10 opportunities to be a graceful superhero

January 26, 2012

While driving in traffic.

When you’re right, but they don’t know it.

On your birthday.

In your area of expertise.

When you’re running late.

When they’re doing it wrong.

While pregnant.

When you’re overlooked.

When the telemarketer calls.

At the DMV.

I know that grace is far more than biting my tongue when I want to lash out, more than not saying mean things, more than tolerating someone who is intolerable, more than just being nice, more than a tight-lipped patience. Grace is extending more than what is deserved and that never starts with me. Because that? Is impossible.

If I really believe this grace changes everything, then the secret to a life transformed is simple – receive the grace given to you in abundance, then pour it out on everything. And it isn’t fake, this outpouring of grace in the midst of the impossible. Being a hypocrite is not acting contrary to how you feel. Being a hypocrite is acting contrary to who you are. In Christ, you are graceful. Even when you don’t feel like it.

“But by the grace of God I am what I am, and his grace to me was not without effect. No, I worked harder than all of them — yet not I, but the grace of God that was with me.”

1 Corinthians 15:10

Can you name any more opportunities for grace?

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Tagged Filed Underfaith 44 Comments

one thing not on your to-do list (but should be)

January 24, 2012

The good girl speaks loudly today. She is a cloak of shame and a ball of fire and a pointy finger and an evil laugh. She is rude and polite and two-faced and genuine and knows just how to push my buttons. I kind of hate her. And also want to be her. I will never out run that book I wrote.

When you write a book about a good girl learning to let go of the try hard life, you’d better believe that yours are the hands with the whitest knuckles. This life is not stair-climbing, getting closer to the top with every glad step. It’s more like an onion, peeling back the layers of lies and regrets and misconceptions.

Last week, my husband and I stood by the sea, heads weary from the travel, hands open with time to spare, and we didn’t have much to say. It was lovely. Still, I felt pressure to make the most out of our time. Production followed me to the shore, tapping on my shoulder, waiting to be checked off my to-do list. It took a full day to shake him. And even then, it was a fight. I have a disease, I think to myself. I am addicted to producing things.

We are tethered to our own usefulness, big-headed with our own accomplishments, crushed by our shortcomings. We miss the soul breath. We miss the smallness, the doorway through which we must walk to find freedom from the ever moving treadmill of time. Even if we steal time from our productivity to find the sitter, pack the bags, pay the money, sit through the layovers and fly to the shore to relax, sometimes once we get there we forget how. And I realized as I tapped my foot on sand that I have shed my truest identity. Instead of being the beloved, I feel more like the doloved.

How do you calm a life of activity? How do you shake the guilt of rest? How do you smooth the frayed edges and loose ends that wave frantic in your face? To start? Don’t just look at that comfortable chair. Sit in it. Poke a hole in the bucket of time and let the minutes spill onto your lap. And as you do, consider this: you are loved. So be the loved. Fake it if you have to, the being. Because you are loved, so even when you fake it you’re not faking it because it’s true. Read page 44 slow. And then read it again, slower.

We know by heart, take out the trash, sort the laundry, submit the article, call the teacher. We may even know be kind, be patient, be loving. But what about the gift? Be loved. It doesn’t come natural or easy, but it does come. He did come. Take your time to consider God’s gracious love toward you. Let him show up refreshingly new. Item number 20 on the list today?

It just might change everything.

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Tagged Filed Underbreathe 83 Comments

for your weekend

January 20, 2012

May this weekend bring Truth that speaks louder than critics, peace that weighs more than fear, and rings for your fingers that make you feel like a lady. Raise your face to sky when the sun comes out and fold up your legs in warm blankets when it doesn’t. Be thankful for the moment you hold in your hands, and hopeful for the ones that will come again tomorrow. Enjoy your weekend, friends.

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Filed Undera prayer of blessing 11 Comments

the kind of faith that can change your life

January 19, 2012

“If we are to be aware of life while we are living it, we must have the courage to relinquish our hard-earned control of ourselves.”

-Madeleine L’Engle, Walking on Water

I stare out the morning window, the outline of my tired head stares back at me, wispy hair out of place, wild. The sun isn’t up yet, only the faintest, faded line of pink lingers over the trees out back. This slow rising happens every morning, I think to myself. As I wrap my hands around my warm cup, I can’t help but rush ahead into the day. Even though the house is quiet, I’m running on the inside as if things are in full swing. My feet haven’t moved but my soul is rumbling.

Mercifully, the Lord whispers His presence with me and I’m pulled back to this minute. I consider how God called the light day and the dark night, how He spoke the days into being just one at a time. He still does it that way, evening and morning and evening again. And the days roll into one another in a watercolor line of elation and planning and laughter and frustration. Sometimes it feels like my life is a gray arrow right through the center, pushing ahead to get on with the next thing, desperately wishing I could see far off ahead.

It isn’t usually the big things that cause the most trouble and doubt. With the big things, it is so obvious I’m out of control – the diagnosis, the job insecurity, the safety and well-being of my family. Instead it’s those everyday things that are covered with my fingerprints. I try to get things I already have, things like acceptance, worth, security, love. Maybe everything we do is to get one of those needs met. Finish the list – I am important. Apologize for my messy house when the neighbor comes over – I need your acceptance. Don’t let them see my weakness – I need your approval. 

We are terrified of the mystery. We want our manager hats to remain firmly on our heads, skirts smoothed, shoes shined, plans lined up in neat rows. At the least, the suggestion that we are not in control is laughable. At the worst, it is offensive. I have a degree, you know.

And so I stand there next to the window, pink sky lighting up with each moment, and consider the invisible place in me where my Spirit and God’s mingle together. I used to think that a mature faith would bring with it clear pictures, thought that as I walked with God I would see life big, wide, and spacious. But that is not what is happening, and if you expect that, it can feel like perhaps your faith is shrinking. Because instead of being lifted up on a cloud to see the big picture, instead of tilting back my head and laughing at those silly things I used to worry about, I am shrinking down into a small place, a place where I can barely see two feet in front of me, much less into next week.

Everything in me wants to fight the unveiling of the anxieties that threaten to overwhelm, push them back from showing up in my day. Christians aren’t supposed to be anxious, right?  I want to ignore the smoky unknown; it is counter-intuitive to let the anxieties rise up to the surface.

But we must let them rise up, so that we can release them into His hands. Speak the fear out loud, so that He can give words of truth. Don’t run away from those places where it seems your faith is small. Run into them, look around, be honest about how it feels as you stand there. And know we have a God who can handle it.

I put my cup on the table, breathe in deep the air of a new day, pray without words to a God who knows. I become aware of His acceptance of me, and not because I finished everything on my list. Truth can be a slow rising, making no difference at first. But as each moment weaves itself into the next, as we believe Him in the great right now, His truth becomes a strand woven into the fabric of our minutes. This moment living is sweet. This moment living reminds me of who is in control and who is not. This smallness is to be celebrated, not despised. I dare not trust myself with the next step. A mature faith says I am desperately in need of a source outside of myself. I always have been, but now I know it.

Tagged Filed Underbreathe, faith 45 Comments

for when you can’t define yourself

January 16, 2012

We stand at the top of the John Hancock building in Chicago, stare down at the toy cars moving along Lake Shore Drive. It’s a Lego city with matchbox cars and pretend water from the bathtub. There’s a Barbie swimming pool on the top of a Lego building (do you see it there in the corner?) and I stand there knowing it’s real but feeling oddly like a giant person. I’m Godzilla and the city is pretend and any moment I will take a step and squash it all. Watch me lift my foot! But when I do, I lose my balance and step far away from the window because I’m not Godzilla and the building I stand in is real and I took the 45 second elevator ride to the top that proves it.

The city takes my breath away. I know it’s all concrete and right angles and gray and brown and processed. But maybe that’s the amazing part in a way. People made this, made these buildings to touch the sky. And here I stand, in midair, looking down at all those people, all those cars holding all those people with all their stories. They all have stories, don’t they?

My girl is nervous in the city – the sirens, the horns, the bustling across busy streets, all those revolving doors. Nothing stays still long enough for her to figure it out. Each time we enter an elevator she grabs us all for fear we’ll be crushed by the doors. I watch her as we enter the hotel, relief lowers her shoulders. She needs space for her soul to breathe and she can’t find it in the city. She’s glad we’re only visiting.

I marvel at my fascination with the whole thing. I’m an introvert wearing extrovert’s skin. I smile here, feel the pulse, settle in to the pace. I come alive with the movement, the lights, the color. Things are happening here. Opportunities feel touchable here. But possibility can talk the ears off a billy goat, so after a few days, I want to crawl under the bed and hide. I want to cradle my head in my hands and breathe the quiet in deep all the way to my fingertips.

We fly away and now I stand alone, boots on sugar, January wind whips straight through the quiet. I’m not Godzilla now; I’m tiny, mini, small. I stand at the edge of the world and wonder how anyone who comes here could ever bring themselves to leave.

Because just look at that. I am microscopic, invisible. I want to fill my soul up with beauty enough to last a week, find that water blue on a paint chip and color the world Sea. The kids are back in Charlotte with Mom and my husband stands where he’s been for the last ten years – right by my side. We say nothing for a long time because what is there to say? How could I have ever felt alive in the city when there’s this? I am sand-small tiny, in awe of this beauty. I feel myself relax with the pace of this place.

Yes, that’s what it is – the pace. Pace implies rhythm, and rhythm implies movement and isn’t that what we need? I need both city-life and sea-living and all the familiar things of home that come in between. I am not all introvert quiet or all extrovert energy. I am small and big, loud and quiet, thankful. I am not just one thing, don’t fit in the corner of a box. Live in your seasons, take the breaths you need, keeps eyes wide open when you can and close them tightly when you need to. This life is a gift and the giver is God and we live full in each season as it comes.

Filed Underbreathe 42 Comments

for when your future keeps changing

January 13, 2012

We live a thousand lives in one lifetime, from playing Barbies on the covered front porch in that small Indiana town, to riding bikes to the mall beside Duck Creek; from longing for love and true acceptance, to sending those tiny babies off to kindergarten with deep prayers, shaky knees, and a slight bit of thrill.

One season of my life I spent as a sign language interpreter at a high school. I interpreted what the teacher said into sign language, and if the Deaf student had a question or a presentation, I was their voice. After a few years, I became the interpreter coordinator at a local university and it was my job to hire, fire, and schedule interpreters for all Deaf students on campus. I put in at least 40 hours of interpreting, advising, and scheduling during those years. That was my life. (Continue reading at (in)courage)…

Filed Under(in)courage 6 Comments

the eternal struggle in the artist’s mind

January 11, 2012

For the days when you want to push a button and have your kitchen self-clean, want to walk out the front door and not stop until you hit water, want to curl up in a ball on the couch with a heated blanket, a bowl of ice cream, and a ten-high stack of your favorite fiction books – know that you are not alone.

For the days when you are so inspired by your art that you see sparks, when tears come just because this life is a miracle, when  you see the beauty in the mundane and ridiculous – know that we need your perspective. And tomorrow, so will you. Write it down.

For the days when you want to throw your laptop in the trash, want to put your art in a safe place, want to hide under a cloak of invisibility and hope no one notices –  know that you have the freedom to hide if you want. But is that really what you want?

For the days when you desperately need a break, when you want silence more than chocolate or sleep, when your soul flails about inside you for a breath – take one. Breathe deep the mystery of Christ, receive his favor of you, be loved.

There is a difference between hiding and resting. When we hide, we are afraid. When we rest, we are wise. It can take time to figure out which one is at work. But once we notice the signs, we’ll know for next time.

It was a pleasure to read your comments yesterday. Out of the many who spoke up, not one person said, No, I am not an artist, I don’t want to be considered an artist, and I have no idea what you’re talking about. Pass me a calculator. Maybe it’s just because of the type of people this blog attracts, or maybe those who feel that way simply don’t speak up. Or maybe we’re on to something.

Maybe we know that when we were woven together, He wove art into our beings. He made hands that want to shape both clay and hearts, eyes that long to see beauty even in the midst of chaos, spirits that long for eternity with such desperation that we will stay up way too long and get up way too early just to try to turn a phrase or write a lyric that will capture the smallest glimpse of heaven. We are made with intention, purpose, heart. O Lord, may we receive your making of us so that we may make art with our lives in response.

If you simply haven’t heard me talk enough (and surely you are tired of my voice by now), today is the third and final interview with Bob and Audrey on My New Day in Winnipeg. Our Canadian friends can watch on their TVs later today and the rest of you can watch all three interviews online. They may only be available for a limited time. I’m just glad my high school girls helped me pick out my clothes. Hallelujah and Amen. PS. I’m sure I used that apostrophe wrong in the title. Tell me I didn’t. Amen again.

Tagged Filed Underart, inspired 41 Comments
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