Picnic

This post is part of the Creativity Boot Camp, Day 2. 

***************************************

What is it about a picnic that inspires us so? Is it like coloring outside the lines? Breaking the rules a little bit? And why are we humans like that? Why do we work so hard to keep our lives the same, resisting change, creating stability and structure. Then we want to rebel. We want something new and exciting to happen. We want to do something that isn't so ordinary and boring. We want to be distinguished. We want, in fact, the very thing we do not want...change.

So, we have little ways of breaking up the sameness. We have picnics. Oh, the joy of eating outside on a summer day, spitting watermelon seeds in the grass, not worrying about the spilled lemonade or the crumbs all over. We feel free. 

And I've come to the conclusion that these little things feed our spirits. Our deviations from security and sameness wake us up a little. We delight in taking off on a road trip, eating under the open sky, stopping wherever we wish. It brings us freshness, like the smell of ripe tomatoes still on the vine, pungent and new. 

We return, though, always we return (or wish to return), to our place of security, the taste of freshness and freedom keeps our secure places from growing stale. The picnic blanket tucked away reminds us that we're still free, even as we continue to walk the daily-daily of life.

Thoughts from the beach at Lake Superior...

Last week we camped...5 days, 4 nights...just on the outskirts of Duluth. We brought the whole family + Novio.

On Wednesday evening I sat on the rock beach watching the waves come in, nestled up close to Mango, the wind whirring in our ears. Mane collected "rock babies." Vespera and Novio sat quietly, first taking pictures and then just still and contemplative. My heart was so full I could have laughed or cried. Instead I poured out my thoughts to Mango, poured them into the wind and the waves.

I have always loved the passion and intensity of teenage emotion. I love that electricity. And I think we are faced with a couple of choices as we grow out of our teenage years. We can stop feeling all that intensity because it's heavy and difficult, because it's hard to be stable and cope with life at that level of emotionality all the time. OR we can allow ourselves to feel, to be fully alive. And, in being fully alive, we have so much more experience and depth to the emtional intensity that follows. It makes your heart feel like bursting so very often, but the joy is just as deep and intense. Sometimes I feel as though I might drown in my own heart, covered over by the depth of all that I've learned and experienced since those teenage years.

I was aware, sitting there on the beach, that Vespera and Novio were in the midst of one of those deeply emotional moments. Novio comes from the ocean, and surfing was his hobby. Since moving to Minnesota he has not visited a body of water so vast that you cannot see the other side. The water and waves of Lake Superior were both the wound and the balm at the same time. So poignant. So bittersweet. The waves washed up old memories, even while we were there creating new ones.

I asked if the Lake made him homesick. His answer was heavy but quick and direct, "Yes, but Vespera is here, and I want to be with her." And they curled into each other, one wave inside another.

I honor the depth and breadth and truth of the emotions that my child and her Novio held out there in the wind that evening, while also acknowledging that the strength and depth of my own emotions go deeper...just because I've lived longer and known more, because I know them AND I know me. The wild ride of learning that we have intense and passionate emotional selves that begins in the teen years is really only the beginning. I can keep a cap on it better now if I want to, but when I sit in that quiet created by the rushing wind and crashing waves and allow myself to feel, I know that I draw from a well that is deeper now than it used to be. And I am so glad. I feel as though so many people around me have forgotten how to really just be connected to the waters of passion and intensity, of life and vitality. And the lack of connection limits our ability to love, to know joy, to be loved.

I do wonder how this relates to our ability to know God and be loved by God. God is such a powerful, intense, and vast Being. We connect a little bit to that vastness in those in-between years when we're so full of life and vitality ourselves. So much gets lost in the race to be successful, to care for our families, to do the necessary day-to-day things that we forget. We forget to open our arms wide to the wind and let the waves wash over us. We're filled with inhibitions that come from more experience, from fear. But our possibilities for understanding and knowing that Greatness, that Vastness are so much greater as we gain experience, more life, more depth. It's a conundrum, a paradox. Experience creates our inhibitions, but it also increases our potential for knowing and being loved by God and other human beings.

And this is why I love the wind and the waves. I love the way that the natural world grounds me in my humanness while drawing me into eternity, into a full, wide, expansive relationship with God and with others.

I want to live with the expansiveness of a teenager and with the tiny bits of wisdom I've gained since then. I want to put to use the full range of human life and emotion that God has granted me. I am willing.

I Am Bound For the Promised Land

I was listening to Jars of Clay the other day. They have a song on their Redemption Songs album that goes like this:

On Jordan's stormy banks I stand
And cast a wishful eye
To Canaan's fair and happy land
Where my possessions lie

All o'er those wide extended plains
Shines one eternal day
There God, the Son forever reigns
And scatters night away.

I am bound, I am bound, I am bound for the Promised Land
I am bound, I am bound, I am bound for the Promised Land

No chilling wind nor poisonous breath
Can reach that healthful shore
Where sickness, sorrow, pain and death
Are felt and feared no more

I am bound, I am bound, I am bound for the Promised Land
I am bound, I am bound, I am bound for the Promised Land

When shall I see that happy place
And be forever blessed
When shall I see my Father's face
And in His bosom rest

I am bound, I am bound, I am bound for the Promised Land
I am bound, I am bound, I am bound for the Promised Land

And every time I hear the chorus, I get all choked up, tears spring to my eyes, I get chills. And I've been completely puzzled by my own emotional response. What is it that gets me about this song? So, it's about heaven, the promised land. It's just a regular song. Not even any especially provoking lyrics. (Though the musical artistry is amazing.)

I was pondering this in the car the other day. And I had this instant of clarity. The promise of heaven means that I can spend my life on this earth to the very last breath following God on every scary, dangerous, wreckless, extravagant path, and I don't have to be afraid or anxious. Let's see if I can say this right. I can do that, not because life here doesn't matter, but BECAUSE life here really matters. It matters too much to sit around on my hands and do nothing. And since I have the promise of eternal life with Jesus, I can spend this life, I mean SPEND it, use it up, squeeze it out and it's ok because the end is not the end. Then I'll go be with Jesus. God arranged it so that we can live our whole lives here for things that really matter, and, if we have to, even sacrifice our lives, and it's not over. Hmmm... I've no idea if this is coming out right. But there's something about being bound for the promised land that means I can live this life without fear. In fact, it means I can put away the anxiety I keep struggling with. It isn't relevant.

None of this is to say that life here doesn't matter, that the small things are irrelevant. Maybe it's an oxymoron. Maybe it makes no sense. Yet, somehow, the relationships we have here, the community we build, the way we treat people, the things we fight for, the way we live our lives...those things really matter. I believe that. I don't believe that God has us all here on earth living pointless lives. God is a God of relationship, and each one of us is an infinitely valuable image-bearer. In some way, for those who choose God, the relationships we have here will exist for eternity. Though we have no idea what that means or what form they will take.

What we do here is valuable, it's meaningful, perhaps eternally meaningful. And yet, the hope of heaven, the promise of eternal life, the Promised Land that lies before us means that this life here, this human life does not have to be handled with kid gloves. As much as it matters, we can still dive in, drink deeply, live freely, and TAKE RISKS because when it's over, it's not over.

I am not a risk-taker by nature. God has led me into some of the most serious risks of my life recently, and I can only hope that somehow it's because God believes that I am ready for this stretch. I cannot begin to think that somehow I've earned this, nor am I willing to believe that this is God's way of teaching me a lesson. I only know that I am finally becoming ready to open my heart with faith and really and truly live fearlessly.

The Opposite of Faith

I just wanted to say a little something about the quote that's been hanging out at the side of my blog for a while. "The opposite of faith is not doubt, but certainty." Anne Lamott said this in an interview on NPR a while ago. She probably had no idea it would end up in print on somebody's blog. But, in any case, it resonated with me in a way I could never have expected, and the concept has come back to Mango & I numerous times in the several weeks since I wrote it down. It's just a little gem of wisdom that fits some thoughts together neatly in a new way. Lots of people scratch their heads at this idea. But here, let me break it down. If you are CERTAIN, you are not employing faith. Faith means you are believing in that which you cannot see, that which you cannot know. I am so comforted by this. Faith is not a religious platitude to make us feel better. Faith is messy. Faith is when you are living on the edge. Faith is when you are so confused and unsure and blind and scared. And you believe God anyway. Just God. You don't know anything else, except that God is. And you know the tiny glimmers of God that have flashed through the dirty lenses of life. You know some little bit of who God is. And that has to be enough. Because nothing else is certain. You simply have faith. And that isn't cute or religious or easy.

Life on a Cliff

It wasn't too long ago that I posted about how if you're really uncomfortable where you're at, and whatever you're doing makes you want to run away, you're probably just about where God wants you. It's not always like that, of course. Sometimes we have these beautiful moments where all things come together and all the stars are aligned and it's totally worth it. It's a little like walking on the edge of a cliff. You'd rather be a little further inland, but then you'd miss the beautiful view. And you'd miss all the close calls where you know that God is watching out for you because you're doing the right thing. And you'd miss that flip-flop feeling in your gut. Ok...so maybe I could do without the flip-flop feeling. The truth is, I'm afraid of heights. And I'm afraid of my neighborhood right now. I'm just so sad and afraid. I haven't felt afraid in a long time, and I know that isn't where God wants me. At Christmas I wrote about how peace is knowing that God is at the helm and trusting God. When I put it that way, I believe it. And for a few nanoseconds I have peace. I believe that God made humans this way so that we'd have to keep repeating it to ourselves for the rest of our lives. If it got too easy, we'd forget to attribute our peace to God. We'd think we figured it out for ourselves, and then we'd give ourselves a little pat on the back and forget about God. Nope. Not gonna happen. God is the One who holds all things together and keeps them from flying apart at any moment. I like to live my life faced with this enormous reality. It keeps me awake.

In the Image of God

I've written more than one paper about the truth that we humans are created in the image of God and what that might mean about us. Every once in a while I have a wave of realization regarding this truth...like I see it so clearly for a few seconds. God is clearly a God of compassion and a God who values relationship...because we humans, in the image of God, need relationship so desperately. We need to be loved and to love, to have compassion poured out on us in our grief and to pour that compassion out on others.

Seven days from the start of the Iditarod, a dog named Snickers, who was beloved by musher Karen Ramstead, died at the Grayling checkpoint. Here are some particularly poignant things Karen said about the people of Grayling and the Iditarod race (http://www.northwapiti.com/indexSnickers.html):

"I was also very touched by the compassion and genuine sympathy from the Iditarod volunteers and the residents of Grayling. They made a horrible time somewhat more bearable. And warm thanks to fellow mushers Cindy Gallea and Bryan Mills. Cindy graciously offered her skills to help hold off veins during Snickers transfusion - and Bryan Mills, in a move so kind it makes my heart ache, offered to travel to Nome with me should I decide to stay in the Race, so I wouldn't have to be alone.

That's one of the things about Iditarod, it often strips you bare and shows you for what you really are - and in the case of the folks in Grayling it showed what remarkable people they all really are."

A race is a competition, by nature. What a beautiful show of compassion for Bryan Mills to offer to give up his place in the race, whatever it might be, to accompany a fellow human being in grief. Again, I see how this is a race that is about finishing, not necessarily about where you place. He knew that Karen might wish to continue and he offered to be a companion. For Karen, the grief was too much, and she went home where she could be cared for by family and friends. Yet, the offer sticks with her, a balm in the midst of grief.

The stories of kindness along the trail are trickling in as the mushers come trickling in under the finish line banner. People call this the Last Great Race on Earth. I think I'm hooked on it, and I think I would have to agree. I love it when sports are about more than the game. ...not about whether you win or lose but how you play the game... Because that, after all, is how we run the race of life - certainly not to get to the finish line first, but to play hard and to play well.

At the edges of faith

I suppose that when you start wishing that life was easier and that you could just run away and live a quiet boring life somewhere, then you're probably exactly where God wants you.

When I start to get that scared feeling I know I am at the edges of my faith. I am at the place where all I can do is pray. Literally. Many are the times in my life when I've been frustrated by the placating response, "I'll pray for you," or, "All we can do is pray." I have never ever before known what it really feels like to be in THAT place where all you can do is pray. I mean, sure I've been in places where there isn't anything I can do. But, that's just the point. There's nothing I can do. Try being in a place where there are lots of things you can do. You must, in fact, do something. And you have no idea what the right move is. That's where my life seems to exist right now. In that place. ...where all you can do is pray. And then, slowly, quietly the move you must make unfolds. It comes from without you, not within you. But you will not get the answer before it is time. You must wait. Patience. And all you can do is pray. I don't have words yet to explain what happens next, when it's time to make the move.

This is a place of great anxiety for me. I suppose I will have learned faith when this place is no longer a place of worry.

The Road Less Travelled

I wanted to say that this blog isn't about anything. It isn't about adoption or granola living or politics or homeschooling. Though all of those things are high on my radar. And it isn't about Harry Potter or Tolkien. Though, I have an awful lot to say about both of them. It just is. It's where I'm at. Day by day.

So, last night I drove home from my cousin's house and I listened to Amy Grant in the car. First, I thought how disgusted certain people might be that I still listen to Amy Grant. Then, I decided that it was me & Mane in the car and we were going to play it as loud as we wanted. The song of choice was I Surrender All. I am captured by the lines:

Take me, Jesus.
Take me now.

I am here. And I have given my life over and over to do whatever it is that I'm supposed to do.

So, I took the road less traveled, and it's totally as unclear and untraveled further down, ok folks? Don't kid yourself into thinking that once you get so far upon that less traveled road, you'll suddenly find the way sunny and clear. Yes, there are patches of sunshine. And sometimes we just sit in them for a while to warm our backs. But then we get up and move on with our pocket knives at the ready to cut through the brush. Because we can't just sit. Then the road would start to look like that well-traveled one we didn't take. Maybe it would even morph into that road...become that road if we sat too long, getting sedentary, complacent.

And I don't mean it to sound like such a downer. It's exciting and exhilarating, and I wouldn't trade it for anything. I get tired, and I get sick, frustrated, sad, angry. But I also get those moments of complete contentment, awe, wonder. I get the moment of sheer joy. We talked about joy in Bible study...how the Hebrew word that is translated "exceedingly glad," actually means to "jump for joy." This road has those moments...the moments when we skip and leap along the narrow path rather than fight through the brush. The moments of breakthrough are well-worth the struggle.

I wouldn't trade this for easy.