleted.

The thing I love about this song is it’s juxtaposing of two conflicting ideas. Two choices that if held in tension with one another and exercised simultaneously either make you a contortionist, an over thinker, or potentially indecisive. Since I am usually two out of the three anyway and probably capable of the third, this song makes a whole lot of sense to me. I love contradictory ideas in theory. In practice, I find that my usually complex mind becomes very simple and demanding of simplicity.

I have been trying to wrap my head around a particularly contradictory concept for years. Often, it idles as my default song. The song I don’t notice is on repeat in the background. It has from time to time cloaked itself in counterpoint to whatever song is playing. But it is eventually unmasked and I return to the quest of trying to sort it out.

The concept is this: My future is unwritten, yet known. I have a great deal of difficulty reconciling that things are known yet unwritten. If my future is unwritten, then I have quite a few options. But if my choices are known, then there is an ideal or most beneficial one to choose. If it is known, why isn’t it ordained? And if it is not ordained, how is it known? And if it is known and I don’t choose it was it actually the ideal? This whole theological chicken and the egg thing makes me go cross-eyed most of the time.

I can’t believe that my future is unwritten and unknown. That would be to believe there is not a loving and gracious creator that is involved in my life. And I have seen too much and know too much to play that game.

I equally can’t believe that it is written and known. That would be to believe that this loving creator made me to be an automaton. I believe that I have the will, the choice, and the power to choose my own life in a manner that is unencumbered by some sort of predestination. I am not a passenger on the train of my life. I am the train. I am the track. I am the engineer. Toot! Toot!

I am working in concert with my creator. I am neither rogue nor slave.

By the same token, others around me are empowered with the same. And their choices influence and impact my course, my decisions, my life. And this confounds me and frustrates the bejankins out of me. Because I want to believe there is some sort of simplicity of doing the right thing and choosing the right course and things just work out. I want to live in a universe where I ask in faith what to do, do it, and something lovely is created. More often than not I feel like I came here with nothing and have most of it left. Like everything I try to build is a house of cards that just collapses. And if it all collapses, I must not have been the house I was supposed to build. Faulty logic, but real emotion.

I have a really hard time wrapping my head around all this. I mean a REALLY hard time. I struggle with the choices I have made. I feel foolish for the ones that have led to nothing. I struggle with the choices others have made. I feel foolish for hoping they were going to make different ones. And most of all, I struggle with the crushing sense that I am inadequate to make the right choices, choose the right road, and come out the other side in tact. And I struggle with the fact that there is no “right” road at all. There is only choosing how you walk. And my obsession with finding the right road has dramatically affected my gait. The questions just lead to more questions. And the answers lead to more questions. I’m hoping that the questions just keep leading to an answer I can understand.

These two conflicting notions of unwritten yet known are bound to live in harmony with one another somewhere. I am trying to learn how to let go and hold on at the same time so maybe I will get there.

You are Ugly

When I was a little girl, maybe 5 or 6, I would stare into the mirror until my face looked different to me. I would stare and see every crevice, the one or two freckles I had, and the shape of every feature, the color of my hair and how it lay. I would stare and stare and stare until I would say this to myself: “You are ugly”. No one ever told me that. In fact, I was told the opposite. I was surrounded by loving and affirming people that proactively worked to build my self-esteem. And to be fair, I was pretty cute. But this is the conclusion that I came to staring at my face. I was ugly. It was a time in my development that I was wrestling to distinguish between pretty and ugly, beautiful and grotesque, lovely and awful. For some unknown reason I couldn’t see anything that I recognized as beauty in my own face. And since I couldn’t see beauty the only conclusion to draw was that it was ugly.

It is the second day of Lent. I am a big fan of Lent. I love that there is a season that is dedicated to reflection and soul searching in order to discover our own humanity. To see how intractable we are in our own habits and behaviors whenever we try to make the slightest bit of sacrifice. It is in seeing our depravity and selfishness that we are given the opportunity to humble ourselves, recognize our flaws, and embrace the grace given to us to be at peace with God, at peace with others, and at peace with ourselves. In the liturgical calendar, there is Advent (the proclamation of the birth of our savior), Christmas (the birth of our savior), Epiphany (the public demonstration that he is indeed our savior), the ordinary weeks (where we do just about nothing), and then comes Lent. This is the time to fast in some form or fashion to see ourselves for who we are so that we can fully understand and embrace the wonder of his sacrifice and celebrate Easter with fervor and joy. Hopefully, Lent is a season of transformation that allows us to understand his suffering and learn better how to share in it. We need this time to fully understand that he died for us when we were still sinners. We need this time to see that we are indeed still sinners. We need this time to come to terms with what an enormous pain in the ass we all are. “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the Kingdom of heaven”. It is only in the recognition of ourselves that we can fully embrace the mercy and grace given to us freely.

But it is not enough for us to simply embrace this for ourselves within our own hearts and minds. In the Jewish tradition of the New Year, God writes the next year of someone’s life into the Book of Life on Rosh Hashanah, the actual New Year. But before Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement with God comes the Day of Atonement with others. They cannot ask forgiveness of God until they ask forgiveness of others. Matthew touches on this theme when Jesus says “ Therefore if you bring your gift to the altar, and there remember that your brother has something against you, leave your gift there before the altar, and go your way. First be reconciled to your brother, and then come and offer your gift.” It wasn’t enough simply to ask forgiveness of those you know you have failed; you must go to those you know have an issue with you. Before you even come to the temple in an act of worship, you must be reconciled to each other. Before you can be reconciled to God, you must be reconciled to each other. Richard Foster says in a book about spiritual disciplines “Disciplines are best exercised in our daily activities. If they are to have any transforming effect, the effect must be found in the ordinary junctures of human life: in our relationships with our husband or wife, our brothers and sisters, our friends and neighbors.”
It is important to be introspective. It is important to take time to be alone with our thoughts, consider who we are and how we act, and allow ourselves to be disappointed in what we discover. But we must be careful not to let solitude become isolation. No good comes from keeping only one’s own counsel. We must work out our salvation with fear and trembling and let others see us shake. We are limited in our capacity to recognize our own faults just as we are limited in our ability to recognize our own beauty. We cannot make peace with God without making peace with others. We cannot be at peace with ourselves without allowing others to see and reflect what is ugly and what is beautiful in us. Ultimately, the healing we seek is intertwined. Peace with ourselves, peace with others, peace with God. They all lead to and from one another.

I’m not a theologian. I’m not trying to be. I’m not as learned in all of these things as I would like to be. But I know this: I love Lent. I love the concept. I love the practice. I love the ideal. I love what it is meant to produce. I love it. Love it. Love it. I love it until it comes and I fast from something. I love it until I spend deliberate time reflecting. I love it until it comes, I fast, I reflect, and stare in the mirror and all I have to say is “You are ugly”. Then, I just wish it were Christmas again.

Crafts and Glasses

I have an astigmatism that went undiagnosed until I was 11. A wrinkle in my cornea that made music notes blur together, tennis balls completely move in my peripheral, and made reading an insufferable chore. My mom, who taught me to read, was pretty convinced that I was just impatient. I would assume that if a word started with a “th” that is was “There” or “Then” when it could be something completely different. My eyes had just caught the start of the word and moved on down the sentence. She was always telling me to go back, slow down, and read it again. My brain was doing its best to compensate for my jumping eyes based on context of the rest of the sentence. I have glasses now so my eyes hold still most of the time.

My mother was right to suspect me of being impatient. Doing just about everything quickly has been my way for quite some time. When we were little, our school was work at your own pace. And I had a pretty fast pace. Such a fast pace that when I finished my work early, my teacher would give me crafts to do. I hate crafts. Always have. I reached my limit of making potholders out of Popsicle sticks by November. I asked for a watch for my seventh birthday. And although I was not very good at telling time, I would do a page of work, wait five minutes, and do another page. Thus ending my craft time torture. My teacher told me that patience is a virtue. I think that phrase is just a stall tactic for the slow. And when I find the person that coined that phrase, I will punch him in the face. Patience is a pain in the ass.

I recently had one of the most ridiculous break-up of my life. Four and a half hours to settle our two-month relationship. When it was all said and done, nothing was actually done, just said. And talk is pretty cheap. It's the actions of love that make the world go round. While in the relationship, I was consistently confronted with my own nonsense. Particularly, with my impatience. I did try not to let my past relationships color this one. I gave a valiant effort. Most of the time, I was terribly unsuccessful. Assuming I knew what this sentence was because I have read a few other books. Thank God that I have great friends and a great family that would tell me to go back, slow down, and read it again. It was easy for my mind to jump past the issues at hand and draw conclusions based on my well-honed skills of hopelessness. Polished and not so pretty, I fight them daily.

I think what makes patience difficult for me is the same thing that makes hope difficult. There are no guarantees on the other side of those journeys. There is however, certainty in failing to attempt. A life of simply existing, never being fully lived. But what also makes it challenging is the lack of results from past attempts. There are only so many times that you can suck it up, dust yourself off, and say, “Nothing ventured, nothing gained.” At some point, it becomes far too easy to say, “Nothing ventured, nothing ventured.” And if there is a shred of futility in an action, you bet your grandma I can find it. And usually blow it entirely out of proportion.

I have often heard the proverb quoted, “Hope differed makes the heart grow sick.” Usually when people are justifying the reasons they are no longer trying. And it is true. Not seeing anything come or at least not seeing enough come from your efforts is disheartening at best and soul sucking at worst. And it can cause you to either be a pessimist or an existimist. New word. Someone who is not assuming the worst, but rather assumes nothing. A life, who’s routine is its substance. An outlook that has an inevitable end in implosion. I don’t just look at the world or others with suspicion or assumption of their failure. I look at myself that way. And their failure inevitably emotionally registers as something fundamentally lacking in me. Because if I was worth it, they would behave differently. If I was better or more or substantial enough, my circumstances would reflect it and more things would go my way. Which is absolute bullshit. And drawing such hard lines in some sort of cause and effect manner is adolescent. The world is much more complicated than that. And people are even more complicated.

So…what’s the point? Good question. This is a super rambly post. I guess the point is that no one bothers to quote the rest of that verse. “Hope differed makes the heart grow sick, but a longing fulfilled is a tree of life.” I think I need to keep believing that I will find that tree of life. Hell, I should just make one. I think I need to put my watch away and make some damn crafts. Do some things I would rather not do to make the world around me a little more colorful. And when I am sure I know the end of the story, I should put on my glasses, slow down, and read the sentence again. I may never find the virtue in patience, but I know the disdain of hopelessness. And that’s no fun for anyone.

Lazy Man's Metaphor

Being one that has a particular attraction to precision in communication, I have a sort of obsession with metaphors, similes, colloquialism, and idioms. Idioms are funny. I tend to use idioms and then think, “Where did that come from?” And thanks to the Internet, I don’t have to go long wondering. I think they perplex me because we often use them without much consideration for what the words actually mean when strung together. I had a stint where I made sport of mixing up my idioms. Idiom madlibs, if you will. They didn’t seem to make any less sense in the mash up. My idiom experiment was more for my own amusement than anything else. And it made my sister laugh which was a bonus. But I must admit that I see them as a lazy man’s metaphor. There is not much precision in hijacking a phrase that you have no idea of the original origin. They just sum up what you are trying to say because you have confidence that those around you understand the connotation of the phrase. Regardless of whether or not the phrase makes a lick of sense. Like that right there. “Lick of sense”. Where the hell did that come from and what does it actually mean. A literal lick? Actually, yes. Turns out that since you can only get a small portion from a lick that word can actually be used to mean a small portion. So instead of saying, “A small portion of sense” we can say “lick of sense”. Poetic license, I suppose.

I have had one idiom in particular on my mind lately. “Benefit of the doubt”. I like this one. A lot. I use it frequently, which is probably why I started thinking about what it actually means. I also like it because I am the type of person that gives the benefit of the doubt more than I should. Sometimes when it is well established that you don’t deserve it. I’m like a credit card rather than an ATM.

First, I had to establish whether this was a true idiom or a colloquialism. Turns out that colloquialisms are regional idioms. Who knew? Then I had to sort out the etymology of the phrase. Unless the idiom has an actual context, you really just get a definition. Like “get a grip” is from the movie business. A grip is an underling. I think the lowest on the food chain on a set. When you needed something, you would get a grip to go a fetch it. It has evolved to mean you need to get your emotions under control in a given situation. Not sure how that evolution took place, but that is the magic of idioms. Anyway, Google was my friend in providing a definition. Essentially, in a situation where there is any doubt, the benefactor makes an assumption that the beneficiary should be trusted. “A favorable judgment granted in the absence of full evidence.” Now, this has me fascinated.

By this definition, we give the benefit of the doubt all the time. And honestly, without even thinking about it. I trust that when I turn on my faucet the water will not be poisonous. I trust that when I drive down the street all the other drivers are not going to intentionally run into me. I trust the cook at a restaurant has not spit in my food. We trust in all kinds of situations without ever gathering information before or after. Or at least, we collect minimal information. We function in life with an understood sense of trust in the goodness or at least the courtesy of others without hesitation. But in interpersonal situations, we can be withholding bastards. Waiting for proof before we trust. Letting past situations dictate how we react in the present. Some of that seems like wisdom and some of it seems rather silly. I think that when we are truly aware of what we want to happen or what we need and know there is risk we won’t get it, we then see the doubt. And we can let that doubt be fueled by all sorts of things to grow into a sabotaging monster. When a child desperately wants the approval of their parent, when a friend needs acceptance, when a lover needs assurance, when the thing we want becomes crucial to our sense of self worth, that is when we understand profoundly the power another has to impact us. And doubt with all impartiality finally shows up on our radar.

I wonder what would happen if we extended the same trust in situations that really matter to us. I mean, surviving a car ride to the store should be one of those, but we can’t really get to know all the drivers on the road. What if we trusted in a new friend, old friends, siblings, parents, etc. with the same blind assumption of their goodness? I understand that past wounds shape us and help us to draw appropriate boundaries. They give us much needed warnings. But I also know I sometimes hide behind the boundaries, behind the wounds, behind the assumption that was has been is all that will ever be like a sad song on repeat. I guess what I am hoping to achieve in my own life is exercising wisdom but not at the cost of being open to wonder and possibility. Not like an idiot that funnels my energy into pipe dreams. But one that loves like I have never been hurt. Trusts like I have never been betrayed. Gives the benefit of the doubt when the doubt is screaming its head off. And someone that smiles like a kid that has just seen a firefly for the first time.

Oh idioms. I really do think you are a lazy man’s metaphor. But you do make me think.

Get Your Lent On

Today is Ash Wednesday and the beginning of Lent. Growing up in evangelical America, we never celebrated Lent. However, I went to an Episcopal school for eight years. Some liturgical practices were bound to rub off on me. I never really understood why all the crosses at school were covered in purple cloth. Or why all the “Allelujah”’s were omitted in the mass. I really didn’t understand why our chaplain didn’t allow my friends and I to give up chapel for Lent. With some degree of honesty, we did believe that skipping chapel would bring us closer to God. Lent was quite somber and mysterious. And it seemed that a season meant to prepare you for Easter was super depressing. I understand that identifying with the passion of Jesus should be on the sobering side. But I still don’t understand why it has to be such a drag.

Most of the people I knew that did practice Lent would treat it a bit like a New Year’s resolution. They would give up a vice or habit. They were rarely things that actually made room in their life for greater meditation or times of prayer. Like giving up soda for 40 days really draws you into the heart of God. I suppose it could if you were crazy addicted (like me). On the whole, their understanding of why they were giving something up for God seemed to miss the point.

I’m not entirely sure of the origin of Lent. It seemed to be practiced in some form or fashion before being formalized in the Council of Nicea. It was always meant to be a time of penance and preparation leading up to Easter. A time with increased prayer, introspection, and focus on the sacrifice that Jesus made. The theory being that if we give ourselves more time for deliberate focus, we better identify with his suffering and hopefully our little Grinch hearts will grow a few sizes. There are folks that fast completely for the 40 days. Some skip a few meals a day. And many, many others give something up for God. I think that any sacrifice or change to our routine should give us pause. We are creatures of habit and routine. Disrupt that and we all have an autistic fit of one size or another. I suppose that there is nothing too trivial to give up for Lent. What is trivial to some is a crutch to another. As long as what you choose, actually brings you to a place of repentance, an honest look at the state of your heart, and leads you into a more sacrificial and loving life, you are on the right track. It is not enough for us to be contrite. Our repentance must transcend our own sense of forgiveness and affect the way we treat others. We give mercy because we are desperately in need of it. We love, because we are loved. I think a portion of Lent should be spent contemplating that we are loved and have received mercy for our own sake. Because we all need to know that we are loved and valued, accepted and cherished, just because we are. But if we stop there and we don’t let it change our behaviors, then we are really selfish and need to start Lent over until we get it.

I have only been really playing the Lent game the last few years. Most years I don’t prepare for Lent and it catches me off guard. It is amusing that you have to prepare to prepare. I have given up cursing before, and if you know me you know that is a legit sacrifice. Last year, I gave up complaining. That was scary. Quite a revealing time for me. This year, I have been stumped. I am sure that I have a routine, but I am not really sure how distracting it is or isn’t. I still feel like a jumbly bumbly bag of nerves out of place here. My level of activity actually needs to increase not decrease.

So this year, I have decided not to give something up for Lent, but rather to add on. I think that by creating a little more structure in my life, I will quickly see what I actually spend my time doing. To add on three activities that actually make me consider the sacrifice of Jesus and what it actually means to me and for me, seems like a good choice this year. I don’t want to forget why I have decided to celebrate Lent. As somebody on some website said Lent is a time “to repent of sin, to renew our faith and to prepare to celebrate joyfully the mysteries of our salvation.”

If you are so inclined, I wish you a happy Lent with the appropriate amount of crying here and there. And if you are not inclined, then I wish you a happy Wednesday, sinner.