Embracing Mystery

A few weeks ago, on Martin Luther King Jr. Day, the kids and I walked around the block at night holding lit candles in our hands.

Over the last several weeks, I've had many conversations about life and faith with various friends of mine -- talking about what it is, what it has meant as part of our life journeys, asking questions, trying to puzzle things out.

One dear friend shared his personal journey on his quest with faith --- how it has changed, how he isn't moored as he once was, how that change surprised him, and that he's not sure where that's headed or what it looks like for the future. There was so much beauty in that conversation: in its possibility, in its connection, in its honesty. 

There's something really lovely about honoring those journeys -- all of ours -- and being able to talk about life -- and questions -- so openly, and in very candid ways. It's freeing, and makes me feel more open and connected and full of love for everyone I meet.

And just today, I had the blessing of talking with a whole room full of folks about the idea of faith. And I shared a quote from a fiction novel I'm reading, about a man who goes as a religious leader to a small Indian village. Everyone in the village attends their worship services except for the schoolteacher, and this excerpt is a conversation between the two of them (the schoolteacher and the vicar). 

These words leapt off the page at me when I was reading one night, and they've stuck with me ever since:

“There was one more thing he felt it his duty to inform the vicar. The vicar might as well know right now that as for himself, he was an atheist; he considered Christianity a calamity. He believed that any man who professed it must be incredibly naive. The young vicar grinned and agreed. There were two kinds of naiveté, he said, quoting Schweitzer; one not even aware of the problems, and another which has knocked on all the doors of knowledge and knows man can explain little, and is still willing to follow his convictions into the unknown. ‘This takes courage,’ he said, and he thanked the teacher and returned to the vicarage.”

(from I Heard the Owl Call My Name by Margaret Craven)

I LOVE this idea that man can explain little. 

I think I love it so much because, the older I've gotten, the more mystery there is: in life, in the journey, in the joys and sorrows, in the questions, in the people that come into your orbit, in the whys and hows and I don't knows.

And sure, there's a part of all of that that can be really difficult: stubbed toes still hurt. Fear can be immobilizing. Life can jar you, and suddenly you don't see things like you once did, and maybe you're unsure of what you thought you knew. You might wonder who the hell you are. Obstacles may seem insurmountable. Sometimes broken hearts still ache and feel...broken. Piercing questions don't just go away. Pain sometimes has a way of going slow. 

I get all that. I do.

I mean...life happens, right?

But maybe -- because life happens -- these ideas take my breath away all the more.

Reflecting on these conversations over the past couple of months leaves me feeling grateful for what has been shared with me, and for the beauty of friendship and love and hope.

I love the mystery of the journey: its gentleness and ambiguity, its sometimes harsh realities, the endings, the beginnings, the hush and go. 

These days I have a lot more respect for it -- and for whatever that looks like: from my vantage point, or yours. There's something really lovely about putting our arms around each other for this walk, sharing our lights as we hold our hearts in our hands.

There's something about embracing possibility, choosing hope, living in faith.

It has made all the difference for me.

And there's something really beautiful about taking your little light and stepping forward into darkness, in whatever facet of your life---even when you don't know where you're going, or how it's going to go.

But you step anyway.

Believe

Last night, sitting on the couch at Christa's and surrounded by family, I opened a gift my sister Sarah gave to me.

It was small, so little, and as I was unwrapping it, I couldn't figure out what it could be.

And then, I pulled out a small necklace on a lovely, simple chain. It was engraved with some tiny words, a quote from Christopher Robin in Winnie the Pooh.

One of my other sisters asked me to read it out loud for everyone, and I began.

But by the time I got to the word "believe," 

I couldn't speak any more.

My eyes flooded with tears. 

I sat there, struggling to gain my composure, before I could go on.

"Promise me you'll always remember: 

You're braver than you believe, 

and stronger than you seem, 

and smarter than you think."

Don't we all need to hear this?
To believe in ourselves?

To believe that we're worth it?

To believe that we're strong and brave, 

that we can do hard things?

It was a timely gift for me, and beautiful.

And now?

It's hanging around my neck, joining another necklace I always wear as a reminder of my sweet dad---the one I never take off. 

Emotional Work

(Disclaimer: This is a total processing post.  I came to the computer on emotional overload.)

I've had a day full of emotional negotiations with my children.

I'm exhausted and the day isn't close to being over yet.

I think?, maybe often, my mothering, as presented on the blog, could look like things are always rosy and figured out and neat and happy.

But they aren't.

There are days, like today, where I end up losing my cool as I'm trying to handle someone else's emotion.  

There are times when I raise my voice and I'm rude to my kids.

There are weeks where sometimes I feel like the offering that I have to give to them just isn't enough, that I'm failing them, that it's laughable that I'm supposed to be the adult here, or a role model for them, times where I just know I won't ever measure up or be what I need to be.

And it isn't just about seeing that as a mother (tho I see this all the time); it's about seeing what's lacking in my person, too, falling short in lots of other ways.

Over the last couple years of my life, I've been logging lots of things inside.  I've been processing and evaluating, pretty much on repeat, exhaustively, and I've learned a lot, but two things are coming to mind right now.

Forgiveness and acceptance.

Acceptance of what you can't change.

Acceptance that you are giving everything you've got, and if it isn't enough, it's still the best you have to offer.

And that, even when it isn't what it should be, it has to be okay.  You are doing the best that you can.  
And that isn't a cop out, by the way.  
I mean it---in the sense that acceptance means facing the realities, too.  Looking at a situation or a relationship or a problem and really seeing it for what it is -- that means acknowledging where it isn't enough, and accepting it.  Accepting it, even if it makes me uncomfortable, or even if everything inside of me wishes I could change it in a snap.  Wishes I could somehow be better or handle everything how I'd like to, or know the right thing to do.

I've realized, more than ever before, my humanity: my mistakes, my weaknesses, my failings.  I've looked, up close and personal, at my personality flaws, and that has led to some pretty eye-opening discoveries.  It has stretched me and forced me to be honest with myself.  And, in willing to be honest with myself, I have found huge relief.  In a very personal way, in a way I can't even articulate, I have felt deep down into my soul how profoundly personal the atonement is, how personally crafted it is, how it reaches out one-by-one.

Surrendering to the chaos and the process and allowing myself to accept it has helped me to forgive. And I'm not talking here about forgiving others, tho I think that's part of it, too.  I'm talking about forgiving myself, about acknowledging those parts of ourselves that are hard or that we wish were different, the stuff we're always working on, the ways we never feel we will be enough.

I've realized that I struggle to believe that I'm enough, and maybe all of us do.  Maybe this is part of it.  

Some days and weeks and months are hard, even tho they aren't without staggering joy, too.  The pain and hard is also entrenched with joy, with moments that make me stop and take in what an amazing, incredible gift life is.  Small, simple moments that I can put away and feel good about: small successes, small minutes of reassurance, small, meaningful conversations with people I love, a quiet listening ear, small moments where God lets you know of His love for you, or laughing, so hard, with a friend for a few quick minutes.

And maybe it's actually about realizing that we aren't enough, and that's the point.  

That we're fallible.

That we fall short.

That things aren't always how we like them, that life isn't like that.

And, ultimately, that that's okay.

Maybe it's really about learning to say "I'm sorry."

Maybe it's about being willing to try again.

Maybe it's about realizing that anything worth having involves emotional work, and lots of it.

Maybe it's about that beautiful process of being humbled---because ultimately, being willing to submit to that helps you to heal and to connect and to love others deeply.  

Seeing the humanity in you makes you less shocked when you find it in others.  

Acceptance.

Forgiveness.

Peace.

Moving forward.

Tears

I've cried so many tears in the last year and a half.

More than I ever have in my life, I think.

Tears of sorrow.

Tears of gratitude.

Tears of sadness.

Goodbye tears.

Afraid tears.

Overwhelmed tears.

Tears of regret.

Tears of inadequacy.

Tears full of love.

Tears full of hope.

Tears in the quiet, alone -- just me and God.

Tears in the arms of friends.

Tears on the phone.

Tears while texting.

Tears when I'm out running.

Tears of amazement, as you stand there humbled.

So many, many tears.

And the other night, on the couch, shedding yet some more...

I found myself thinking about how they've washed me.

Those tears have washed my heart out, let it all rush through and out and around.

So cleansing.

So healing.

Sometimes, crying is the very best thing to do.

Living With Hope

A year ago, I said goodbye to my Dad.

I said goodbye to being able to physically interact with him.

I said goodbye to conversations and laughs, 

traditions, working together, late night phone calls just because.

When I look at these photos, I remember climbing into bed beside him.

And I remember always being able to go to him as a little girl when I was afraid in the night.  He would let me snuggle up next to him for as long as I needed.

Or take me downstairs to get a snack of bread and butter with honey 

in the middle of the night.

He was there, always.  

Tender, quiet, gentle, concerned.  

He gave the gifts of strength and confidence and love.  

Always love.

These are really the last photos I have where I can see my father there -- a trace of his smile, his knowing, quiet eyes, the concern and love that he always had for others.  

Time was short.

He died just four days later, on a Friday afternoon.

Looking at these today, I am reminded of something 

Elder Wirthlin said in General Conference 8 years ago.

He referenced Good Friday, that Friday of Fridays, long ago, 

when the Savior was crucified.

He says "it was a Friday filled with devastating, consuming sorrow that gnawed at the souls of those who loved and honored the Son of God." 

And then he continues with this:

"But the doom of that day did not endure.

The despair did not linger because on Sunday, 

the resurrected Lord burst the bonds of death. ...

And in an instant the eyes that had been filled with ever-flowing tears dried.  

The lips that had whispered prayers of distress and grief 

now filled the air with wondrous praise."

Then, after pointing us to thinking about the resurrection, 

he makes greater application for every aspect of life, 

not just when we are facing death.  

"Each of us will have our own Fridays---those days when the universe itself seems shattered and the shards of our world lie littered about us in pieces.  We all will experience those broken times when it seems we can never be put together again.  

We will all have our Fridays.

But I testify to you in the name of the One who conquered death---Sunday will come.  

In the darkness of our sorrow, Sunday will come.

No matter our desperation, no matter our grief, Sunday will come. 

...I testify to you that the Resurrection is not a fable."

I love this so much.

Whether you have kissed someone goodbye, watching life slip from their body, 

or just have encountered, 

as we all do, 

crushing disappointment and sorrow and hardship, 

there is hope.

And we all have times where we have to believe that.

My life, over the past year, has been full of many difficult surprises and turns.  

There have been so many emotions.

I have had to say goodbye more than once,

and in more than one way or circumstance.

I have felt broken.

I have felt beside myself, not knowing what to do.

I have felt angry and hurt.

I have struggled to feel at peace with myself, 

to forgive myself, to move forward.

My heart has ached with sadness.

But.

Even in those Fridays, I have noticed Sunday all throughout.

That is what I am thinking about today.

God doesn't leave us alone.

He sends angels -- in the form of people, and blessings, and comfort, and peace.

He gives you so many reasons to laugh.

In quiet moments, He reassures and steadies.

He blesses you in ways that you feel you don't deserve.

He cleanses and calms your heart by letting you know that Sunday is real.

His great gift is that we can trust Him; we can have hope.

And what I love about it is that hope propels us forward. 

It doesn't allow me to sit still and stagnant, 

stranded, without a way home.

No.

Hope whispers that all will be well,

that we are in God's tender care,

that we are experiencing exactly those things that we need to.

And, the secret I have found?

That in the moments that you feel you are broken, those cracks become filled with joy and peace and knowledge that doesn't come any other way.

It is there that God offers you "beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness." (Isaiah 61:3)

God lives.

I know this.

His matchless gifts of peace and love fill me with joy.