My Body as Home, an Ode to Fat

The body is a funny thing: so many cells doing their various jobs nonstop, regenerating, and making us who we are. I am slowly coming into my body and welcoming the idea that the Liturgists Podcast touched on this season: “embodiment”. My body is not just a holder of my soul. It is me. My selfhood is in my body and my body is so gracious and good to find clever ways of continuing to do its job even when I don’t treat it well, when I lack boundaries, when I shame myself at the sight of more body. How good and wonderful my body is. How good and wonderful I am.

And this claim of goodness has to include the extra fat that wasn’t there one year ago and that I could have never imagined two years ago. Those cells carry the very existence of a whole season of my life and I firmly believe I need to process that season and be grateful for the way that fat has helped me. It feels strange to talk about, but let’s consider this an ode to fat, one in which I hope to express no self-pity nor attract sentiments of about my outward beauty.

This year held a season where many days after 10 hours of work I’d drive away from school, defeated and with a string of swear words coming off my tongue. I’d make it home to flop on my bed, with no psychological capacity to even imagine the possibility of getting up. The mental capacity needed to get up and decide what to eat was too much for me many days and left me not eating or making my favorite instant noodles (Mama Oriental Kitchen Mi Goreng). Or, on a better day, I’d self medicate with Reese's peanut butter cups and all the liberal comedians I could get my hands on to counterbalance my exhaustingly conservative work environment. The lack of movement, hours on my ass in meetings and responding to emails, the Reese's cups and MSG-filled noodles make the fat that is now along my thighs, newfound lovehandles, and easily disguised double chin. This fat on my body holds the hours, days, and months of a hard season of life that I not only survived, but that I think I did my best in and that I see as being instrumental in growth and understanding that I now have.

By no means do I hope to face challenges in the same way next time and I think this season has given me the understanding I need to make different choices in the future and to ask for help in better ways. I have learned more about food and its impact on cellular regeneration, psychological health, and mental capacity. I have also learned about the unnecessary stress I put on myself and the places I hustle in to find my worth, two things which will surely lead to my demise if I don’t uproot these weeds of lies in my heart.

But the fact that I gained weight in this process of learning and growing and being challenged is embarrassing to me. While I’m sure any friends would roll their eyes and remark on how “you’re not fat!”, my old uncle neighbor knows the truth and even commented to me the other day as I walked by, “Wow, you’ve gotten so fat. Aren’t you exercising anymore?!” I can no longer button the slacks I wore in August and am at the point where I am tired of elastic skirts and wondering whether it is worth the finances to buy new clothes that fit. And if it is, then what do I do with my clothes in the smaller size? Honestly, I fear that buying clothes that fit me comfortably will make me complacent to stay this size.

But what is wrong with this size? What is wrong with having extra fat?

Somewhere deep in me is the belief that fat equals bad equals not caring for one’s body equals not taking care of the temple of God. And when a transcendent God who holds the keys for life and everlasting death gets involved, things quickly become more serious and carry more shame for me.

I feel deeply bad for having extra fat on my body. Somewhere in my psyche, my size connects to my self-worth. But there’s this internal battle going on in my mind, because at the same time, I am learning such beautiful self-love and freeing embodiment. While I want to take care of my body, I know if I set myself mainly on losing fat, then I set myself on losing and denying a part of myself. I’ll lose the acceptance of where I’ve been and the reality of what that has looked like. If I make it a goal to only lose this fat, I miss the bigger picture of health.

So while I am continuing on the journey in healthful being and I long to be healthy, I see this as being so much more than a size of clothing or making my silhouette an hourglass again. My health is in my mind, my heart, my schedules, my toes, my dinner plate, and my relationships. My health is finding my very self to be home.

On Beginning to Unpolarise Myself

I am almost fully convinced that it is only through relationships that sustainable change is going to happen. Even the big, systemic, kind of change. I understand that this realisation was simply the lived reality up until the dawn of this increasingly lonely internet era. Thanks to the world wide web, data plans, and cell phone towers, within the course of an hour after an event happens, media has 7-word headlines, 20-second clips, and 140-character tweets circulating for everyone to share, make instant opinions about, polarise, and re-share. For me to post or discuss an event from seven days ago is “so last week”, a phrase which is an insult in this ever quickening world. It is only in this world that we have to remind ourselves that relationships and connection are at the core of being human, intangibles that facebook “likes” and reshares won’t feed. And so, as we are in this world, I seek to remind myself and my readers that relationships and connection are at the core of being human. And this is where change happens. And change is needed.

I shook my head as I listened to Senator Marco Rubio talk about guns at the CNN Town Hall, but I think he was right in his observations of the true state of our polarised nation in his opening address:

“We are a nation of people who have isolated ourselves to only watch channels that tell us that we’re right. We’re a nation of people that have isolated ourselves politically and to a point where discussions like this have become very difficult.”

When disagreement is present, we -- myself included-- suddenly becomes experts, polarisation is established, and we don’t move forward. The loudest voices and the most sensationalized stories are heard and shared, and while we make rage remarks on facebook and judge either those biggots or those godless (pick your appropriate insult), meanwhile the rich continue turning their money into laws.

I can make clever facebook posts and snide quips in conversation, but it is too much work and vulnerability to let my guard down and keep both myself and ‘the other’ human (we have emotion, we desire to belong, we are worthy of love, we want to be known).

To use Christian lingo, I was convicted of this sin last year. When Trump first won, I seethed. I mourned. During one school chapel, I left to sit in the bathroom and cry, amazed at how little the missionary community seemed to care about systemic issues, feeling betrayed that 81% of white evangelicals -- what I considered “home” growing up-- would vote for Trump. By the time he became president and enacted the first Muslim ban, I had closed myself to conversations with others in real life, partially due to my workload and introversion, but a lot due to fear and anger. That night of the Muslim ban, I stayed up all night, reading, learning, and also chatting with my soon-to-be boyfriend. In fact, I can't even give myself credit for the conviction of sin, as he was the one who pointed out my ways. After patiently listening to (er, reading) me complain and question Trump and White Christians, he called me out: “How ironic," he said, "it seems to me that you're asking questions but not talking about it with people.”

That was when I knew that a relationship with him would be good for me.

That was also when I realised that though all my heart wanted to return to America and join marches and church conversations, I needed to present right where I was. If I cannot be present and engaged with the very people in front of me, why would I think I can do that very same thing somewhere else?

I haven't done too well in being present to others beyond my work responsibilities in this last year. But this last year has contained a lot of growth for me in regards to my perfectionism. I’ve learned to show so much grace to myself while repeating the mantra “I am already loved; there are no points to be earned.” With life-threatening gun laws now being discussed and solutions such as arming teachers being tossed around as solutions, I am finally ready to start planning coffee dates, engaging in relational dialogue around important issues, and opening myself up to understanding the stories of how people have come to where they are. All the while repeating to myself my new mantra: “they are already loved; they have no points to be earned.”

Write Something

I haven’t written in a while. And by “written”, I mean “written publicly”.

Because I’m waiting for the right atmosphere when the cup of coffee is still cooling down enough to drink and the candle’s scent is the exact one I wanted from Target. When inspiration has come in so gracefully and yet insistent that I use that exact moment to write and publish because I have the confidence in the inspiration being beyond myself and of worth to share with others.

Because if I do any writing in my free time it should be to update my supporters and remind them that I am, in fact, quite grateful for their prayers and finances and care across the globe as I live in a missionary world on the other side of the ocean.

And similarly, because my work contract is combined with a belief statement and so much of my ponderings and queries directly confront colonialism, the purpose of scripture, and sexual morals beyond what I’ve seen my evangelical community able to handle.

Because it is too easy to publish words and the new president of the my country posts words so frequently, with such little care, and with such immediate and ebbing responses that I, more often than not, don’t see the purpose in putting more words into the world wide web. And with click bait and numbered lists littering the internet, why would anyone want to sit and read paragraphs that include words in which a dictionary is required?

While a part of me argues that not posting my writing for these reasons and others have immense benefits, I know that when I weight the pros and cons of my excuses and the benefits, I need to just write something. And post it. Because I claim a love of words and sharing and growing. Yet I don't do the everyday hard work of the 2 shitty pages a day; the hard work of showing up even when I feel a lack of inspiration. So here’s to doing away with my common excuses and challenging myself to write more, even if it is just something.

2017 was about “presence”, for me, and 2018 is about “presence + enoughness”. So while I am working to take down the high expectations I have of myself and others, and instead being welcoming and accepting of who I am (and hopefully extending that to others), I think I need to keep a high bar to practice the discipline of regularly writing something. Even when there is no coffee in my hand or inspiration that has followed me around all day.

Maybe my “write something” will lead to someone else who needs to “read something”, but if not, that will still be enough. So this year I am going to try and just write little somethings, write what’s on my mind, not trying to analyze neither my voice nor purpose, with this blog and its few readers as my witness.

For Year 24 (Olivia)

[A birthday poem, to a friend I admire and cherish.]


For 23 years
I imagine God has been smiling
And nodding Her head
As She remembers the pieces
She had delicately arranged
To come alive at just these
Right times
Within you. 

She remembers that day 
With your parents: 
Christ tending the garden, 
Father watching the door, 
And Holy Spirit dancing twirls
And dabs around mom and dad, 
All Three choosing
The gifts
To give the world only 
Through you. 

And we, 
Without the cosmic view on all things, 
But who find themselves 
In the daily intersection
Of life with you, 
We thank God for these gifts
And for these years
Of you. 

For you, 
Asking questions until
You uncover hope in
Parts of your own story
And in our world. 

For you, 
Choosing courage until 
It spreads its wings 
And provides spaces of rest
Over us, too. 

For you, 
Offering hospitality to the 
All of who you are
That you may welcome us
And welcome God
To also be the all of who
We are. 

on poetry and hospitality

When I left my born-and-raised religious community, I found comfort in poetry. Words that rose and fell to the rhythms of all that life is. Words that softened places of shame and obligation, allowing hope to enter. Mary Oliver and Rumi still speak to my heart in ways for which I am forever grateful.

Now, though, I realize maybe it is the space between the letters and punctuation that hold more of the power. Space in which questions, despair, hope, and laughter are invited to come, rest, and be.

It is in this act of hospitality that both I and the paradoxes of life can fully show up without anyone needing to be lesser than the true beauty and mystery we’ve been created to live with. No need to hide.

To think that all of a person, an experience, or a god can be captured in mere words is foolishness. But maybe wisdom is the combined understanding of words, mystery, and ambiguity all in the same place.

When I search through my whole lexicon and find that truly no words can be put together to form the fullness of any one experience, I know I am fully human. And when I put the pen to the paper anyway, I know I’m living fully. Living into the transformative power of the paradoxes that are packaged into this life of both mourning and laughter.

These days, I’m leaving more off-white (coffee-stained) space in my poetry and in my life. Hospitality beyond just the margins. Places where there’s room for the all of life, the all of you, and the all of me.

In the Hours of the Dawn Prayer

Why, Rooster,

does your song go

unfinished

at such an early hour?

What sadness is there

which can't be told

when the crows have finally ceased

their bickering?

Mister Rooster, why don't you

finish your tale

this morning?

Tell us your woes.

Have you forgotten

how well

ears listen

when bodies sleep?

Your story will be held

safely,

waiting for minds

ready to listen. 

Journey On: My White Privilege

The gift of life was handed to me in a nice box. An invitation to enjoy the trees (which I do), to be cared for, and to love. Sure, the givers weren’t perfect: my parents and society. Rumor has it that every family is dysfunctional in their own way, and we know that “corrupt” and “politics” are usually paired like brownies and ice cream. More like velcro and every material it touches, actually.

As I’ve grown up, I’ve come to recognize my family’s dysfunction and deal with it as I can. This has felt like a journey into a black hole where most experiences lack language and leave me as if I haven’t made any progress. These same descriptions can be applied to the process of learning the injustice of society for the first (or third or fourtieth) time. Would you join me in a part of my journey to seeing my white privilege?

My quaint hometown in Iowa, cornfield U.S.A., is a lovely place to raise a family. It’s not only safe, but it also has a family fun three-day heritage festival every year to celebrate our Dutch Christian Reformed heritage.

When I was 9 or 10 I visited my friend’s home and was shocked. The house was not neatly organized, her grandma lived there, and their clothes were mismatched. I knew she was Asian, but I also knew that underneath she was actually white like the rest of us. So I took my role as the good friend and didn’t tell a single person about the differences I saw in that house. I had to protect her from people thinking she wasn’t actually normal.

When I was 16 my world started to expand beyond my hometown. A friend and I visited a mosque in DesMoines out of curiosity to understand and know how to pray for these people. That same year I started to learn about Burma. It took me by surprise how quickly the stories and culture came to find a place in my heart. I was learning that this box of life I was given could grow. This is beautiful. Truly.

And then at 18 it all got shaken.

“Band-aids come in your skin tone, not everyone else’s.”

Yeah. I’d never thought about that, but it didn’t seem to matter too much. Just interesting.

“I am never asked to speak for all the people of my racial group.”

Right...but, “my racial group”? Why would I have to? That’s a weird statement.

And I read through the rest of Peggy McIntosh’s “Invisible Knapsack”.

Reading the list of markers for privilege felt disorienting. Starting to see myself as white was uncomfortable. And listening to stories other than my own was guilt-inducing. Maybe it was a combination of shock factor and my perfectionism that let me sit in the discomfort. And a lot of grace.

Friends, when life is turned upside-down, it is not easy. It means change, and usually it feels forced upon us. Maybe even suffocating a bit. Change, as Rob Bell puts it well, is a loss. And loss calls for grieving.

When I learned that I was white (not just “normal”), when I learned the complementary stories to the histories I studied, and when I learned the privilege I carry in my skin, I felt loss. And that’s okay.

The loss I experienced (and try to continually experience) is not oppression. It is not something to be fearful of. Not something to get up in arms about (I mean that literally). The loss of an easy life because of a new understanding of injustice is real. And it also needs to be put in the perspective of the hundreds of years worth of our country’s narratives where anyone not white was continually in a state of loss. This loss is called oppression.

And today the oppression continues in the seemingly cleaned-up version of oppression called systemic racism. We can watch cellphone videos of this: black man after black man losing their life at the hands of civil servants. The policeman probably does not think he is a bad person. But he is undoubtedly a part of a bad social system. That society is what helps give us our box of life. And maybe this is where the metaphor breaks down because what really happens is society and culture-- the good and the bad-- become somehow ingrained in our life. Until the box is shaken from its hold and able to be analyzed.

White friends, let your life be shaken. Listen to the chants repeating again and again “Black Lives Matter”. Join or continue the work of ungripping systemic racism’s hold on you. And realize that you’re not going to “finish” this work. It isn’t something you can master. For me, even (especially) as a white foreigner abroad, this is daily work of acknowledging my privilege and seeking to understand situations in the wholeness of context.

The end point with systemic racism is not when I, as a white person, see my privilege. It will be when I stand next to (behind, or in front of, when asked) black and brown brothers and sisters and systemic racism no longer has its suffocating grip around anyone’s life. May this day come to pass and may it come quickly.

Journey on! Keep listening, learning, and growing:

• "7 Stages of White Identity"
• "Listening Well As a Person of Privilege"
• "'That's Racist Against White People!' A Discussion on Power and Privilege"
• "29 Harmful Things White People Do and What We Can Do Instead"
• "Please Stop Telling Me That All Lives Matter"

My Dreams of Loving Neighbor

Let’s learn another language. And be real with ourselves that neither time nor age are valid excuses.

Let’s allow the history of the soil we walk on to become a part of us, too. Always giving trust to the storyteller when their words contradict comfortable textbooks niceties.

Let’s study a religion other than our own. And do this without trying to find holes and without giving sighs of pity.

Let’s eliminate this word “effective” and stop counting conversions.

Let’s try it. 

Let’s see what beautiful things happen in ourselves and those around us. 

stone

We demand assimilation. We demand this of them.  And I confess, that left to my own understandings, I fall into living out the dichotomy. Today, this is what I mourn. 

My daily practice of empathy is just that: a practice. A practice that goes against my long-laden history of "English only", proselytization, and the labeling of others to keep ours safe. To keep myself safe. 

If they speak their language and I don't understand, where will my power be? (and if it has been lost, then mustn't I acknowledge that my power is merely a privilege?)

If they share their theology and it contracts what I know, will mine fall apart? (and if it does, would that not be evidence that our understandings are so deeply intertwined?)

If their label doesn't actually separate us, does the label have a say anymore? (and if it doesn't, from whom or what will our belonging come from?)

If these ifs transform out of questions and into realities, will my life be safe? Will it ever be the same? [No! Praise God, no!]

More and more I'm allowing questions to become realities so that truth can be the answer instead of fear-driven predictions. 

I open my heart and I live the truth that hearts of stone can be changed. 

And as I open my heart, I also watch borders close, stones be thrown, and walls built up.

And I mourn. 

But, perhaps these tears are a part of the work. They quicken the process. 

Stones turned into life. 

movement

With each plane that flies overhead I giggle a little: "I'm just the luckiest girl!" A plane. Pretending to be a bird. Carrying people. People! Movement. 

This is how my days begin, with the roar of an engine. I keep my eyes closed and imagine children returning to sleep, businessmen turning off mobile devices, and perhaps one or two giddy souls with their eyes locked to the window, prepared to see the sun rise and new lands. I try to time it so my eyes open right to the plane as it crosses the sky out my balcony door. I've practiced this for two years, wherever I'm lucky enough to live near an airport. Another one of my little games that makes boredom nearly impossible. 

Washing of the face. Feeding the dog. Teaching clothes packed. Pedal. Pedal. Pedal.

The salutes of security guards superfluous. It's another guessing game: which language will they greet me in, how long will their eyes follow me, and whatever do they do all day? My white skin is what men and women here labor for. In America, I'm pasty. But here I'm beautiful. Coupled with blue eyes? Sometimes I wonder if it is this combination that has gotten me so many friends. 

Eyes quickly return back to phones. Always back to the phones. Let's add filters to this time we have together. Let's enter into a more expansive world called "Online". Meanwhile, another airplane's engine roars and the joys of life-- the joys of now--pass over the heads of those around me. 

in this dry land

This is my first rainy season. My first time of packing ponchos and plastic bags "just in case". A season where all previous plans can be put on hold when the rains come. And, they do come. Before we even know it, the clouds have moved over the mountains and are upon us, in this valley. 

Many of these seasons have come and gone. It's the rhythm of the land and of life here. I'm joining into the rhythm late, but still joining nonetheless. I bring with me foreign eyes, which allow me to see more than I want to, at times. 

I see the rains, but I also see that I am living in a dry, dry land. 

A country where fear and politics are intertwined; where obeying authority is a core value in the country's education system. 

All behind smiles. 

The welcoming smiles world-renowned to bring in tourists and feed the economy. Yet smiles from behind which speak words of xenephobia and the need to protect from "otherness". 

This is one of the most well-off nations in the region, attracting migrants from surrounding countries, and even refugees from as far as Pakistan and northern China. Yet the government refuses to see refugees as such and a whole sector of economy is maintained by those who have been deemed unwelcome. Those who work under a shadow of fear cast from an unstable military [government]. 

There's a tricky dance happening between modernity and the preservation of tradition. I watch this dance every day. The more I learn the language, the more I'm able to speak this dance, as well. A dance to the tune of the monks' chants, revered songs of respect, and imported Karaoke songs which carry through the night. 

Tonight I lay in bed as the wind brings the music through my windows. I wonder, will the rain come like it does here? Sometimes quite suddenly. Or, perhaps, the clouds have already begun forming. Transformation is a slow work, and one that requires many ingredients. So I close my eyes, pray, and hold onto the hope that the rains, indeed, will come. 

Dear White Pastor,

Greetings! My name is Christina Hibbard and though I haven't necessarily been to your church, I want to thank you so much for your teaching, how you walk humbly, and your desire to shepherd the church. Currently I am in South Carolina, preparing to move overseas for teaching and ministry. While here, I feel compelled to share a piece of my response to the general white church, of which I am a part. 

As I listened with anticipation to your sermon this father's day, I felt hurt and unknown for how you addressed the massacre in Charleston. Though I am not a person of color, I try to make choices and act as an ally. For a practice in this allyship, I frequently examine issues and listen with ears not only mine but those from other groups: be it race, religion, sexuality, etc. I'd like to elaborate on why I felt so hurt, please, and I thank you for your reading and patience. 

What hurt is that the core issue of the shooting at the Emanuel AME Church has not been addressed by you: racism. This issue, though not pleasant, is, in one way or another, a daily reality for every black person in the U.S. To not address it as the cause for the massacre is to not address this reality for people of color--specifically the black community. When race is left out of the conversation where it needs to be, identity, culture, and history are left out for anyone who does not identify or look like the majority white. 

The forgiveness shown by the families of the victims was beautiful and I praise God that He can make good out of evil. This is a beautiful part of the event to share, and I am glad you mentioned this piece of redemption. Yet then you brought this ability to forgive to your congregation. You challenged the church to imagine their response if someone of another race had come and shot in your house of worship. When you said this, the race issue was normalized and minimized. The racist component--the core part of this situation-- was left out of the conversation. Racism cannot happen against us white folk. Prejudice, yes. But racism, in its nature, requires not only prejudice but also power. 

I grew up in Pella, Iowa. And Pella, you see, is a small, predominately white (specifically, Dutch) town surrounded by rural farms. When I was in Pella, traveled from Pella, and eventually moved out of Pella, I carried with me a white superiority complex. As you know, this is generational sin and this is systemic. I work daily to surrender and retrain my thoughts. During my 18 years in Pella, I never heard race discussed except as a concept in history. I believe there is deep truth in Desmond Tutu's words: "If you are neutral in situations of injustice, you have chosen the side of the oppressor." The realities of racism were not discussed when I went to school, to church, or at home. Or, if they were, there was no sense urgency or need for change. My formative years in Pella were neutral regarding the injustice of racism and my white superiority was solidified more and more. 

With a lack of diversity, I can understand this shortcoming in my upbringing and perhaps the shortcomings in your own church. All excuses must be thrown to the side now, though. Black Lives Matter is making voices heard through the systemic injustice to anywhere with internet. Furthermore, the violence has reached the Church and there is no excuse. (Why did it have to directly affect the Body of Christ before we listened? Are not any acts of violence a hurt to the Body?) 

This has to be addressed. Our black brothers and sisters in Christ are dying in the House of God. How can we remain silent? How can we not pray and ask God to show our own prejudices within?

In the last two weeks, there have been eight churches burned. Eight. All eight being black churches. I'd ask, please, that race is brought into the picture and mentioned from the pulpit. I ask that you would lead the church in prayer and in a humble response of listening. I pray against fear.

I really appreciate what Rev. Sekou, Jo Ann Hardesty of the NAACP, and Eric Knox of Imago Dei Community shared regarding responses of white Christians in this interview. It is deeply convicting to me and I continue to pray for all my white brothers and sisters regarding this.

I thank you for taking the time to read this and, again, for your leadership in the church. I thank you in advance for how you will continue to pray about this issue and for our black brothers and sisters. 

In peace and with hope for reconciliation, 
Christina Grace Hibbard    

The Waves of Questions: Colonization

I am not here to colonize. I am not here to live luxuriously while you suffer or to promote English Only. Listen to me: I'm not. 

But you can't just listen to my words and believe me, you have to listen to my story: my history. I am my own person, yes. But more than that, I am a part of a history and a culture and this is alive and active in who I am. To separate myself from that would be giving in to one of the biggest lies white culture tells.

My skin color and Christian faith is enough of a historical red flag. Add on my US citizenship and native language and I'm a recipe rich in imperialistic history that needs to be examined before I step foot onto a plane and off into some developing country with all my foreign money or good intentions.

"To hell with good intentions," Ivan Illich declared.

Generations have come before me. The land I live on is "mine" because of blood shed, people coerced, and proselytization. The education system I learn in and will soon teach for is white washed and not pretty; text books excluding whole peoples and realities.

I cannot ignore the systems and history that shape who I am and how others see me.

Does this mean staying? Not necessarily, because too often staying "home" means staying stagnant. And, no, because I have to believe that systems change. That power can be transformed. Not in and of myself or with my white friends. But in realistic communities which reflect the life around us. In asking questions and listening for understanding.

The waves of reality come in and I let them wash away any facades I have of my good intentions overriding my racial, ethnic, and religious history. My intention is not to colonize, but my history lends me towards subconsciously acting out of a colonizing mindset.

I keep walking, next to my brothers and sisters from different countries, races, native languages, sexualities, and religions. And I push through my paperwork for the new school I will teach at: A Christian school in Buddhist Thailand. Here I go.

Water and Buds and Lightning Across the Sky

For an hour (maybe it was more or maybe it was less)
I had sat, captivated by the lightning I saw right when I blinked my eye. So I stayed and I watched the branches of the trees become silhouettes while the still-brown leaves of the oak trees rustled in their goodness. Wind through the leaves and the tufts belonging to the geese who just returned home.

Then there was that time, the wind paused and it was silent. A holy silence filled with the many thanks from the trees and the blades of grass still under the soil and the now-calm water on the lake. Thanks given in a million different ways from the millions of different creations around me and I, there, in the midst of it
a witness to this gratitude.
A gratitude filled with trust. Trust that life is being redeemed, it is being made new;
the rain will come.

And when it did come, I, the last of all,
gave my thanks.

The Invitation

In these last few weeks, I can't help but return to the same image again and again. In it, sometimes the sun is shining bright so I have to squint, and other times the sky is a palette of greys, blending with the frozen lake. No matter what, there's the tree. Bare of leaves except at the tippy top. There, on the small branch coming from the larger one, coming from the trunk, there's a leaf. One leaf, just hanging there.

When I first saw this, I sat, puzzled and feeling contemplative with my cup of Earl Grey in hand.

Then I heard, so clearly from somewhere inside of me or maybe whispered from the tree: 
"you weren't created for this."

But what, exactly, is this? Does this refer to the place I'm at right now? Or the place I'm preparing to go? Or maybe it's more of a spiritual state I'm in? Or a way of operating? Is it the friends I have or maybe the ones who have left me? 

There's no answer. So, I continue returning to this image and continue asking this question.

I wrote a poem about the leaf (what a tree-hugging Romantic, I know...bear with me). And as I re-read it, I realize that maybe it's addressed more to myself and to you than to a leaf. 

The Invitation 

When the southern winds move northerly, there comes the invitation you were created for, though maybe you didn't know it until the winds themself sung:

"Come learn the dance which begins

with letting go of what you know

until something greater can grow.

But first you must leave.

It's in your name, you see.

Come,"

she laughs and dances on.

But you stay, somewhere between being a faithful companion and a stubborn coward, and ask questions on the details of matters you can't yet comprehend.

So you see seasons you were never prepared for, full of joys and tears and trials just as life always is. And when you finally pause you hear, again, the never-ending chorus of the winds:

come, let go of what you know, and join in the journey.

Again and Again

After your soft heart has been ripped through

by Suffering Unexpected

and it seems nothing will grow here again,

Grace remains

patient to hold you tight when you pound and pound,

begging questions with no answers.

Held tighter still.

Grace that never stops, always present

and chasing after you as you

scurry about,

retracing memories and promises and always

needing just one more piece,

looking under rocks through the woods

and sometimes the houses too.

Which began when first words were uttered, now,

it sits with you, on this tree stump

and tears help flowers grow

where life was taken.