Float

I'm losing my hair.
A big fistful every time I wash it, and a bunch more in between.
It's been happening for a while, but I wasn't ready to admit that it was one of my symptoms... or maybe I just wasn't sure. But I'm sure now-- and at this rate, even though I have (thankfully) a lot to lose, it's not going to take very long before it's gone.

And I am also sure that I will be just fine if I lose my hair-- that I will probably end up a stronger, deeper, more centered person. I'm sure that you, my friends, will still love me, with or without hair. And I'm sure that this mysterious, undiagnosed illness is going to pay severely, because now it's personal.

This is the part of the movie where the character clicks into hero mode. This is the training-for-the-fight-scene climactic montage, with the uplifting soundtrack blaring Eye of the Tiger. Watch out, I'm a lot tougher than I look. Here comes an epic battle.

_______________________________________________________
...At least that's what I tell myself, lying in bed. It's what I tell myself standing on the bath mat, wrapped in a towel, looking down at another clump of my hair in my hands. The truth is that I haven't brushed my hair in days, in the hopes that I can keep it attached to my head as long as possible.

Honestly, I'm scared. Losing my hair doesn't actually make me any more sick or less capable than I already have been for the last eight months-- but it some how makes it all feel so much more real, so much more serious. I've kept this idea in the back of my head that one of these days I will wander into the right doctor's office and I will get a diagnosis and a cure, and bam: within a few weeks, I'll be better. But maybe not.

As much as I would love for there to be a "fight scene" in this story-- a moment where it all gets serious and I buckle down and kick this thing, there is no way to fight when I don't know what I'm fighting. And I don't think I am supposed to be fighting right now, anyway.

Over the summer, Nolan has been taking swim lessons. It always cracks me up when the instructor has him try to float on his back-- his shoulders pinned to this ears, his face all scrunched up in concentration, every muscle in his body tense, trying to float.

But floating doesn't work that way. The funny thing is that as relaxing and peaceful as floating in water sounds, it's actually a lot of work, and it's completely counter-intuitive. If you just go limp, you sink. If you stiffen up too much, you sink. There's kind of an art to it, and it's really hard to explain to someone, but after a while, the instructor starts to let go little by little, and you hold your torso up, relax your limbs, and just... float.

There have been many times lately where I have been laying in bed resting, thinking about what it will be like to lose all my hair, what it would be like to be sick like this for the rest of my life, what it would be like if that was just the beginning, and I continued to get worse... The longer I lay there, the more these thoughts creep into my muscles, into my jaws, into my shoulders, until I start to sink. Every couple of minutes I catch myself, shake it off, release the tension that has gathered in my body and in my mind and try to lift myself up again. "The Lord is my shepherd..." I begin to recite as I take deep breaths and settle in again to the truth that I am not alone.

I don't have a lot of deep, insightful spiritual moments lately. For the most part, when I feel well enough, I am up trying to spend time with my kiddos or catch up on some important thing (like eating) that I have missed; and when I'm not well, my eyes and mind are too foggy to really focus on much. But recently I have had this quiet sense that my Creator is with me, and that He is very good. Simple as that. No promises that it will be alright, no understanding of what to do next-- just the knowledge that He is here.

As simple as it sounds, it takes work. It takes work to let go of the thoughts and fears of what-if, or the worries of all the things that are suspended in mid-air, left undone and neglected.  There is a conscious effort in remembering the moments when God was there throughout the day-- when Jack buried his face in my neck and rested on my shoulder, arms burrowed in, or I caught Chris' eye and saw that he was with me. Releasing the things that cause me to sink, and centering myself on that sense of Presence.

 I confess that I had a good cry this morning after showering and throwing away another frighteningly large handful of hair. And it felt good and honest to cry it out a bit-- to just be scared and to admit it. And there were times today when I was so exhausted and irritable, my legs buckling under me and my mind unable to focus, that I indulged myself in some mopey, martyred thoughts. But then, once I finally stopped and unclenched my jaw and released my shoulders, I found equilibrium again. He was there, and I was alive, full of life, floating.

The Rest Can Go Undone

Pounds. Gallons. Miles per Gallon. Miles per Hour. Hours...
 We have ways of measuring things as intangible as wind, speed, and time, but how does one go about scientifically measuring love? Until recently I would have told you that there is no accurate measurement, but now I know that there is: Tupperware.

I know this because I have had about 9 billion units of this measurable form of love pass through my kitchen over the last few months.

I've been sick-- on-and-off since the Fall, but really noticeably unable-to-function sick since about February. We don't know why. After countless doctor's offices and blood tests, we still don't really have any leads.

I'm weak:

• my immune system: I had a cold that landed me in the E.R. and left me in bed for 3wks
• my muscles, which buckle under me constantly and leave me unable to pick up my baby or sometimes even stand
• my stamina: I spend about half of the day in bed and can't leave the house for more than an hour or two without really paying for it later
• my mind: I am often so dizzy I can't drive, and my mind is usually in a fog that makes me frighteningly (often comically!) forgetful

But one thing I have in abundance is love: love in the form of meals delivered by friends (sometimes even strangers!!); love from friends, family and students who care for our kiddos when I cannot; love in the form of prayers, emails, texts, cards, folded laundry, cleaned bathrooms, grocery store runs, mini-van chauffeur services... The list goes on and on.

It has been an interesting season, learning to receive so much from others, learning how to ask for help, learning how to be still and do nothing. I have not been the most graceful learner, but I am learning nonetheless.

What a strange thing it is to feel so loved and so lonely at the same time. Most weeks, the only time I leave the house is to go to the doctor. There are times when friends come by to help or to bring dinner, and I have to stay in bed while Chris graciously receives and thanks them. Other times I push through my symptoms and have the joy (oh the joy!!) of being around friends, around our students, out in nature. I pay for it later-- sometimes for weeks-- but it is so worth it to be with you, to feel like myself.

There has been such a mixture of gratitude and frustration. Stillness, silence and solitude are things I ached for six months ago, but a doer and a planner like myself can go crazy pretty quickly lying in a dark, low-ceilinged in-law bedroom in the garage while listening to life go on upstairs without her. But then the gratitude--

• for friends who drive all the way across town to bring a meal (whether it's mac and cheese from a box or made-from-scratch ramen)
• for amazing health care and brilliant doctors
• for family members who drop everything and drive hundreds of miles (or even fly across the country!) to "sleep" in the same room as my teething baby
• for a husband who graciously takes on my job, cares for our kids, drives me to doctors appointments, and drops everything when I need him (seriously, I can't say enough about how incredible he has been)
• for a job that allows me to focus on my health, rather than demands performance
• for a backyard that allows me to get my vitamin D and play with my kids while I'm still in my PJ's
• for millions and millions of other little things like strangers who pray for me regularly, or Curious George, who entertains my toddler for hours while I nap, or Amazon that brings shampoo to my doorstep so I don't have to leave the house :)

And I am thankful that this doesn't seem to be anything life-threatening. Every time I get a negative test result back, I am disappointed that we still don't know what's wrong, but so grateful that it isn't all the awful things I have been tested for. My organs seem to be working, my blood work looks pretty good, I am not in any pain, and my hair has never looked better ;) There are people in this world who are truly sick, truly suffering, and I am so, so grateful for all that I have.

So I wait here in the tension-- being so grateful and so very tired of feeling this way; feeling loved and extremely lonely; learning to receive and learning to be without doing; learning that there are a few things in life-- putting my kids to bed, holding them when they cry, lying next to my husband late at night-- that no one else can really do. The rest can go undone. The house can be a mess, the laundry can stay unfolded, dinner can be delivered, makeup can be left undone, even ministry can go on without me. And through it all, I am still loved-- overwhelmingly loved, just as I am. Without any of the performing, earning or striving that feels so necessary.
It's enough to bring tears to my eyes. Maybe it already has...

Thank You, my friends, my family, my loved ones. Thank You...

An Experiment

Nazis. Spiders. Public speaking. The season finale of Downton Abbey…
The list of things that are universally hated by the general public could go on and on.

But there is one thing that I am discovering is at the top of the list for many women (maybe men too, but never having been a man, I can't say for sure). It's one of those dark, hidden, often subconscious (or at least rarely spoken of) hatreds that seem to span generations, social classes, and ethnicity. It's one of those things that we are expected to think ill of, speak poorly of, be dissatisfied with. In fact, I have never, to my knowledge, met a woman who could honestly say that she loved this enemy of the female sex.

Our bodies.

Having grown up in Orange County, daughter to a woman who actually taught aerobics at Jane Fonda's studio in Hollywood (In the 80's. With leg warmers. Seriously, it didn't get any cooler than that), grand-daughter to Miss Guatemala (no, I'm not kidding), I'd say I'm prone to worrying about my image-- specifically my body. In fact, I would go so far as to say that it plagues me, haunts me. Constantly.

I didn't have a name for it until I watched a video clip on the media's impact on women in our society. It spoke of the shame and guilt that most women feel over their bodies when they compare themselves to the photoshopped, half-starved images in the media. I had never really thought of my dark, often subconscious thoughts and feeling about my body as being shame, but I realized that's exactly it: I feel ashamed of how I look, ashamed my shape, ashamed of my habits, ashamed of the way that my clothes fit… of so many little things throughout the day involving my body.

A few conversations I have had recently showed me that I am not alone. Beautiful, confident, successful women confessing that they too feel hopelessly trapped in the guilt, shame, and the belief that their worth is unwillingly connected to their reflection in the mirror. And those friends of mine that are mothers to beautiful, innocent little girls were terrified that they would pass along their bondage and false beliefs to their daughters.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized that I simply do not have to live this way; that it was time to take action. Although it was a simple realization, I knew that the process of finding freedom from the shame, guilt, and hatred I feel towards my own body would take time, intentionality, and honestly an act of God. I mean, what am I up against here: A lifetime of messages, both internal and external, telling me that my very worth and value come from a number on a scale, a size on a label. A constant barrage of images of what and who I should be, how I should look, eat, exercise.

These are not easy things to erase.

Yet, at the same time, they are all a house of cards-- hollow, empty lies keeping me from deeper life, from real, meaningful love, significance, worth, and freedom.

And so I begin my experiment to see if I can truly love my body-- if I can learn to see it as a beautiful creation from an extravagant, loving Creator. This body of mine is not so one-dimensional that its worth can be found in a dress size-- it is full of intricacies, mysteries & complexities that science still cannot explain. In all sincerity, it is an incredible work, and I have the privilege to live in it, care for it, and call it my own.

So here is a fly-over map of my experiment (details to follow), and I would love, love, love for you to join me in any part of it:

• A New Mindset: Begin changing the way I think about my body by replacing negative thoughts with truth
• Wake up at least a few minutes earlier every morning to spend time with my Creator everyday, focusing on Him, and not myself
• Spend 5 minutes every night reflecting on where I saw my Creator at work, and where I could have responded differently to my circumstances
• Take a break from Pinterest (where I tend to find images & messages that tell me I am not enough as I am)
• Focus on Health: This is not a diet, this is not a weight-loss plan… but I have been given a wonderful gift in my body, and I want to care for it well
• Fast from sugar for 30 days to help break unhealthy habits of eating when I don't need to
• Exercise 5x's a week-- even if it's just for 10 minutes, even if it's a short walk. Some sort of exercise.
• Finish all the fruits & veggies in our farm box every week
• Think Less About My Appearance
• Put away the scale
• No clothes shopping, browsing, window shopping, wish-listing, etc.
• Limit myself for one month to a few staple articles of clothing
• Find the Real Culprit: While I don't need to feel guilt over my body, there is a real crime in the fact that I worry about my weight, while 20,000 children die of starvation every day
• Spend one month living on half of our usual food budget, sending the extra money to organizations that feed the hungry
• Spend that month praying everyday as a family for the hungry, and learning about how we can live more responsibly in light of world hunger
• Share: There is something so very freeing about bringing things to light, to realizing that we are not alone in our fear, insecurities and shame
• I am going to do my very, very best to blog about my thoughts, progress and experiments every week
• Start having conversations with others, learning about their struggles, successes, and root issues
• Invite others into the process, whether it be participating in the experience or simply praying for me & cheering me on

Some of these steps might seem small to you, and maybe they are. I want to be realistic with what I can do as a working mama of two, and while I want to challenge myself, I don't want to set any goals that will fizzle out and lead to more guilt. These are the areas that seemed to be the roots of many of my issues with my body, but it is different for every person. Also, I am going to be taking on these experiments step-by-step, not all at once in order to focus on them and do them well.

I invite you to join in the conversation, and any part of the experiment...

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discovery

It took twenty two years before anyone discovered the connection between Pink Floyd's Dark Side of the Moon and The Wizard of Oz. For twenty two years, the album stood alone, and even after it became Oz's brilliantly dark alternative soundtrack, the band shrugged their shoulders and said "I'm sure I don't know what you mean." Twenty two years.

A few days ago, I discovered something while piddling online that almost made my head explode, and changed the way I viewed God. It was as though I had unlocked some mysterious secret of the universe-- something as significant as the Grand Canyon or a redwood forest, hidden away & unnoticed for years.

Snowflakes.

No really, snowflakes.

Okay, maybe this was really just something I should have know a long time ago-- like someone running out into the streets and screaming that they had discovered a secret connection to Pink Floyd and The Wizard of Oz. Old news. But just in case you didn't know, let me let you in on a little secret: snowflakes are incredible-- like I said, mind blowing. Look at some of these microscopic photos and tell me it doesn't change your life.

The thing is, when we look at the Grand Canyon, or a redwood forest, it is difficult to be unaffected by the grandeur, the beauty, the magnificence. It is difficult for me to see something like that and doubt that there is a God, and that that God is good (and I often have my doubts). I feel small in comparison, but in a good way-- in a way that reminds me that my worries, my comings-and-goings are not quite as significant as I would like to think, and that there is a creator of beauty that is at work.

But these snowflakes-- these are something different. The Grand Canyon or an ancient giant of a tree is almost like showing off-- even gaudy in comparison to the delicate intricacy of a snowflake under a microscope. Everyday, millions and millions of these awe-inspiring crystals fall to the ground unnoticed, and melt unseen. Somewhere, a creator chisels out each one and lets them drop, undiscovered. We ask "Is there a God, and if so, is He good-- does He care?" and all the while, every day a million silent answers fall from the sky.

Maybe "answer" isn't quite the right word. When we ask God the big questions of Why?, the answer is usually not an explanation, but a statement: "I am." Why, God, is there pain & suffering? Why am I going through this? What is the point of all this? Even when Job asked, after all his suffering, Why? and God actually showed up to answer, his answer was basically "I am"... I am the creator of the heavens, the earth, the oceans, and the snowflakes. Strangely enough, that response satisfied Job's questions. It's not an answer that we need sometimes as much as the reassurance that we have a Creator who is good, who creates beauty-- around us and in ourselves-- who is big enough to keep the world spinning, but notices details and intricacies.

A snowflake doesn't end world hunger or heal my friend with cancer. It is so microscopic and delicate that all but the tiniest fraction go unnoticed. It is silent, beautiful, and undeniably created-- each one-- with care, thought, intentionality. To me, it speaks so clearly of a great joy-- the kind that comes when we make something that is Good, special. Only this creation-joy is spilling over, multiplied exponentially with every snowfall. It has no real purpose or function, was not meant to be seen or admired by anyone else, like humming to yourself when you think no one is listening. That is the image that comes to mind-- a creator humming to himself while doodling-- working, not to meet a deadline, or even to impress, but simply for the joy of creating. A God who was angry, disappointed, frustrated or uptight just wouldn't create a perfect microscopic star out of ice and send it floating down to earth for no particular reason.


It makes me wonder what else I am missing-- what simple everyday elements of life might reveal to
me some brilliant unknown. Oh, that I could approach even one day with that expectation-- even that hope. If there is joy in creating beauty, imagine the joy in discovering it for the first time.

A Celebration

I admit that when I first started driving-- oh, about a hundred years ago-- I wasn't exactly a natural. I don't recall driving up onto the curb through any storefronts, or anything (that seems like the sort of thing you would remember), but I do know that I had a bit of a shaky start. And when my whole world changed three years ago-- my identity, my name, the way I talked, slept (or didn't), ate, thought, and spent my waking hours-- I had a bit of a shaky start then, too.

For some reason, I expected to come out of the starting blocks as a natural, and I panicked when I wasn't "good at" this new role that consumed every ounce of my attention. Now, with three years under my belt, it still doesn't quite feel natural, but thankfully the panic has subsided-- or at least been replaced by a subtle feeling that I have no idea what I'm doing. I haven't driven through any storefronts yet, though, and that is encouraging.

 Three years ago, I was handed this gooey, red, screaming, highly breakable thing that had just caused me nine months and twenty-something hours of varying levels of agony. It took us a long, long time to get used to each other, to enjoy each other, to feel comfortable together. Like I said, it was a shaky start. And yesterday, on my little man's third birthday, after almost loosing it at least a dozen times, I went to bed with an ironic smile on my face, and a deep peace that did not have a home in me when we first started together.

As I lay in the dark of a quiet, sleeping house, these were the words I wanted to tell him...

Nolan: Today (and everyday) you made me completely insane. You made me want to shout profanity. You made me swell up with warmth, and you reached a depth inside me that I never knew before you came into the world. You made me doubt myself, and acknowledge my need for God. You brought out ugliness in me, and helped me to see beautiful things I never would have noticed. You forgave me when I was short with you, when I was impatient, and when I was vacant. You forgave me, accepted me, and shared yourself with me over and over again-- your thoughts, your hopes, your fears. You made me laugh, amazed me with your brilliant imagination, challenged and stretched me.

I celebrate you today, my incredible little boy-- celebrate who you are, who you will be, and who you have shaped me to be.

Come, Emmanuel

     I have seen a flurry of conversations online (and I'm sure on TV & on the radio, if I were tuned in) about the shooting in Newtown, CT: reactions, solutions, sympathy, sadness, blame. It actually took me until last night to sit down and read the details of the shooting-- I just couldn't find the desire to enter into all of the ugliness. And as I drifted off to sleep, wondering just how one should respond or how to make sense of any of it, all I could think of was Emmanuel.

  Emmanuel: God with us. There was a period of time for me when that idea or phrase was painful-- when I had heard the promise that God would always be with us, and I just couldn't feel or believe it. I don't pretend to understand the brokenness in our world or lives, or even have answers to making it right-- the issues are all so complex. But one thing I walked away with, during that dark time, is a deep belief that one day it will all be made right. It is rooted down into my bones, even deeper, and I have known people who have had everything taken from them, who celebrate the reality of that future wholeness, restoration and Presence that we are all aching for now. 

The Advent devotional I read this morning said that in medieval Europe, worship services leading up to Christmas included seven invitations for God to come: Come, O Wisdom; Come, O Lord; Come, O Branch of Jesse; Come O Key of David; Come O Dayspring; Come, O King of Nations; and Come O Emmanuel-- all were ancient titles used for the coming Savior, pleas for God to come. One of my favorite Christmas songs, O Come, O Come, Emmanuel, is a compilation of those seven pleas:

  O come, O come, Emmanuel!
  Redeem they captive Israel
  That unto exile drear has gone
  Far from the face of God's dear Son.

  O come, thou branch of Jesse! Draw
  The quarry from the lion's claw;
  From the dread caverns of the grave,
  From nether hell, they people save.

  O come, O come, thou Dayspring bright!
  Pour on our souls thy healing light;
  Dispel the night's ling'ring gloom,
  And pierce the shadows of the tomb.

  Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
  Shall come to thee, O Israel.

How appropriate those words seem. In the face of brokenness, we can call, we can plea, we can invite, and we can even celebrate the coming-- someday, the coming-- of a Healer who will be with us.

Following from the Couch

Confession: I've been having elaborate fantasies late at night when I can't sleep. Usually it is about a brownie sundae: the feeling of the spoon as it glides through the melting vanilla ice cream on top, and then the weight of the fudgy brownie underneath; the combination of warm & cold, chewing together in my mouth.

Even worse, after a day of having nothing but crackers, grapes and smoothies, I fantasized about eating a slice of Costco cheese pizza: the slightly waxy texture of the cheese, and the tinny tang of the sauce. It just sounded so, so good.

I know, its pathetic-- maybe even sinful, but what's a [pregnant, sick & tired] girl gonna do?

The last few months have felt, well, a little bleak. I have spent the majority of first trimester of my pregnancy in a horizontal position-- either on the couch (watching our lil' one play with his trains in the living room), laying on the floor (watching our lil' one play trains in his bedroom), or laying in bed (either passed out, nauseated, or fantasizing about pizza). I can barely eat, and (being hypoglycemic, and a big ball of hormones) I have the feeling that I might not always be the most charming person to be around.

It occurred to me, at some point along the way, that I was really just waiting for it to all be over-- and my waiting mostly involved scrolling through Facebook, fantasizing about the food I couldn't eat, and half-way listening to a toddler's conversation about Thomas the Tank Engine. I've been waiting, hoping & aching for a time when I could start living life again, start being useful, start participating in the universe around me, regain some of my worth and value.

I realized that so much of my faith, my identity, my life is based on action-- getting out there & doing something, or at least talking to people, and helping them to get out there & do something (I'm actually much better at that last part). And, of course, there's nothing wrong with that... but what happens when you simply can't get out there, or do anything. What happens when you can't even get out of bed, or change your kid's diapers, or keep thoughts in your head long enough to make any use out of them? Do you just wait it out until you can be of some use again, or is there life to be lived from the couch? Is there a way to live out your faith, to follow Jesus, to love, give, and experience life when you're just plain sick for months & months?

It has definitely been a huge lesson in receiving-- receiving help from others, receiving grace when I can't contribute anything, receiving love when I haven't done anything recently to deserve it. It's just plain hard to feel useless, and to know that nothing is going to change for a little while.

But I'm trying. My default discipline when I feel frustrated, mopey, or dissatisfied to is force myself to thank God for the things that I have in the moment. And let me tell you, it really helps to have been sick for weeks in a African refugee camp to give you a sense of gratitude for the rest of your life (thank you for indoor plumbing, thank you for clean water, etc).

My next question has been "What do you have for me in the moment, God?" I have a feeling there's more I can get out of this than the discipline of holding my breath & waiting for something better. Perhaps something along the lines of finding worth & identity in things other than my usefulness. Perhaps it's trusting God's plan for me in something unexpected, and undesired (we were in the process of adopting, so this pregnancy is still something I'm adjusting to).

The last part, I still haven't gotten very far with. My hope is to actually find God, and life, and hope and joy right here-- on the couch, nauseated and worn out and maybe even a little cranky. I believe its possible, but I confess that I haven't pursued it very well yet.

I'm still not sure what it looks like to follow Jesus from the couch. I secretly hope that I won't have too much longer to figure it out-- but I know that it is a question that will come up again in life, especially if (as I am discovering) much of my identity is wrapped up in what I do.

I know that they say that forming a baby is "doing" enough, but there's not much to show for it (yet), other than a growing belly, and a fridge full of ginger ale. It would be quite a task to discover Life right here in this place. As much as I want to resist it, I have the feeling it is my job during this season to make that discovery... and, strangely, it seems like an important job.