Suffering and Joy

The combination of suffering and joy in this world intrigues me. Is it about experiencing one and not the other? Is it about avoiding one and striving toward the other? Or is it about figuring out how to survive—or perhaps, thrive—when suffering and joy coexist? Riding the tangent line between the two is exhausting.

I wonder about all these feelings and what to do with them. I can choose to feel nothing in a bubble of emptiness, or feel overwhelmed by everything. But if I place this suffering on a spectrum instead, where it is simply one of the emotions from the abundant well of my heart, it can be contained into a manageable space, which affects me only as long as I allow it.

Suffering and joy are birthed from the same source—my heart. Wouldn’t I rather feel something, even if it IS suffering, than nothing at all? Only then can I have the capacity to feel joy, too.

In this painting, I imagine a full moon hidden behind the dark clouds, its pure white circle framed by the rich blackness of the sky. Its beauty is in the contrast. Black—the suffering, and white—the joy, seem opposite, the two sides of a fence. But they are only the endpoints of an infinite spectrum of colors. Those colors represent the infinite perspectives of love.

When the ends—the black and the white—turn and reach toward each other instead of away from each other, they intertwine, united, blending all their energy, ideas, and broken pieces into a braid which strengthens the colors and protects them.

Instead of opposition, perhaps the contrast of black and white is the only way to reveal themselves in all their fullness. The brilliance is in the contrast, not the separation.

When black and white; suffering and joy, merge, united, the promises encased in the pink and purple and blue and green blossoms emerge into new life.

From the black and white, united, the colors are born again.

            

Clarity

The sky is the soft blue of a robin’s egg, the clouds a cottony white, shadowed in muted gray. There’s a breeze, but the clouds are strangely still, as if snapped on a background photograph above the sandy beach scene. The grass in the sand dunes sways ever so slightly, with the darker green bushes dancing a smooth waltz in tune to the ocean breeze. The salt air cleanses my lungs, allowing my breath to slow to its own natural rhythm.

Clarity. I seek clarity on these girls’ weekends at the beach, and this time we are given a gift of the perfectly bright summer day, blending in perfect unison with our energizing meal of friendship. Our shared stories are the yeast, working all through the dough to make it rise. Faith is often lost in the complexities of our life’s experiences, and our foursome’s experiences span more than 240 years in total. That’s plenty of time for muddied emotions spanning from fear to loss to pain to joy, blended into this concoction of clarity which can only be seen through the common lens of faith. The brown mud of our minds shift into life-giving earth, the hidden seeds of promise and hope and purpose finding a new crevice through which to grow.

There’s an unusual sense of completion in our team of four, pulling all aspects of laughter and love into the present moment, reminding us of the view at the other side of this life through this shared lens of faith, glorious and beautiful.

Ahhh, clarity.

Pen

Our writers’ group prompt this week was: Describe an object that describes you.

I am a pen.

Sometimes thinner, sometimes clunky, I am a pen. I occasionally leak or even run out of ink. I am always in need of spilling out words, whether to create a well-tuned perspective on paper, or simply a bunch of jumbled letters onto the page like Scrabble tiles, waiting to be sorted and then placed into words. Sometimes I remember to try for the triple word score, requiring extra patience while exchanging words with someone else. Concentrating, planning and listening help provide those extra bonus points.

Sometimes I just don’t work. I click my brain cells, waiting for the point to appear, but it stays inside my shell. These are times I need to unscrew myself in the middle and pull out the ink refill. I’ll shake the refill a bit with a new perspective, or a new place to write, or a new start to my story, and I’ll get going again. At other times, I invest in a whole new pack of refills by spending time in meditation.

I smile to remember the four-color pens of my youth.

 My life seems fragmented like this. The blue pen is for inspirational writing and articles about peace or prayer or unity. The black pen is a true writing color, when I’m moving ahead in the groove of a piece. The red pen of self-criticism tends to show up from time to time, but when I write in green, I enter a whole new world where I really don’t try to fit in.

Green is my favorite.

This is the color I’d choose at my writers’ group when I am allowed to be off-color with my tribe of like-minded creatives.

Roller Coaster College

The empty roller coaster slides forward and beckons me. Holding my breath, I step in and sit down to exhale. I pull down the metal bar which determines if my ride ends in life or death. I pray it locks in properly.

This ride is familiar; only two years ago, I was involved in a college search for my son. It was an adventure, more than I anticipated. I tried to prepare myself by analyzing statistics, reviewing the majors, reading the mission statements and marketing material—anything I could get my hands on. Like the contrast of a wooden versus steel coaster; each university presentation was unique, but somehow similar. We visited at least a half-dozen schools and researched another dozen online. Matching the college details with my son’s personality, talents and goals was daunting.

With God’s help, and the help of others along the way, my son is thriving.

This time, I’m hoping my daughter’s college search will be smoother. I don’t like riding roller coasters all that much.

First, I need to pull on the safety bar to make sure it won’t budge. Am I the only one who does this? Coaster adventure-seekers love to throw their hands in the air on the ride, especially during the descent. Not me, I hold on tighter. This metal bar is all that I have when I have a million questions. Will she like the school? What kind of friends will she meet? How about safety? Will she learn a lot? And what will she be doing during her free time? I need to let the bar do its thing, and I do my thing. Research. Ask questions. And pray. School size. Student to teacher ratio. Average grades for admitted students. Population mix. Majors offered. God, help.

The real questions, the questions inside my heart and mind, won’t be handled by a metal bar, though. What I need to hold on to is God’s promises. He is always with me, and is always with her, too.

Up the hill we go. Looking at a local college. Touring an out-of-state college. Reading the college glossies. Slowly, slowly, slowly we climb. So much to see and read, and yet I know the curve to the downhill descent awaits. This is the curve where I trust our joint decision will match up with God’s plans for her.

Remembering the path laid out for my son, from the professor who offered a personal consultation to advise my son, to the other parents who gave me tips and hints along the way, to the prayers, the many, many prayers, I know God was there to help guide us in this process.

Maybe I’ll throw my hands in the air on the downhill after all. Who knows, I might like it.

Mistress Cancer

Unwelcome, she takes energy away from our marital intimacy. She requires my husband’s time and attention. She penetrates through to his veins, taking over his body, inside and out. She has her own rules, statistics and the illusion of a plan. She flirts with unpredictability, her greatest strength, her source of passion. She calls on my husband any time of day or night. Sometimes, he ignores her. Sometimes, he can’t.

She is Cancer.

 
This mistress is a Life-changer, a Killer, and an Enemy.

It was April 1, 2011 when my husband was diagnosed. I was shocked. We thought it was something related to reflux or other gastro-whatever conditions he experienced. But tumors? They were not expected.

I went into survival mode. Learning whatever I could about what was going on. Tests, more tests, research, doctor’s appointments. Planning for treatments, impact on our family, our financials. How do you plan what you do not know?

It’s now five years later and Joe is stable under the treatment of a clinical trial. Basically, it means he is on a chemotherapy regimen which seems to be working to stabilize the cancer, which will never be gone. Never. Yes, I know miracles are possible, and yes, I’ll embrace anyone who joins me in prayer for the miracles. In the meantime, however, I live with her.

I want her gone. Can I forgive her? Can I let go?

She is cancer. She is simply a diagnosis.

I am Lisa, Joe’s Wife. Holding on to hope in this complicated life.

 

 

 

 

Pottery

I went to a pottery class with my husband the other day.

Okay, there are a couple things to clarify. First of all, this was a class to make the pottery, not just paint it. The primary equipment consisted of a spinning wheel, a lump of clay and our hands. It was the scene from “Ghost,” minus Patrick Swayze. Well, you get the picture.

Secondly, you read correctly, my husband joined me. We are soon-to-be empty nesters, and have been trying out more creative options for our date nights. A couple months ago, we went to one of those painting workshops together (including the wine) and this time, it was pottery-making.

I learned a few things about pottery.

Pottery starts out as a formless lump of clay. It needs water added and a special touch to shape it into something recognizable, useful, and possibly beautiful. I appreciated the metaphor of God as our Potter in a new way.

Isaiah 64:8 (NIV)

“Yet, O Lord, you are our Father. We are the clay, you are the potter; we are all the work of your hands.”

I have no defined shape except what is given me by God. On the outside, I can be curvy or slim, depending on the season of my weight loss efforts. But on the inside, I have many more components, such as a passion for meeting new people, a love of numbers, and a heart to make others feel loved.

We each received a softball-shaped lump of cool, gray clay which was dense and stiff. We had to add water so it would be more moldable, softer, smoother. Water softens things, makes them pliable, more receptive. Perhaps I could use some of this extra water for molding my perspectives to be more like God’s. Wish it were so simple.

When I reached my goal of losing 100 pounds a few years ago, I had a new shape outside but I started to harden inside under the pressure of the goal. Coupled with my husband’s health crisis at the time, I then fell back into old habits of depending on my own abilities and pulled myself out of God’s hands. Now, I’m losing the weight I gained again, but this time it’s with an even greater focus on God. Like the clay’s response to the water, life experiences can adjust my shape.

The end result of our pottery-making extravaganza? Simple beauty.

   

Book Review: No More Peanut Butter Sandwiches

As much as I love to write, I also love to read. Therefore, I chose to participate in a book review of:

No More Peanut Butter Sandwiches (ISBN 978-1-63357-001-6) by Jeff Davidson.

Jeff shares his personal experiences as a dad having a son with special needs in No More Peanut Butter Sandwiches. The stories provide insight into his perspectives on life, on parenting and on his faith. Families raising children with special needs will benefit, however the encouragement he intends to share also applies to the universal theme of challenged faith, no matter what the struggle.

As a pastor who is called to serve the special needs community, Jeff’s generous heart to help others is evident. The book, however, falls short in story-telling techniques and instead slides back and forth from anecdotes to sermons. His writing is redundant and preachy, as if his existing sermons were assembled and printed together to compile the book. There are helpful ideas interspersed between the stories, however.

I found the concept and ministry appealing and useful, however recommend Jeff’s blog site www.goodnightsuperman.com and Rising Above Ministries as a resource for inspiration instead of the book.

The paperback is available on Amazon:

http://www.amazon.com/No-More-Peanut-Butter-Sandwiches/dp/1633570010/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1424269210&sr=8-1&keywords=no+more+peanut+butter+sandwiches+book

 

Disclosure of Material: I received a complimentary copy of this book from the publisher through the BookCrash.com book review program, which requires an honest, though not necessarily positive, review. The opinions I have expressed are my own. I am disclosing this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commission’s CFR Title 16, Part 255: “Guides Concerning the Use of Endorsements and Testimonials in Advertising.”

 

 

 

Targeting My Thoughts

My daughter and husband are competitive pistol shooters. Some of you may cringe at the word “pistol” because of the fear of guns and all things gun-related. I get that. Guns, in the hands of people with evil intent, can be used as deadly weapons.

 It’s not the guns themselves but the people with evil intent which frighten me, though. When I think of my daughter’s bull’s-eye competitions, I smile with pride at her skills. It takes intense focus, physical training, and a gut-level dose of courage to hit the tiny little “x” in the middle of the big, bad white paper with black rings. I also smile with joy at her shared experience with her father. Nothing will replace their special times together, in training and in competition, and my daughter’s life is blessed as a result. The guns they use in these competitions are not in the hands of people with evil intent. Instead, they are in the hands of people who love competition, who love each other and who safely handle the tools of their sport.

 

 

 

 

As for me, I have my own version of target shooting: healthy eating. I watch what I eat, when I eat it and how much. It takes gut-level motivation to continue to plow forward even when the scale moves slowly and everyone else in the world seems to be eating donuts.

 

There are three principles in target shooting which I can apply for success in eating right.

 1)      Everyone in shooting knows it’s virtually impossible to hit the ‘x’ every time.

When I watch what I eat day after day, there are certain to be moments when I miss the mark. Today, for instance, I had a York Peppermint Patty (yes, it jumped from the counter into my shopping cart) but counted the calories towards my day’s allotment. This meant dinner was a tuna salad and soup, but it still worked. Not quite an ‘x,’ but close.

 
2)      Shooting professionals manage their thoughts by approaching the target one shot at a time.  

I take my eating plan one day at a time, and sometimes one hour at a time. The focus it takes to figure out what to eat to stay healthy and yet manage to keep going can be overwhelming. Instead, by weighing in one week at a time, and approaching each new day with a new attitude, I can break the long-term goal into smaller, achievable goals. These are the goals which result in healthy weight loss.

3)      Finally, true competitors know that each shot is a clean slate. 

Having a plan in place for the entire day makes it easier to stay on track, but if I blew it for that half-hour between picking the kids up from school and figuring out what’s for dinner, then I start over by approaching the dinner meal as the next shot. It’s about writing down what I ate, then continue to write down the next meal, too. There’s a finality in putting it on paper, instead of replaying the mistake over and over in my head. Not a good idea. For me, it’s about watching what I think about, and then I can have results with my actions.

Most importantly, hitting the “x” for me is when I reach out for help, either from God or friends or both, when I’m having a weak moment and want to eat instead of coping with the feelings I prefer to avoid.

 

This verse helps me:

Philippians 3:13-14 (NIV)

“Brothers and sisters, I do not consider myself yet to have taken hold of it. But one thing I do: Forgetting what is behind and straining towards what is ahead, I PRESS ON toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus.”

Targeting my thoughts…now that’s a worthwhile competition.

 

 

 

Broken Faith

A faith-buddy gave me a cherished gift which adorned my powder room sink for many years. It was a ceramic knickknack of the word “FAITH” written in all capitals, painted a cheery lavender and adorned with yellow and white daisies around each letter.

I was extra klutzy one day and, not surprisingly, dropped it on the hard tile floor of the powder room. It split cleanly into two pieces, “FAI” in one piece with the emphatic “TH” separated from it. Broken faith still contains the components of faith, I thought. I just needed to put it back together. One dose of hot glue and it dried back into one piece, with only a fine line separating the ‘I’ and the T’ evidencing the damage.

I think life is like this sometimes. My faith gets broken and needs repair. Sometimes the repair line is noticeable, but hopefully, most of the time, it is not.

I had been working on a submission for “Chicken Soup for the Soul,” but had a dragging, nagging, sagging day and felt my little roots of doubt settling in. I wondered if my ideas were interesting, or if my writing was valuable, or if I should be writing at all. I hadn’t experienced a hefty dose of self-doubt in, say, two or three days, so I was due for this episode. Regardless, I managed to spend time working through and completing the article.

The next day I planned to review, edit and send the article to the Chicken Soup folks. A dark cloud of self-doubt promised to accompany me each step of the way. I started my day as usual, with my steaming cup of coffee, bible and journal. I asked God for guidance and maybe a shot of confidence to go with it.

My doorbell rang. It was a neighbor, handing me a brightly-wrapped red and white package, with a note taped to the top. “This is for you,” she said. “I saw it and thought of you.”

It was a copy of Chicken Soup for the Writer’s Soul.

Faith repaired is still faith.

 

What Goes In A Nativity Scene?

For many years, our family had a nativity set which consisted of MOST of the required pieces.

There was a stable, with its scattered straw, and the porcelain figures of Mary, Joseph and baby Jesus. The angel, shepherd, cow, and two of the three wise men finished the scene. Somewhere along the way we lost a wise man and a donkey. Odd.

Well, not so odd. It was me, not my children, who dropped and broke the missing pieces. At least I didn’t drop baby Jesus.

This year, we finally replaced our nativity set. As I was packing up our Christmas decorations (yes, it’s always a letdown, huh?) I discovered an extra visitor in our nativity scene.

 

 

 

How did the chocolate Santa get there?

I found another notable nativity scene this year in Cape May, New Jersey. I wanted to take a picture because it seemed so big and complete.

 

 

 

It was more than complete. If you take a close look inside the stable door, my reflection appeared in the photograph, too.

My kids’ response: “Gee, I didn’t think you were THAT old.”  

What doesn’t get old, though, is enjoying these traditional nativity scenes to remind me just what Christmas is all about. God with us, in infant form, to give us hope in a sometimes messy world. Even today, more than 2,000 years later, it’s still a messy world. It helps to peek through the stable door and remember the hope I found in the form of an infant bundle.  

Now that’s even better than a chocolate Santa.

 

 

Hearing from God

I wear two hearing aids. Seems like yesterday when I got my first one at the age of five. Suddenly, the refrigerator didn’t hum in the background anymore, it roared. Car engines became airplane engines. I even heard my mom call me from the other room. And the toilet flushing? I thought a tidal flood came through our little bathroom.

I didn’t know what I didn’t hear until I heard it.

It’s the same with God.

Really?

Could I actually hear something? Well, it’s God, so I imagine a choir of a gazillion angels or the clanging of a huge bell or perhaps the thunderous sound of a voice which shakes the ground I’m standing on. Or perhaps there’s no sound at all.

As a hearing aid wearer, the best way to “hear” things is to read them. I agree, God could help me to hear despite my hearing aids. But I’ve always lacked confidence in my ability to hear clearly, and reading the closed-captioning on the TV helps. My aids are much more high-tech than they used to be so I can skip the words on the TV most of the time, but hearing from God is still a tough concept. The Bible, however, is the ultimate in closed-captioning. Messages are written just for me.

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Earlier this year, I experienced a spiritual rut when I was less sure than usual of God’s plans in my life (aren’t we all?) I found my prayers shifting to a passionless recitation of familiar words which were on my mind but not in my heart. I basically felt abandoned by God because, well, feeling ignored is a familiar “button” for me, and I wasn’t connecting with God in the busy schedule of my routine.

I attended the Beth Moore event in May of this year…solo. I was able to pick a seat from the general seating area by myself. Each of the chairs had a hand-written bible verse on an index card meant for the person occupying it.

My verse was Psalms 9:10:
“Those who know your name will trust in you, for you, Lord, have never forsaken those who seek you.”

I looked up a definition of “forsaken.” It means abandoned.

I heard the message, loud and clear.


I’d love to hear your stories: how has God spoken to you through Scriptures?

First Day of School

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The cool breeze suggested the beginning of Fall but the calendar read August 25th---still summer. Regardless of the season, the first day of school arrived again.

My daughter, now a sophomore, bounded down the stairs, the slight scent of powder trailing her. She looked at herself in the mirror, smoothed a couple stray hairs and adjusted her blouse. She then turned, peeked over her shoulder to check the final view from the back, and smiled. Satisfied, she joined me in the kitchen.

“Good morning, precious!”

“Morning, Mom!”

“How are you?”

“I’m okay, thanks. Except I’m a little nervous about the new building. It might be tough to find my way around.”

“I understand,” I said.

More than thirty years have passed since I started my sophomore year in high school. How odd to remember the details to this day. I wore a blue uniform, and remember checking from the back to make sure my blouse collar was laying properly, my socks pulled up, my hair smoothed down.

My young man, now a high school senior, walked down the stairs a few minutes later. Confident and calm, he no longer resembled the little boy I used to escort to the bus stop.

“You ready to take it on?” I asked.

“Yup!” he said.

After breakfast, they each posed for the obligatory first-day-of-school photo. They know to stand in front of the door, so I can see how tall they’ve grown since last year. The photo tradition gives me a chance to capture the moment, hoping to make it stand still. Tears threatened, but I held off. My chickadees hadn’t left the house yet.

“Time to go,” I said. “Let’s put on the armor of God, okay?”

We had been reciting our personal version of Ephesians 6 since my son started Kindergarten.

“Thank you, Lord, that you give us the belt of truth…”

And we go through the hand motions putting on our invisible belts.

“And for the breastplate of righteousness…”

Hand-motions to strap on a chest plate.

“…and our feet fitted with the readiness that comes from the gospel of peace.”

Hand motions to tie on our shoes.

“Thank you, Lord, for our helmet of salvation, and the shield of faith, with which we can extinguish all the flaming arrows of the evil one.”

Strap under the chin, then left arm bent at the elbow and lifted up to hold the shield.

“…And for the sword of the Spirit, which is the Word of God.”

Right arm wielding a sword, ready to take it on.

And my two young adults walked out the door, stepping out of this momma’s nest to fly.

Letting go is not natural, but necessary.

I cried. The first day of school gets me every time. I think I need a box of tissues to go along with the armor.

Smoke Break

Today, I watched as an employee at a local retail store took a well-deserved smoke break on a bench just outside the front doors. She was disengaged from the busyness around her, enjoying the breezy afternoon with just enough sun to be comfortable. With each puff, she seemed to take in a dose of stillness. She seemed so…calm.

I’m old enough to remember the days when it was normal for businesses to allocate time for their employees to take a “smoke break” as one of the company benefits. Smoking was all the rage, but only the cool people smoked, and I certainly wanted to be cool.

Remember the Marlboro Man?

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Okay, I admit I tried smoking back when I was a teenager (sorry, Mom) but didn’t like it very much. Thankfully, it’s not a habit which interested me. As a result, you may consider me odd but I looked up “how to smoke” on Google. (Ironically, my teenage daughter caught me and seemed wary of my excuse that it was blog research. But that’s another story.)

I’m thinking I want this sense of…calm…when I’m praying.

The Google smoking instructions contained five basic steps:

1) Flame
Obviously, lighting up requires well, a light. Fire is required for smoke.

So many times I am pushed to the limit with feeling out of control in my life that a touch of heat…a flame…a scorch of awareness…is all I need to remember God is really the one in control. It’s a good way to get started in prayer.

2) Inhale a Little
The instructions mentioned it best to inhale just a little bit of smoke, slowly, so as to avoid singeing your throat, and to give yourself a chance to taste the cigarette.

Taking in only a little of the Bible at a time helps me to get a deeper sense of what God wants to say. Recently, I have been reading the book of Proverbs, one chapter at a time, and then selected a single verse in that chapter for reflection. I am able to apply that one verse more tastefully than if I simply sucked in the entire chapter.

3) Hold
The next step is to hold some of the smoke in your mouth, for enjoyment.

Reminding myself of the single verse at various times during the day gave me a chance to savor the lesson. The other day, Proverbs verse reminded me to “guard my heart” and it helped me stay calm when I felt overwhelmed about preparing for my schedule the following day.

4) Inhale Further
Next, the smoke is to be inhaled all the way down to the lungs.

Sometimes, the message I learned the day before (such as the “guard my heart” reminder) needs to get deep into my being. I decided to dwell on it for the next couple days as well. It made a difference.

5) Let Go
Finally, there are various ways to demonstrate your “coolness” by the stylistic way to let go and blow out the smoke.

For me, this means to let go of what I think I can control and simply breathe out my own efforts to let God work instead.

Thinking through these steps, I inhaled a dose of peace instead of tobacco. Drew in some stillness. Exhaled some stress. When I returned to my work later that day, I was more productive and energized.

And I was as cool as the Marlboro Man.

Cleaning the Inside

Any fellow coffee lovers out there? Like you, I’m constantly on the search for the perfect cup of coffee, every time. About a year ago, I rediscovered the beauty of the electric percolator…you know, the kind my parents used when I was young. I enjoy the traditional drip coffee makers and also the Keurig single-cup appliances, but when a friend gave me a cup of coffee made in her percolator, I was hooked. My coffeepot was on its last leg, and when it died, my next model was shiny and silver.



After a year of using my percolator, day after day, sometimes twice a day, the inside was—ahem—black. My coffee, like my heart and the words that come out of my mouth, can get bitter with long-time residue left unattended.

It was time to clean the inside.

The tiny quarter-sized well at the bottom of my percolator was impossible to reach, let alone clean. Yes, I tried scrubbing. But as with most coffee makers, the stains became permanent. I considered a popular vinegar method to clean it but was skeptical because I didn’t want the taste of vinegar mixing with my beloved cup of coffee.

Then I tried another method: the dishwasher soap method. I took a dishwasher tablet, placed it in the pot, added boiling water to the top and let it sit for a half hour. The coffee stains practically removed themselves from the inside of the pot and my coffee tastes delicious again. The reason my coffeepot is sparkly clean now is not because of my efforts, but because of what I used to clean it.



This reminds me of the bible verse where Jesus speaks to the Pharisees about cleaning the outside of the cup and dish, not the inside.
Matthew 23:25-26
25 “Woe to you, teachers of the law and Pharisees, you hypocrites! You clean the outside of the cup and dish, but inside they are full of greed and self-indulgence. 26 Blind Pharisee! First clean the inside of the cup and dish, and then the outside also will be clean.

I am making efforts to clean my attitude about eating healthy---again. I am always making these efforts. But the question is:

What am I using as my cleaning product?

The only thing that works…the only thing that EVER worked…is daily prayer. It’s the ultimate dishwasher tablet. Not Dawn, not Cascade, but Prayer. The residue of life’s leftover gunk in my heart practically removes itself when I do this. My heart, like my coffee, becomes better, not bitter.

What’s your version of the ultimate cleaning product?