It's a magical night, tonight. In the midst of all the frenzy about when and where to trick or treat, the blustery storms, the blog posts about people suddenly becoming convicted to the evils of celebrating Halloween, and the barrage of cute kid pics, I wonder how many of us actually stepped outside and just felt alive.
Not so much out of conviction as a general desire to avoid the rain, Quinn and I spent the evening in playing strategy board games, like the hopeless nerds we are. But now, he is asleep and I am on the porch because I can't quite bring myself to go inside. It's just too alive out here.
If you aren't in Nashville or if you didn't go out today, the wind is swirling through the trees, sending the newly emerging fall colors into a kind of frenzied dance. Some trees along my drive went from fully loaded to completely bare over the course of the day, and yet the wind remains relentless in its determination to strip every last leaf from the arms of its mother tonight.
It's a restless night to match my restless heart. This would be the perfect night for the beginning of a story. If I were a character in a novel, I might hear voices in the leaves or see a face in the wind. A gnome might pop in for a spot of tea, or perhaps the tree in my front yard would spontaneously combust, opening a portal to another dimension.
It's not cold enough for goosebumps, yet they dance along my skin as if the whole world were alive with the breath of God. "Ah," the spirit whispers, "but it is. Only perhaps today you have been still enough and I have been loud enough for you to finally notice."
I've been reading a lovely little book by N.D. Wilson called Notes from the Tilt-a-Whirl. It's pretty fabulous. Although he's primarily a secular juvenile fiction writer, this book serves as his statement of faith and a deeper call to the wonder and awesomeness of God's creation. It isn't really quotable because he travels along at breakneck pace, intoxicated by creation and the story woven by our creator. It almost feels like he's on drugs, and indeed he does apologize in the preface for being intoxicated with this life we live. I am reminded that God is way past crazy. He is completely ridiculous in the way he lavishes out his love and unreasonably extravagant with his creativity. I suspect most of us would find him terribly gauche and embarrassingly over enthusiastic if we were to see him laugh and cry and rejoice over his creation.
Throughout the book I find myself laughing out loud, caught of guard, simultaneously reprimanded for my lack of faith and reminded of the very things that brought me to faith. It has been exactly what my creator ordered, to see through a new set of eyeballs, to feel through a redeemed skin, and to taste flavors beyond imagining.
Before Quinn went to bed tonight I said we should play one last game. He was very excited and asked me what the rules were. I said, "It's very simple. We go stand on the deck and the first one to get blown away loses." He laughed and we continued getting ready for bed. But now as I sit here on the porch, I can't help but wonder if maybe, just maybe, the first one to get blown away by this wind might actually be the winner.
Thursday, October 31, 2013
Saturday, October 26, 2013
aprons
From Day Will Come by Keane:
October 27th would have been Emmett's 34th birthday.
Alice Walker has a volume of poetry out entitled, Hard Times Require Furious Dancing. The title alone is perfect, but the poetry is exquisite. In the preface she says
But I'm finding that hard times not only require furious dancing, they carve out the spaces in my soul that make dancing possible. In Phantasties, George MacDonald says
The winter night has wrapped a rag around your eyesIt has been a long winter of the soul these past few months. Many, many of my days have sunk like stones. In some ways October is always a rough month. Intensity at work, exhaustion at home, shorter daylight hours - all these things work together to make it hard to see each morning's new mercies.
And stolen your sight
Oh you seem so far away
I hope you find your way back someday
I miss you, I miss you
Some days set your world on fire
And some days they sink like stones
That's when your heart will cry out
Until your body is numb
And the night will try to tempt you
But the day will come
October 27th would have been Emmett's 34th birthday.
Alice Walker has a volume of poetry out entitled, Hard Times Require Furious Dancing. The title alone is perfect, but the poetry is exquisite. In the preface she says
It struck me one day, while dancing, that the marvelous moves African Americans are famous for on the dance floor came about because the dancers, especially in the old days, were contorting away various knots of stress. Some of the lower-back movements handed down to us that have seemed merely sensual were no doubt created after a day's work bending over a plow or hoe on a slave driver's plantation.Those days that set my world on fire - those are the days that are most appropriately described as days where I'm overwhelmed by the desire to dance, when I crank up the music, put on my favorite apron, and make something fabulous in the kitchen or get outside and run around with Quinn like I'm still six years old. As a new creation in Christ, I am learning to contort away the various knots of my sinful nature and embrace who I was created to be. That process will be awkward, and I may end up looking like Elaine from Seinfeld more often than not.
But I'm finding that hard times not only require furious dancing, they carve out the spaces in my soul that make dancing possible. In Phantasties, George MacDonald says
As in all sweetest music, a tinge of sadness was in every note. Nor do we know how much of the pleasures even of life we owe to the intermingled sorrows. Joy cannot unfold the deepest truths, although deepest truth must be deepest joy.There is an elusive connection between truth, sorrow, and joy, but I'm pretty sure that connection has something to do with dancing. So where's my apron? This night is trying to tempt me with it's siren song, and I am weary. very weary. So it's time to get my groove on and dance until I can see daylight again because the day will come, so I might as well dance like it's already here.
Tuesday, October 15, 2013
Ooh Shiny
Sometimes I feel like an overstimulated raccoon.
Seriously. There are just too many shiny things to look at. Emmett used to love it when I got my engagement ring cleaned because I'd play with the light to make it sparkle, and then he'd feel all manly like he'd just dragged home a buffalo he'd shot or something. We were definitely ridiculous.
I took a class last year where we looked at a lot of poetry, and the teacher would often read a poem and then ask something like, "What sticks out to you? What shimmers?" I began to realize I am continually asking myself that same question as I walk through life, like I'm on a covert raccoon mission to find all the "ooh shiny" things I can before I die. If you don't know what I mean by those little "ooh shiny" moments, think of a conversation with a good friend where they say something that sticks with you, or that Bible verse you've read a thousand times that finally makes sense, or that song lyric you can't get out of your head.
Sometimes I go weeks without any shiny moments. Those are hard weeks, where I can't see the shiny because I'm not looking outside of my self. And there's nothing shiny on the inside of this girl. Trust me, I've looked for it, dressed it up, painted over it, and still can't make it shiny. The past few weeks, maybe even months have been hard ones, difficult to see anything shiny.
But then someone says something and everything I'm reading or working on or studying begins to fall into place. I got an inkling that something was brewing when I was working through one of John Newton's letters. In a letter about the fallen state of man (because that's what I write letters to my friends about, sheesh!) he says, "but for the grace of God, the Earth would be the very image of hell."
That quote was the first bit of shiny I'd had in weeks, and it was like the snowflake that starts the avalanche.
But for the grace of God, the Earth would be the very image of hell.
Wow. If that doesn't sum up how depraved we are, then I'm not sure what does. I'm not sure why he even wrote the rest of the letter. I'd have written that single sentence and then been like, "boom! I'm outta here!"
One more time. But for the grace of God, the Earth would be the very image of hell.
I've been a Christian a while, and I'm not sure I've ever really understood what the grace of God means, but that sentence gives me a much better idea.
I have lots of friends who either are counselors or are in counseling, so I feel like I'm constantly using counseling lingo. Shoot, I could probably play one on TV. I can't even remember which one of my friends said this, but it went something like, "If you're not in love with the idea of marriage more than the person you're married to, then you won't stay married."
Genius. It was like God slapping me upside the face with a truckload of shiny.
Yeah the quote's about marriage, but it was like God was telling me, "you have to love the idea of me more than your experience of me in this moment or we ain't gonna get anywhere sweetheart."
I mean, duh. It's so obvious after it hits you over the head.
In the book Where The Red Fern Grows, they make a raccoon trap where the hole is big enough for the flat hand to go in but too small for the fist to come out. I've always wondered if this trap was legitimate, but apparently raccoons are so stubborn they won't let go of something they've picked up. So the raccoon just sits there, stubborn to the death because it won't let go of whatever was in that hole.
And I got my fist wrapped so tightly around my own agenda that I'm sitting on a log just mad as can be at God for not working things out like I asked. Here I am shaking my fist that's stuck in a trap and looking like an idiot and missing all the shiny things out there because I'm so fixated on this one little piece. All I have to do is let it go. Why is that so hard?
Seriously. There are just too many shiny things to look at. Emmett used to love it when I got my engagement ring cleaned because I'd play with the light to make it sparkle, and then he'd feel all manly like he'd just dragged home a buffalo he'd shot or something. We were definitely ridiculous.
I took a class last year where we looked at a lot of poetry, and the teacher would often read a poem and then ask something like, "What sticks out to you? What shimmers?" I began to realize I am continually asking myself that same question as I walk through life, like I'm on a covert raccoon mission to find all the "ooh shiny" things I can before I die. If you don't know what I mean by those little "ooh shiny" moments, think of a conversation with a good friend where they say something that sticks with you, or that Bible verse you've read a thousand times that finally makes sense, or that song lyric you can't get out of your head.
Sometimes I go weeks without any shiny moments. Those are hard weeks, where I can't see the shiny because I'm not looking outside of my self. And there's nothing shiny on the inside of this girl. Trust me, I've looked for it, dressed it up, painted over it, and still can't make it shiny. The past few weeks, maybe even months have been hard ones, difficult to see anything shiny.
But then someone says something and everything I'm reading or working on or studying begins to fall into place. I got an inkling that something was brewing when I was working through one of John Newton's letters. In a letter about the fallen state of man (because that's what I write letters to my friends about, sheesh!) he says, "but for the grace of God, the Earth would be the very image of hell."
That quote was the first bit of shiny I'd had in weeks, and it was like the snowflake that starts the avalanche.
But for the grace of God, the Earth would be the very image of hell.
Wow. If that doesn't sum up how depraved we are, then I'm not sure what does. I'm not sure why he even wrote the rest of the letter. I'd have written that single sentence and then been like, "boom! I'm outta here!"
One more time. But for the grace of God, the Earth would be the very image of hell.
I've been a Christian a while, and I'm not sure I've ever really understood what the grace of God means, but that sentence gives me a much better idea.
I have lots of friends who either are counselors or are in counseling, so I feel like I'm constantly using counseling lingo. Shoot, I could probably play one on TV. I can't even remember which one of my friends said this, but it went something like, "If you're not in love with the idea of marriage more than the person you're married to, then you won't stay married."
Genius. It was like God slapping me upside the face with a truckload of shiny.
Yeah the quote's about marriage, but it was like God was telling me, "you have to love the idea of me more than your experience of me in this moment or we ain't gonna get anywhere sweetheart."
I mean, duh. It's so obvious after it hits you over the head.
In the book Where The Red Fern Grows, they make a raccoon trap where the hole is big enough for the flat hand to go in but too small for the fist to come out. I've always wondered if this trap was legitimate, but apparently raccoons are so stubborn they won't let go of something they've picked up. So the raccoon just sits there, stubborn to the death because it won't let go of whatever was in that hole.
And I got my fist wrapped so tightly around my own agenda that I'm sitting on a log just mad as can be at God for not working things out like I asked. Here I am shaking my fist that's stuck in a trap and looking like an idiot and missing all the shiny things out there because I'm so fixated on this one little piece. All I have to do is let it go. Why is that so hard?
Sunday, September 22, 2013
twinkle lights
Years ago we put up some twinkle lights on our deck. During the day it looked pretty redneck, trailer park ghetto. But at night, you couldn't see all those crazy wires sagging and flapping in the wind. You just saw the little lights replacing the washed out stars. I could sit out there for hours on a summer night with some tea and a notebook.
Brene Brown speaks of cultivating vulnerability like stringing together a strand of twinkle lights, tiny shimmering lights of courage, compassion, and connection that shine in the darkness of our struggles. But one of the ways we fail to develop healthy vulnerability is through over-sharing. She uses the metaphor of the floodlight, which leaves the recipient of your sharing confused and blinded, and they have no choice but to turn away and disengage. It isn't so much the audience that measures over-sharing, a speaker or blogger for example can share with people they've never met. Rather it's the nature of the content and the needs of the sharer that determine whether something is over-sharing or not.
When I read this, I suddenly felt relieved. Sometimes I simply cannot blog, and until I read this I had no words to understand why I couldn't just push through the fog and figure out which end is up. Sharing something you haven't processed isn't healthy, and recently I've found new freedom in taking the space to process things. big things.
And it takes a lot of time. Sometimes it feels like I'm chewing spiritual cud or working on some kind of spiritual hairball. The process isn't beautiful or pretty, and most of the time, I have no idea what is going to come from it. I mean, after all that squawking, a chicken is going to lay an egg. But what the heck am I going to get for all this awkwardness?
I didn't hear a word of the sermon in church this morning. I suspect it was good, but I'm not really sure. I did read Ecclesiastes 3:11, though, "He has made everything beautiful in its time. Also, he has put eternity into man's heart, yet so that he cannot find out what God has done from the beginning to the end." My mind wandered through Hebrews 11, the book Surprised by Hope by N.T. Wright (that I still haven't finished reading), back through an Indigo Girls song, and another recent sermon I listened to online. Hence not having time to actually pay attention. Somewhere along the way I realized that I was grieving the loss of mystery in my life.
After Emmett died living in mystery was an every day reality. Lately, though, the lie of certainty has been creeping stealthily back into my life. I read somewhere that certainty, not unbelief, is the opposite of faith. So in many ways, living without mystery is living without faith. Without faith, sharing anything is like shining a floodlight of awkward neediness to any random passer-by.
But it's the impenetrable darkness of mystery that provides the perfect canvas for those twinkle lights of faith and vulnerability. Without mystery sharing is all awkwardness of exposed wires and dirty bulbs. Shining a little light on the infinite landscape of darkness formed by my inability to comprehend anything about God's fulness, though, there - there- is something worth sharing. I suppose my craving for mystery is why I've laid aside the Letters of John Newton recently and picked up the poetry of Edwin Muir. It's why I've taken my crazy, beautiful, fragile favorite teacup into my sterile, cold lab at school. It's why I've blocked out so many sermons trying to explain God and prayed through the Psalms.
It's why I burst into tears tonight at the recollection Romans 8:1, "For there is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus." Because there should be condemnation for a sinner such as me, and yet there isn't. That truth is a beautiful twinkle light that I can only see when I embrace the mystery of this sinful, awful world coexisting with a beautiful, loving God.
Brene Brown speaks of cultivating vulnerability like stringing together a strand of twinkle lights, tiny shimmering lights of courage, compassion, and connection that shine in the darkness of our struggles. But one of the ways we fail to develop healthy vulnerability is through over-sharing. She uses the metaphor of the floodlight, which leaves the recipient of your sharing confused and blinded, and they have no choice but to turn away and disengage. It isn't so much the audience that measures over-sharing, a speaker or blogger for example can share with people they've never met. Rather it's the nature of the content and the needs of the sharer that determine whether something is over-sharing or not.
When I read this, I suddenly felt relieved. Sometimes I simply cannot blog, and until I read this I had no words to understand why I couldn't just push through the fog and figure out which end is up. Sharing something you haven't processed isn't healthy, and recently I've found new freedom in taking the space to process things. big things.
And it takes a lot of time. Sometimes it feels like I'm chewing spiritual cud or working on some kind of spiritual hairball. The process isn't beautiful or pretty, and most of the time, I have no idea what is going to come from it. I mean, after all that squawking, a chicken is going to lay an egg. But what the heck am I going to get for all this awkwardness?
I didn't hear a word of the sermon in church this morning. I suspect it was good, but I'm not really sure. I did read Ecclesiastes 3:11, though, "He has made everything beautiful in its time. Also, he has put eternity into man's heart, yet so that he cannot find out what God has done from the beginning to the end." My mind wandered through Hebrews 11, the book Surprised by Hope by N.T. Wright (that I still haven't finished reading), back through an Indigo Girls song, and another recent sermon I listened to online. Hence not having time to actually pay attention. Somewhere along the way I realized that I was grieving the loss of mystery in my life.
After Emmett died living in mystery was an every day reality. Lately, though, the lie of certainty has been creeping stealthily back into my life. I read somewhere that certainty, not unbelief, is the opposite of faith. So in many ways, living without mystery is living without faith. Without faith, sharing anything is like shining a floodlight of awkward neediness to any random passer-by.
But it's the impenetrable darkness of mystery that provides the perfect canvas for those twinkle lights of faith and vulnerability. Without mystery sharing is all awkwardness of exposed wires and dirty bulbs. Shining a little light on the infinite landscape of darkness formed by my inability to comprehend anything about God's fulness, though, there - there- is something worth sharing. I suppose my craving for mystery is why I've laid aside the Letters of John Newton recently and picked up the poetry of Edwin Muir. It's why I've taken my crazy, beautiful, fragile favorite teacup into my sterile, cold lab at school. It's why I've blocked out so many sermons trying to explain God and prayed through the Psalms.
It's why I burst into tears tonight at the recollection Romans 8:1, "For there is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus." Because there should be condemnation for a sinner such as me, and yet there isn't. That truth is a beautiful twinkle light that I can only see when I embrace the mystery of this sinful, awful world coexisting with a beautiful, loving God.
Sunday, September 8, 2013
yielding
This is one of those blog posts I have to force myself to write in the interest of full disclosure. I'd rather be hiding under the covers of my bed. Or maybe hiding in another state. Or on the beach. Yep. I think that one wins. But instead Emmett's voice drags me out from under the covers. I hate it that he can keep me honest even when he's dead.
I'm not entirely certain, but it seems to me that it is one thing to do what God says and an entirely different matter to yield your heart to the Lord. I can do what God says while hiding all my crazy, but I can't yield without letting it all out. Yet that phrase keeps coming back to me. Yielding. Right now it feels a lot like throwing myself off the crazy cliff with a pair of homemade wings glued together with wax. And that sun is awfully close.
But that's what the spirit keeps whispering to me. Yield. No promises that I'll get less crazy, that things will get easier, or that I'll even manage to get out of bed tomorrow. Just shut up, press into the shame, and yield.
In case you're wondering, that's not the answer I wanted.
I love my job, and I'm getting pretty darn good at it, but teaching leaves me with a pretty serious vulnerability hangover. every. day. "Vulnerability hangover" is a term coined by Brene Brown (no surprise there) for the feeling after you've just shared something deeply meaningful. That feeling that you've just vomited out your soul and need to mop it up quickly before anyone sees. But to teach well is to do that every day. Hence the vulnerability hangover. every. day. I'm not sure what the term is for too many consecutive vulnerability hangovers, but I think I hit that wall a few days ago.
The problem with a vulnerability hangover is that it makes the shame gremlins (another great term from Brene) louder. You know all those crazy voices in your head that drag up every awful thought about your sin and inadequacy? Imagine them shouting at your with megaphones right in your ears. That's been my battle for the last few weeks. Times a million bazillion, as Quinn would say. Brene's suggested cure? 1 - recognizing shame (check). 2 - reality-check the message (check). 3 - Reach out (crap). 4 - speak the shame (no thank you). Seriously, couldn't she come up with something easier than that? Like, a pill or something?
The transition back to school is always difficult, which surprises me because I love the routine, the work, and the people. But I think this year I'm finally figuring out that the feeling of wanting to throw up that arrives about two weeks before school starts is the secret anticipation of these shame gremlins. Because there is nothing I can do to make them go away. Even when they're quiet, I can feel them out there waiting for just the right moment to latch on like a rabid dog and tear me to shreds. The irony is that my instinctive response to those shame gremlins is to disengage, which is the very opposite of what the research says I need to do. I hate research. Actually, I don't. I love it, but only when it proves me right. That's why I teach physics.
So I almost didn't go to church this morning. Heck, I almost didn't get out of bed this morning. Because I'm just so hung over from the vulnerability, and the one person to whom I could easily reach out and speak the shame with complete trust is dead. And well that just really sucks.
I've been reading Joshua 24 and digging into some material for a women's retreat I'm developing with a friend. And then I read it again. and again. and maybe some more. I don't think I'm done yet. Here's the short version:
Joshua: God did these awesome things, now serve him with all your heart.
Israelites: Yeah, sure will serve the Lord.
Joshua: No you won't. And God will bring disaster on you if you forsake him.
Israelites: Yes we will. No really.
Joshua: Well, then you are witnesses against yourself.
Israelites: okay. (seriously? did they really just agree to that? I'd be slinking out the back door about this time)
Joshua: (vs 24) "throw away the foreign Gods that are among you and yield your hearts to the Lord, the God of Israel."
Israelites: (vs 25) "We will serve the Lord our God and obey him."Is it just me or did the Israelites totally miss something in what Joshua just said. He says yield our heart and they say sure we'll obey him. But those seem like two entirely different things in my book. I even checked a bunch of translations, and they all come across with the same contrast.
I'm not entirely certain, but it seems to me that it is one thing to do what God says and an entirely different matter to yield your heart to the Lord. I can do what God says while hiding all my crazy, but I can't yield without letting it all out. Yet that phrase keeps coming back to me. Yielding. Right now it feels a lot like throwing myself off the crazy cliff with a pair of homemade wings glued together with wax. And that sun is awfully close.
But that's what the spirit keeps whispering to me. Yield. No promises that I'll get less crazy, that things will get easier, or that I'll even manage to get out of bed tomorrow. Just shut up, press into the shame, and yield.
In case you're wondering, that's not the answer I wanted.
Tuesday, August 20, 2013
leaning in
It's been what I like to call a Habakkuk season in my life. In fact, last night I reread Habakkuk along with 1 Thessalonians. Here's the Cliff Notes version of Habakkuk:
H: God, what are you up to? These people who claim to know you are acting awful, and you don't seem to notice.When I get to the point when life doesn't seem to make sense, I always come back to Habakkuk. I read it a lot.
G: That's okay, I'm going to raise up even more awful people to destroy those people.
H: Ummmm... God? That doesn't seem very righteous.
G: I'm really awesome, and let me tell you how much I hate sin.
H: Wow. I don't get it, but I'll trust you anyway.
Adjusting Quinn back to early mornings for school is like trying to wake an angry bear two months early from hibernation. Every day. It's emotionally exhausting. Add to that jumping back into teaching high school, which can best be described as interactive improvisation with a captive hormonal audience, and I've been exhausted. Then throw in an intense personal life that has me feeling drained of every last smidgen of emotional stability, and it's no surprise that I've cried multiple times every day for the past two weeks. You know it's bad when I'm crying at Taylor Swift songs at 6:30 in the morning and reruns of The West Wing while running on a treadmill. There's no chance I'm going anywhere near the Hallmark card isle right now, that would invoke reactions too embarrassing even for me.
So what is up with Habakkuk? I didn't like that book the first time I read it. If you just read the words, then it doesn't really make sense. Why would Habakkuk suddenly become okay? I thought he had a pretty good point that God's actions don't seem to make sense or really fit into his character. But what really gets me is that God never really answers his questions, and I don't like that because I have a lot of questions, and I want answers, and they need to be better than the ones he gave Habakkuk. For sure.
Brene Brown (just had to work her in again) talks about the need for certainty being one indicator of our fear of vulnerability. Bet you're squirming in your seat after that sentence. Wholehearted people have learned to live without certainty. Another ouch. But she also talks about leaning into the difficult emotions of fear, grief, and uncertainty as being healthy. That is the tension of Habakkuk, leaning into the fear and uncertainty while accepting that there is no good answer here.
For months after we lost our daughter, my only prayer was to know that God loved me. I knew there were no satisfying answers. No matter how God redeems grief, there is no good answer for why things like that happen. Ever. And anyone who tries to give you an answer should be immediately punched in the face. Immediately.
But knowing there isn't an acceptable answer is exactly why I need to press into God and ask the questions. At some point it occurred to me that Habakkuk's answer isn't in God's words, it's in his presence. God doesn't say anything particularly different in Habakkuk. In fact, God spends most of the Bible repeating himself. But God shows up when people really ask, maybe not immediately and maybe not how we expect, but he shows up.
Sometimes asking the questions, though, feels like leaning off the edge of the roof and hoping the wind holds you up. Just asking the questions often feels like opening the whirlwind of crazy hiding out in my head. And if I open the door to my crazy, I may not be able to close it again. I'm not always willing to take that risk.
So I read Habakkuk and shake my head and pray for God to show up because I just don't understand a whole lot of things. This crazy joy that floods my heart doesn't push out the grief. In some strange way it makes the grief deeper and harder, even though those emotions coexist with joy in some bizarre harmony. It's the joy that helps me lean into the grief, like an anchor that helps me know that even if I fall off that roof and unleash my crazy, God will show up.
Monday, August 12, 2013
feeling 12
Sometimes I'm convinced life is a bad imitation of middle school. I had one of those moments this week where I felt like I was the awkward girl in a Mean Girls movie. So I've been channeling my awesomely awkward middle school self that shrinks away in shame whenever that happens and giving her a little extra love. She convinced me to buy the latest Taylor Swift album. Judge away. I won't be able to hear you anyway because my middle school self is singing off key and dancing around the house. Three cheers for learning to take myself much less seriously.
I've been reading this book lately. Go buy it. Now.
Notice my great little earmark labeled blog. Yep. I'm a nerd. I've been photographing pages and sending the pics to friends, posting them on Facebook, and pulling out the book and showing it to pretty much everyone I meet. I'm going to have considerably fewer friends in the future.
But seriously. This book is like the manual to the last 17 years of my walk with Christ that I needed but didn't have. And it's not even a religious book.
On the page prior to the one above, she goes into the difference between the Greek words for happiness and joy. Happiness connotes the freedom of the wealthy from the cares of everyday life. Joy is defined as the culmination of being that comes with virtue and wisdom; Joy is the most difficult of virtues to achieve. Now reread he page above with those definitions.
Mind blowing.
The connections between joy, vulnerability, gratitude, and courage are so obvious. At least in hindsight. But being vulnerable and grateful means facing our fears of failure, scarcity, not fitting in, and not finding certainty. Maybe that's what Jesus means when he says you have to lose your life to find it. My last seventeen years have been an exercise in losing control over my life, and I'm in love with what I'm finding.
A friend of mine in Chicago runs these great workshops called Fear Experiment. I love the premise of getting strangers together to push through their fears. It is amazing how leaning into and embracing your fear can be transformative. The past few years have forced me through a number of personal fear experiments I would never have chosen, but lately I've embarked on a few of my own fear experiments just to see what happens. I'm sure I'll write more about those as I learn from them, but for now I'll just leave you wondering what they are.
In a previous blog I talked about the tender shoots of joy beginning to poke up out of the soil, but I was greatly mistaken. Joy, when it takes off, is nothing like the tulips poking out in the spring ready to whither at the first hint of frost. No, joy is like that %#@&! virginia creeper that springs up everywhere and seems to live off air. Once rooted, it can be clipped and trimmed by the mean girls, but never eradicated.
So bring on the cheesy middle school songs and my awkward middle school self and ridicule all you want. I won't care because I'll be the one dancing.
I've been reading this book lately. Go buy it. Now.
In fact, you can go buy it here. Seriously. Buy it and then keep reading.
Read this.
Notice my great little earmark labeled blog. Yep. I'm a nerd. I've been photographing pages and sending the pics to friends, posting them on Facebook, and pulling out the book and showing it to pretty much everyone I meet. I'm going to have considerably fewer friends in the future.
But seriously. This book is like the manual to the last 17 years of my walk with Christ that I needed but didn't have. And it's not even a religious book.
On the page prior to the one above, she goes into the difference between the Greek words for happiness and joy. Happiness connotes the freedom of the wealthy from the cares of everyday life. Joy is defined as the culmination of being that comes with virtue and wisdom; Joy is the most difficult of virtues to achieve. Now reread he page above with those definitions.
Mind blowing.
The connections between joy, vulnerability, gratitude, and courage are so obvious. At least in hindsight. But being vulnerable and grateful means facing our fears of failure, scarcity, not fitting in, and not finding certainty. Maybe that's what Jesus means when he says you have to lose your life to find it. My last seventeen years have been an exercise in losing control over my life, and I'm in love with what I'm finding.
A friend of mine in Chicago runs these great workshops called Fear Experiment. I love the premise of getting strangers together to push through their fears. It is amazing how leaning into and embracing your fear can be transformative. The past few years have forced me through a number of personal fear experiments I would never have chosen, but lately I've embarked on a few of my own fear experiments just to see what happens. I'm sure I'll write more about those as I learn from them, but for now I'll just leave you wondering what they are.
In a previous blog I talked about the tender shoots of joy beginning to poke up out of the soil, but I was greatly mistaken. Joy, when it takes off, is nothing like the tulips poking out in the spring ready to whither at the first hint of frost. No, joy is like that %#@&! virginia creeper that springs up everywhere and seems to live off air. Once rooted, it can be clipped and trimmed by the mean girls, but never eradicated.
So bring on the cheesy middle school songs and my awkward middle school self and ridicule all you want. I won't care because I'll be the one dancing.
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