when the ache tries to suffocate

The pleasant smile, the patient voice-- it’s not all phony, of course, but sometimes it is.  

The heaviness of this place can suffocate.  

Sin-- our own, and that done to us-- presses down heavy on our chests.  

 

Conceal, don’t feel.

Distract yourself.

Don’t ask that question.

Hide it. Numb it.

Smother it with melted cheese and a huge smile.

“Where is God in all this?” we wonder to ourselves in the darkness.

And there, in the darkness, our enemy begs us to stay:

Don’t ask that question. Pretend you already know.  Pretend you’ve never wondered.

Pretend you’re just “too busy,” or you’re “fighting something,” or it’s “just a headache.”

Conceal, don’t feel.

Don’t let them in, don’t let them see, be the good girl you always have to be

Conceal, don’t feel, don’t let them know…

The advice seems to make sense, when there is something to hide, something that might embarrass us, or hurt someone else. And yet it suffocates, and one can’t help but ache for Elsa and her secret.

For ourselves, and our secrets.

How often I am tempted to numb my own heart.

Surely there are circumstances when we must simply keep moving, and do the work in front of us, despite the way we feel, despite our Big Questions. And so I don’t try to discuss the issues of my own heart with children.  I may ache, but regardless, they still need to eat dinner.  I (try to) put on my pleasant voice and pray to be upheld until I can take off the mask, put on my PJs, and exhale.

But, oh, how I need to exhale.  I need to let it out.  We all do. The ache and the questions, the heaviness of this place, the way it weighs on us, the way the fog rolls in and it seems like the enemy is winning every battle.

Adults are supposed to have all the answers, and yet here we are, in grown-up bodies, with skinned knees, and heavy questions.  And we are still afraid of the dark.

And the enemy whispers:

Chin up.  Be tough.  Fake it till you make it.

Don’t ask for help. They’ll think you are weak.

Don’t be a wimp.

Don’t search His Word, call your pastor, or lean on your church family.  

Don’t run to God like a terrified, hurting child.  

Grow up already.

What if "growing up" means being hard and strong and cold? What if even that kind of "strength" is a not strong enough to weather any of this?  

What if the only real choice is to crumble in one way or another?

But where can we crumble?

Where can we find fellow weary sinners in need of grace? Blessed are you if you can name a fellow sinner right now, one who will hold your hand and bring your needs into the presence of a gracious God.

Where else can we go? We bring our aches and our big questions to God, where He promises to meet us.   In His church, in His Word, and in fellowship with his people.

And there, we hear others speak for us, those shocking words which we do not dare say,

words of grief, or anger, questions of the aching heart:

“Why have you forsaken me?” David cried aloud.

“Why have you forsaken me?” Jesus moaned from the cross.

The question lingers, but we are not the only ones asking it, and that is some comfort.

Others have breathed in the stale air of a dying world, and they, too, have gagged and choked.

Others have questioned like us, and hurt like us, and sinned like us.

And those others have been helped, forgiven, redeemed, rescued from this place.

God’s promises cut through the cold air, like a warm breeze carrying a hint of spring, and we breathe.  We inhale hope, and exhale pleas for more; for spring to hurry.

Free us from this place, Jesus.

Deliver us from evil.

-----

Deliverance is coming, because Jesus has come.

And again we pray, come, Lord Jesus.

----------
Today, I dare you to name the heaviness, and to ask your questions, out loud to other people and to God.

I don't have it in me.

 “I don’t have it in me.”

Exhaustion speaks those words,

perhaps despair

limbs weary from the weight of it all

unsure how to do another day

of the same old heavy tasks

“I don’t have it in me,”

whispered words,

or words hidden behind a forced smile,

words hidden by shame

as if they have never been spoken before

(or at least not by a Christian)

“I don’t have it in me,
and my cup is empty

but they want me to keep on pouring

and the needs aren’t getting any smaller;

somebody needs to do something

but I don’t have it in me.”

“You don’t have it in you,”

says our Lord,

who sees our empty cups 

and is not, for one moment,

surprised by our lack.

He smiles a little, at his child

who thinks she is the first to come to him with real, actual need,

he shakes his head, again,

“Haven’t we talked about this before?

“You don’t have it in you,

Did you ever think you did?

You never had it in you

You were deceived by your transitory strength

as if that too were not all gift from my hand

“You don’t have it in you.

Rejoice in that reality, my child.

Come to me, empty,

Come to my table.

For I am Your Divine Host;

The feast is prepared by My hands;

At my table you will lack nothing.”

My soul will be satisfied as with fat and rich food,

    and my mouth will praise you with joyful lips,

when I remember you upon my bed,

    and meditate on you in the watches of the night;

for you have been my help,

    and in the shadow of your wings I will sing for joy.

(Psalm 63:5-7)

 A storm rages inside the house. Anger rumbles, accusations like lightning, targeted, sharp and hot. 

Concerned, one child stays quietly aside. The thunder escalates, large emotions spill over and flood the living room, drenching everyone, until they are all poured out. A few more flashes of lighting, more distant rumbles, and then finally, quiet. The spent cloud drifts away to a bedroom or a nap or a novel.

While the ground is still wet, the quiet one emerges. “Are you ok mom? I love you.” A sign of hope after the storm, this child comes out with an embrace and compassion, while the ground is still wet.

Jesus and Martha #2

 (Jesus and Martha #2. Note: Martha is not my daughter, she is a part of my own brain- one that fights with God often, but one he made and He loves nonetheless:) )

Why does Martha cling to her list so tightly?  Doesn’t she know that her refusal to set it down is making her sick?  Why does she hold onto it, white-knuckled, and chase its never-ending demands even when she is exhausted and stumbling?

I think she’s scared. 

Martha is afraid to set down her list.

She is desperate to do some good in the world, to help and fix all the things. She fights things like ‘acceptance’ because so many things to her are unacceptable.  

But her passion for goodness and change gets tangled with an ugly, driven desire to control and badger and FORCE this world to be the way she thinks it ought to be, immediately.

She’s not in control. And sometimes, that’s the most unacceptable thing of all. 

Why does Martha cling to her list so tightly?

Because everything could fall apart.

But still, if everything does fall apart...she can at least say she tried. She can hold her head up, justified, that she was not one of THOSE people who whittled their lives away chasing the wind.

Except that, in her drivenness, she sometimes forgets what she’s chasing, or why. 

Why does Martha cling to her list so tightly?

Because if she sets it down, then there will be stillness.

Silence, inactivity, quiet..

These things make Martha writhe in discomfort.

She does not want to take a breath, or a step back to see the big picture. She does not want to remember that she is small. She does not want to see how often she gets off track, or to come in out of the wind and the noise. She does not want to confess, repent, and reorient herself around truth. She just wants to keep moving.

She is afraid of many things. And she will not rest.

She will not rest, or she CAN not rest? 

Perhaps she can be taught to rest.

Perhaps she can learn to see the presence of God in her midst, to sit at his feet and feel her smallness, to place the burdens she carries into His hands where they belong.

She may come into His presence with clenched fist and heart;

she may fight her own smallness, and her lack of control,

and the stillness in the presence of God that her soul desperately needs.

Bring your list if you must, Martha,

even restless, or afraid,

you are welcome and invited

to sit in the presence of Jesus

who gives rest to your soul.

it starts with the feet

the smallness of baby feet

a foot fitting entirely in my hand

still fat, round, not yet used even once for travel

only for holding and kissing

or earlier,

for stretching out and up into mom’s ribs

a painful reminder of inner life

of being a vessel

whose contents are outgrowing her

and it’s only the beginning of growing

of life-giving

and of being outgrown

How a sweater moved me to prayer (from the archives)

We hug goodbye in the dark, on the front porch before school. My bare arms around them feel a chill, and I make them wait while I find their fall jackets. “We’re fine,” they insist, but I make them wear them, because I am cold, and because I said so.

The house is open today, and cool fall breeze blows away the musty smells of children and sweat and work. It is time to dig out the fall clothes.

Sometimes I wonder if God does the loaves-and-fishes miracle in my basement each season. Again this year, my shopping list is short. Again they will be clothed like the lilies of the field, and we have more than we need.

The too-short pants make a large pile.  

The long sleeves fit snugly in the drawers. 

I anticipate soft-sweatered hugs.

They try things on for me, and I hear their opinions.

"Oh I love this sweater! Look, Seth!"  It is soft, navy blue, with light blue stripes across the chest. It will compliment his blue eyes, and I can’t wait to take a picture of him in it.

He looks at it suspiciously.

"Hmmm,” he says. He holds it up and wrinkles his nose. Then he looks in my hopeful eyes.  “Well, we can keep it and I can wear it on Saturdays.”  I smile, and he clarifies, “Only on Saturdays when nobody's coming over."

And I resign. He is old enough to have opinions now, and I give him freedom. I will give the sweater away, but I will also enjoy his blue eyes. He doesn't have to know.

I open the baby’s drawer. He’s not a baby, I remind myself. He is two. I see cute PJs with feet that will not fit him this year. He is bigger now, too big for that.

And then, I take out the sweater, the one with the stripes, and I realize it is too small for him. There are many sweaters, but this particular sweater makes me pause.

This sweater was a hand-me-down. And even so, it has been worn by all six of my children. Six kids grew into it and then out of it again. And now the smallest has grown out of it.

My first baby.

Aggie, my second baby.

and then there were three.

Three, and then four, five, six. 

In and out of boxes, on and off bodies it's been, time and again. 

I imagine the stains, the yogurt blobs and the slobber and the pumpkin guts. Again and again it was washed, dried,and put on little bodies, my favorite bodies in the world.

And it kept them warm.

But they've outgrown it now. 

They still need warmth, but not from you, sweater.

And I try not to identify with the sweater, try not to think of the day they will grow out of me, the day when they will need warmth and love, but they will be too big to be satisfied with only mine.

The fall wind blows and the leaves rustle as I fold the sweater, slowly.

I gaze past the bunk beds, through the window, and I watch the bright colors fall.

Again I pray, 

Father, grow me up as you grow them up.

Teach me to rejoice in the changing of seasons.

---

from the archives

Goodbye, Copper

 “What's even the point of having pets if it just hurts this bad?”

“I KNOW Copper’s in heaven because dogs are WAY better than people and it only makes sense.”

Lymphoma is common in golden retrievers, but it was not common in this house. Though our dog was old, her death feels sudden, and the hole where she was seems huge. 

Our little dog is making it worse.

Skip keeps asking to go outside, pacing restlessly by the back of the van that took Copper away,

Whining indoors, sniffing the old blanket, finding no rest without her giant Copper pillow, without that large gentle heartbeat (and those snores) that he knew ever since he came to our home as a puppy.

How are the kids? 

Well, their innocence around death has been forever destroyed.

This is the first “big” loss for many of them, 

the first hole on the edge of eternity that is unavoidable even in our daily “normal” lives.

They are broken. 

Resilient.

Limping. 

Living.

We are doing the work of grieving. Yes, even schoolwork can be set aside as you need. Ask me your questions, join me on the sad couch, where anyone can just sit and be sad. Be sad as long as you need. I will stay in the sadness with you. 

---

We don’t want to go to co-op; what if people pray for us? What if they talk about it?
(What if the flood comes again and I can’t hold it back and everybody’s watching?)

Children this is what we DO- this is community. No, we can’t leave our wound at home, the hole in our hearts will be stuck to us for awhile even in public. But it’s OK that people know, that they see it. These are God’s people- they will just bring it to the Lord with us and for us, and be moved to compassion for us in this.

But what if I cry?
It’s OK to cry.

(Later I laughed with Josh a little- haven’t we as adults modeled for our kids 100 times that it’s ok to cry in public?)  

I didn’t really plan to cry myself, I was in teacher mode with my game face on, happy for the distraction and the piece of normal that is our homeschool community.

But then one of my students, one with art spilling out of her constantly, brought me this card (photo).

One glimpse at the picture, the hand drawn sketch that captured the spirit and life of both of our pets..

the blessing- seen

the hole in our hearts- seen

The seeing was too much for me for a minute; I put the card face down on my desk as the tears welled, and I excused myself. 

What a gift it is to be seen.

-------

Seeing is hard work, and the work continues in this house today.

The children who staggered into class yesterday came home buoyed by the love of friends and the distraction of a perfect fall day. 

I heard laughter, jokes, life continuing.

The bruise remains, 

but healing has begun.

“I don’t want to forget her,” said a child whose tears had dried last night.

We will help each other remember, son. 

We will miss her at the cabin,,

we will find tufts of dog hair in weird places,

we will print pictures and tell stories,

we will grieve;

and we will watch as grief melts into gratitude.

What a privilege it is to love.

These days (Kentucky #3)

These days, I wake up excited to find a late-night voice message from Lorraine.  I am trying not to be a stalker, but I do live for these updates from my college girl. She and I are learning how to keep in touch even with opposite sleeping schedules (or does she sleep?) These days she sends me lovely beach pictures, questions she’s carrying, stories of new friends and adventures, and even a snippet of Compline service; and I praise God for his faithfulness to her so far from home.

These are the days when I say “take your vitamins,” and “eat your fruits and veggies” often, and “Was that a cough? Do you need some elderberry syrup?” (the dramatic ones run and hide when I say this.) We take our immune systems more seriously these days. Like everyone, we fear the two-week time-out that could come for any of us these days.

Community is precious these days. Tuesdays are “community days” with our co-op, and on those days we learn what community can be, centered around a curriculum full of goodness, truth and beauty.  We collect words like “brobdingnagian” and questions like “What is success?” and “If you punch yourself and it hurts, does that mean you are strong or weak?”  and “What makes a good debate/discussion?” and “Is every debate worth having?”

Piano songs fill my home these days; Seth has been playing Sundays for Faith Lutheran for over a year now, and we have watched his skill and his joy in music increase exponentially. Sometimes, he interrupts practice to go start the Rav4, the car he and grandpa restored, waiting patiently in our yard until he is finally 16. The boy is not so patient. He is ready for wings.

Agnes got her wings recently, and these days she drives a green smart car to the zoo and back for her job. Her dramatic skills get to shine at Boo at the Zoo four nights a week this month! She’s a little extra tired these days. “Text me when you get there,” I repeat, and she does, faithfully. She laughs at me when she comes home late nights. In the struggle between exhaustion and mom anxiety (will she be safe on the roads?) exhaustion wins, and I am asleep when she arrives home safely these days.

Community is precious at our church, too, these days, and we enjoy face to face fellowship as much as possible. The Word in this place continues to go out faithfully, and God’s people feed on it, savor it, discuss it, and are upheld.  It’s a smaller crowd these days. But God’s faithfulness has not changed. I still collect “nerd words” my husband says and tease him about them when I get home. I still want to high-five him after some of his sermons. 

Should Ralph have punched the bully? Should Billy have shot the ghost coon? Marcus is required to wrestle through literary questions these days, so he chooses fighting, shooting, adventurous questions whenever possible. His drive for action and explosions is mixed with a drive to protect, defend, and forcefully push back against evil, and I am rather surprised to see the beauty here. I am grateful for a husband who knew this was coming, who told me not to fear long ago when I saw the soldier's soul in the toddler.  He’s going hunting next month with his grandpa, and he can hardly sleep for the excitement of it.

Meanwhile, Eldon nurtures a pumpkin seed into a tiny plant, even though it is the wrong time of year. On rainy days, he rescues worms trapped in puddles, and he feels sad for the dead crawdads. This is beautiful, too, and if I didn’t already know it, he would have convinced me with the hundreds of stunning natural treasures he’s captured with his camera.  These days, all Eldon wants is simple food, time outside, and a growth spurt. 

What to say about Peter these days? He’s teaching himself a couple languages for fun, ahead in math, great at research, terrible at reading a room. He’s skilled in the art of being the pesty little brother. His life feels very hard to him, and he needs frequent naps. He finds chore lists to be especially heavy these days, and while it looks like his shoes are too big for his feet, the truth is that his feet are too big for his body, and he’s all around awkward, these days.

Josh has a little more time and brain space these days, as he’s finished his dissertation (he still needs to defend it.)  He’s found new energy for home improvements these days, and we have a lovely fireplace insert to show for it. His kids are calling him “old” these days, and me too, too, but we just shrug, kiss a few times to make them uncomfortable, and then I go back to doing my plantar fasciitis exercises.

I am hungry these days, but I’m learning more about how to manage a body and soul and life. Sometimes I choose connection over carbs and Scripture over sugar, and I am beginning to understand more of what it could mean to be satisfied.  I am a child in these things, but my Lord welcomes children, so I try to go to Him when I get overly fussy.

There is a hole where Lorraine once was, and we are counting the days until her visit (16). Aggie’s work schedule is starting to leave holes as well, I cannot help but see the changing seasons everywhere I look. Though I’ve been tired at night, I have also been quicker to say yes to a Narnia read-aloud, and to snuggle the younger ones when they ask, because these moments could really be lasts.

But it’s OK. There is beauty in the next seasons. I have already gotten to see some.

The undercurrent of God’s faithfulness holds us steady. 

This is true in these days,

 and will be true in the days to come.