A few months ago, in the too-tight back room of Starbucks, after a hectic night of slinging coffee, a co-worker guy asked me, "So, what's your secret? Like, how is it possible to stay happy all the time?"
Somehow, I have this reputation for being happy.
all. the. time.
I am not sure how I got this. I am definitely sure I don't deserve it. But somehow, some way, Jesus is shining through despite the one thousand ways I could screw it up.
I stared at him for a minute before responding, trying to decide if he was serious (he was) and if that even mattered (it didn't) because I wanted to give my answer either way.
I could have gotten all spiritual. I could have. But I know a lot of spiritual people that are stiff Crabbies, with a heart of granite, and when they give you an answer about something, you walk away feeling a little bit like you left the twilight zone. Something got missed. An interpersonal connection did not happen even though there is the distinct feeling it should have. And honestly, I think he kind of expected that answer from me. So I dug a little deeper - past all the pat answers that can be found in the Christian 101 handbook, past all the cliches that get memorized and flung across relationships more than actual Jesus words do, and I got real instead.
My answer was simple. Just three words.
A grateful heart.
He repeated it back to me but when he did, he said it a little loud and a little slow, like I was suddenly not speaking English. Like he couldn't believe that was the best I could do. A grateful heart??
Yes.
Look around. Look every day and notice all the really rad things that are happening in life because they are there, and when you see them, when you really let them capture you and you soak yourself in it, the gratefulness lifts you and there's just not any space to be anything but happy.
Pretty good stuff.
right?
I woke up this morning and turned 38.
I woke up this morning and turned 38 without a grateful heart.
I woke up this morning and turned 38 without a grateful heart and went to make coffee in my kitchen that does not work.
I woke up this morning and turned 38 without a grateful heart and went to make coffee in my kitchen that does not work and saw balloons and roses with a card.
I woke up this morning and turned 38 without a grateful heart and went to make coffee in my kitchen that does not work and saw balloons and roses with a card surrounded by nails and dust and empty spaces where sinks and drawers should be.
I woke up this morning and turned 38 without a grateful heart and went to make coffee in my kitchen that does not work and saw balloons and roses with a card surrounded by nails and dust and empty spaces where sinks and drawers should be and instead of reading the card my sweet husband gave me,
instead of smelling the roses ripe and red,
instead of smiling up at balloons that bounced,
I stood in my kitchen and did what anyone with an ungrateful heart would do.
I began to cry.
It wasn't anything dramatic. No wailing. No snot. No red face. Just a few silent tears that zigzagged around my 38 year old eye crinkles, and before I could erase them from my face, before I could take a breath and stop feeling sorry for myself,
my husband saw,
and just like my tears fell to the floor, I saw his heart drop from his face.
And I did what anyone with an ungrateful heart would do,
I walked away.
Too consumed with myself to give any grace, any kindness. And I left him in the kitchen that does not work, alone, staring at the balloons, and the roses, and the card I had not opened.
I. know.
I am definitely not the hero in this story.
Thank God we take turns at loving each other best.
Thank God it's Sunday and I was headed to church to get smothered in some Jesus.
Thank God when Jeff and I stood singing and I grabbed his hand,
ashamedashamedashamed
he grabbed mine right back and squeezed. Hard.
Thank God I was reminded of the power of a grateful heart.
I am now sitting on my couch, with my feet up on my office chair, surrounded by drawers and cabinets wrapped in plastic, my dishes piled next to the bathroom sink, pictures of all whom I love are covered in dust, and my food is somewhere in a box in the garage, along with a dustpan I cannot seem to find to scrape up all the dirt I swept but has no place to go.
Yesterday this made me angry. Two days ago - angry. Three days ago - the thought of it - angry.
But today, my windows are open and I feel the breeze on my skin. I can hear the birds, chirping and squawking and making more noise than I have ever noticed before. I see green trees in my window. A metal cross my husband made for me hangs on my wall.
And I am relaxed.
I am texting my daughter, who still calls me "Mommy", who is somewhere near Alaska, about birthday tattoos and secret Starbucks frappacino recipes. My other daughter honored me on Facebook - which is pretty much equivalent to a billboard rental over the freeway, so yeah, my kid is cooler than yours and I am officially cooler than you. For now. I ate lunch with my son who made me laugh so hard I snorted. My husband is currently making the sink work in our kitchen, but earlier he stood behind me in the bathroom and kissed my neck and whispered into my ear that has a giant, scabby, mosquito bite on it making it hideously unsexy, how much he loves me and how beautiful I am.
I am blessed. I am rich in all of this goodness, all of this life that has been so graciously given to me.
I am grateful for the reminder ...
I can see it
or
I can not see it.
My heart will beat either way. But it beats better when it beats grateful.
May 18, 2014
May 9, 2014
highhighhigh and higher still
I got saved in a Pentecostal church. I know - that sounds very Christian-y doesn't it? What does that even mean?? It means I met Jesus and decided yes, I am a sinner, yes, I need forgiveness, yes, I am going to go ahead and ask him for it, yes, I am going to ask him to change me from the inside out. And I did this in a church where I heard people talk in words that were not words and they sounded like crazies, in a place where people clapped and sometimes shouted "Wooo Jesus!!! Oh my Jesus!" and then danced, in a place where people would shake and fall to the floor and others would walk by and lay a blanket over the legs of the ladies so they wouldn't accidentally show their stuff when they got back up again.
it was weird. and scary. and i used to just watch. i would scan with my eyes and pick out the people i was sure were faking it. at first it would bother me but now i think, so what? So what if they wanted something to happen so much, if they thought they needed it so bad, they cried and flapped their hands and dropped to the floor themselves?
There are worse things.
I would talk to my friends that experienced all this weird stuff and those that didn't. I thought it was cool we could just sit in the same place with Jesus, together.
And then one day it happened to me. I got laid out. I felt this thing, surge through me so hard, my body could not remain still. I cried. This is not unusual. I almost always cry when I worship God. It's my way. But the rest? The rest was not my way.
And i fought it.
There was no way I wanted to fall to the ground. I didn't want someone to walk by and cover me with a sheet. I didn't want anyone to look at me and wonder, is she faking? Is that girl for real?
And then I went down. I laid there, pulsing and shining with .... God. And I didn't care anymore who saw me or what they thought or if i looked awkward laying there or if I sounded like a freak show with all this weird stuff coming out of my mouth. All i knew was I was being immersed in Him. dunked to the core, and I thought to myself - this is what people who get high try to feel. And I'm getting it from God!
And then, a few years later, a lot of bad stuff happened. My life crumbled apart. Not only did I not feel God anymore, but I was pretty convinced He had left me hanging, and so I did what a lot of people do when they feel like God has stopped listening to them.
I tried my hardest to self-destruct.
Some people believe in Karma. I don't think so. Karma says you get what you deserve. And although I believe completely what you put out there comes back around a lot, I also know, mercy and grace beats out what we deserve
every
single
day.
Because most of us are a-holes. Some of us are recovering a-holes and so it only comes out every now and then. Some of us try really hard to beat the a-hole inside of us down and we pushpushpushpush, but eventually it springs back up and punches us, and that other person that knocked on your sleeping a-hole's door and woke her up, in the face. The trick is to look at the inner a-hole - eye to eye. Don't pretend she's not there. Acknowledge her. And then lift her up.
highighhigh higher still.
And just say, "Ok God, I'm not sure why you want this a-hole but I'm giving her to you". And you know what?
This makes God's heart beat faster. He loves this stuff.
The key is to do this
every
single
day
His mercies are new every morning. That's 24 hours peeps. Some of us need new mercies every five minutes. That's cool too. Lift up that a-hole however many times you need to. God never refuses to take more.
So I found myself at church last night. Well, that sounds funny right? I didn't find myself there. I went there purposefully with my husband. There is a conference going on about the moving of the Holy Spirit and we wanted to check it out. My husband is fascinated by healings. I am wary of them. My husband prays in tongues all the time. I do it rarely. He hears stories of people being healed, falling in the spirit, demons coming out, and his face lights up. I hear the same stories and my face closes up.
Obviously we are not on the same page as we walk inside. Honestly. I wasn't even sure why I agreed to go.
Before I continue, some of you are thinking, "oh here she goes. Now she's going to say God laid her out and everything is sunshine and butterflies".
Nope. Just so we're clear.
I love worship. I love the music, all the voices rising together, everyone in one place focused on the same thing - Jesus. It is so beautiful to me. And so I cry.
I'm crying, singing, hands up ... and the worship leader says something about "wanting more from God". You know, believing God has more, desiring to get more, being open to all God wants to do in your life. And i thought to myself,
"When did I stop wanting more?"
And my mouth went a little dry.
And just like i try to give God my a-hole every day, I think it's pretty important to give him all my not very Jesus-like, good religious girl thoughts, as well. And so I lifted it straight up. I mean, He already knows I thought it. I don't really say much when I give it to Him, just toss that sucker in the air.
Worship ends and this visiting preacher starts speaking. I was tense. I expected not to like him. I expected him to rant and rave and shout and flail his arms around, trying his dang-est to convince us all God was going to do miracles last night.
He didn't do that.
He was the opposite. Mellow. Funny. Honest in his short-comings. And I felt myself relax, heard myself laugh, and I thought to myself, "Ok God. I'm listening."
God really likes that. When we listen.
It was towards the end, when I began to get sleepy and my legs were cramping, when my heart was shot. People were standing up and getting prayed for and walking to the front and talking into the microphone about how God had just healed them. Like in that minute, that five minutes. I felt my eyes narrow. I am sure my face said, "Skeptic"! Because I was. And then the preacher said something, said something about a woman being healed who wasn't expecting it and another woman that was healed who was. God does whatever he wants. He can heal. Or not. He can heal those that love him. And those that don't.
He's God. He gets to choose. But if you can, expect. If you are open to it, expect. If you want it, expect. That doesn't mean what you are asking for will happen, but something will. Expect something from God.
I was caught up though, not in the healing or the not healing, I was tangled up in the word "expectation."
I thought of all the things in my life I had expected.
I expected to have a mother that protected me.
I expected to have a father that didn't leave me.
I expected to have a grandfather that didn't take my clothes off.
I expected to have a family that I could count on.
I expected to have a husband that kept his vows.
I expected to have a valentine's day with love and chocolates and flowers.
I expected to have a romantic dinner with conversation.
I expected to have a marriage that didn't fall apart.
I expected to have friends that didn't turn their back on me.
I expected to have a church that would lift me up and help me keep moving forward.
I expected a lot of things. And every single one of these expectations left me feeling ripped apart and shattered. Not one of them came true.
I began to cry a little in the car when Jeff and I left. You see, Jeff's face glowed with expectation. He was like a kid on his birthday, just knowing, something good was going to happen.
I knew my face didn't shine the same way. Or at all. My heart hurt.
I looked at Jeff and said, "How am I supposed to learn... how i can allow myself the luxury of expectations when my whole life has taught me to never expect anything but ... disappointment?" I almost couldn't get the last word out. The raw clutched my throat in a fist.
It was awful. It was beautiful too.
God can do anything. I know this. He can heal us all up ... or he can let us recover slowly. Or sometimes, we don't heal completely or at all, not in our bodies. Not the way we may ask for it.
It's our insides that matter. Our soul stuff.
So I'll take it. The awful and the beautiful and the raw.
I'm going to lift it up
highhighhigh and
higher still
and expect him take it from me.
it was weird. and scary. and i used to just watch. i would scan with my eyes and pick out the people i was sure were faking it. at first it would bother me but now i think, so what? So what if they wanted something to happen so much, if they thought they needed it so bad, they cried and flapped their hands and dropped to the floor themselves?
There are worse things.
I would talk to my friends that experienced all this weird stuff and those that didn't. I thought it was cool we could just sit in the same place with Jesus, together.
And then one day it happened to me. I got laid out. I felt this thing, surge through me so hard, my body could not remain still. I cried. This is not unusual. I almost always cry when I worship God. It's my way. But the rest? The rest was not my way.
And i fought it.
There was no way I wanted to fall to the ground. I didn't want someone to walk by and cover me with a sheet. I didn't want anyone to look at me and wonder, is she faking? Is that girl for real?
And then I went down. I laid there, pulsing and shining with .... God. And I didn't care anymore who saw me or what they thought or if i looked awkward laying there or if I sounded like a freak show with all this weird stuff coming out of my mouth. All i knew was I was being immersed in Him. dunked to the core, and I thought to myself - this is what people who get high try to feel. And I'm getting it from God!
And then, a few years later, a lot of bad stuff happened. My life crumbled apart. Not only did I not feel God anymore, but I was pretty convinced He had left me hanging, and so I did what a lot of people do when they feel like God has stopped listening to them.
I tried my hardest to self-destruct.
Some people believe in Karma. I don't think so. Karma says you get what you deserve. And although I believe completely what you put out there comes back around a lot, I also know, mercy and grace beats out what we deserve
every
single
day.
Because most of us are a-holes. Some of us are recovering a-holes and so it only comes out every now and then. Some of us try really hard to beat the a-hole inside of us down and we pushpushpushpush, but eventually it springs back up and punches us, and that other person that knocked on your sleeping a-hole's door and woke her up, in the face. The trick is to look at the inner a-hole - eye to eye. Don't pretend she's not there. Acknowledge her. And then lift her up.
highighhigh higher still.
And just say, "Ok God, I'm not sure why you want this a-hole but I'm giving her to you". And you know what?
This makes God's heart beat faster. He loves this stuff.
The key is to do this
every
single
day
His mercies are new every morning. That's 24 hours peeps. Some of us need new mercies every five minutes. That's cool too. Lift up that a-hole however many times you need to. God never refuses to take more.
So I found myself at church last night. Well, that sounds funny right? I didn't find myself there. I went there purposefully with my husband. There is a conference going on about the moving of the Holy Spirit and we wanted to check it out. My husband is fascinated by healings. I am wary of them. My husband prays in tongues all the time. I do it rarely. He hears stories of people being healed, falling in the spirit, demons coming out, and his face lights up. I hear the same stories and my face closes up.
Obviously we are not on the same page as we walk inside. Honestly. I wasn't even sure why I agreed to go.
Before I continue, some of you are thinking, "oh here she goes. Now she's going to say God laid her out and everything is sunshine and butterflies".
Nope. Just so we're clear.
I love worship. I love the music, all the voices rising together, everyone in one place focused on the same thing - Jesus. It is so beautiful to me. And so I cry.
I'm crying, singing, hands up ... and the worship leader says something about "wanting more from God". You know, believing God has more, desiring to get more, being open to all God wants to do in your life. And i thought to myself,
"When did I stop wanting more?"
And my mouth went a little dry.
And just like i try to give God my a-hole every day, I think it's pretty important to give him all my not very Jesus-like, good religious girl thoughts, as well. And so I lifted it straight up. I mean, He already knows I thought it. I don't really say much when I give it to Him, just toss that sucker in the air.
Worship ends and this visiting preacher starts speaking. I was tense. I expected not to like him. I expected him to rant and rave and shout and flail his arms around, trying his dang-est to convince us all God was going to do miracles last night.
He didn't do that.
He was the opposite. Mellow. Funny. Honest in his short-comings. And I felt myself relax, heard myself laugh, and I thought to myself, "Ok God. I'm listening."
God really likes that. When we listen.
It was towards the end, when I began to get sleepy and my legs were cramping, when my heart was shot. People were standing up and getting prayed for and walking to the front and talking into the microphone about how God had just healed them. Like in that minute, that five minutes. I felt my eyes narrow. I am sure my face said, "Skeptic"! Because I was. And then the preacher said something, said something about a woman being healed who wasn't expecting it and another woman that was healed who was. God does whatever he wants. He can heal. Or not. He can heal those that love him. And those that don't.
He's God. He gets to choose. But if you can, expect. If you are open to it, expect. If you want it, expect. That doesn't mean what you are asking for will happen, but something will. Expect something from God.
I was caught up though, not in the healing or the not healing, I was tangled up in the word "expectation."
I thought of all the things in my life I had expected.
I expected to have a mother that protected me.
I expected to have a father that didn't leave me.
I expected to have a grandfather that didn't take my clothes off.
I expected to have a family that I could count on.
I expected to have a husband that kept his vows.
I expected to have a valentine's day with love and chocolates and flowers.
I expected to have a romantic dinner with conversation.
I expected to have a marriage that didn't fall apart.
I expected to have friends that didn't turn their back on me.
I expected to have a church that would lift me up and help me keep moving forward.
I expected a lot of things. And every single one of these expectations left me feeling ripped apart and shattered. Not one of them came true.
I began to cry a little in the car when Jeff and I left. You see, Jeff's face glowed with expectation. He was like a kid on his birthday, just knowing, something good was going to happen.
I knew my face didn't shine the same way. Or at all. My heart hurt.
I looked at Jeff and said, "How am I supposed to learn... how i can allow myself the luxury of expectations when my whole life has taught me to never expect anything but ... disappointment?" I almost couldn't get the last word out. The raw clutched my throat in a fist.
It was awful. It was beautiful too.
God can do anything. I know this. He can heal us all up ... or he can let us recover slowly. Or sometimes, we don't heal completely or at all, not in our bodies. Not the way we may ask for it.
It's our insides that matter. Our soul stuff.
So I'll take it. The awful and the beautiful and the raw.
I'm going to lift it up
highhighhigh and
higher still
and expect him take it from me.
May 6, 2014
the dread
I always knew when my life was going to drop out. I knew something bad was coming. I could feel it in my bones, moving, like a living thing. It crept into my joints and twisted my guts, making me feel nauseous and clammy, like I had eaten bad cheese, or smoked really bad pot. This, this thing, this sense, this awareness ... It haunts and lives in the corner of your eye, yes?
No matter how hard you try to focus, to pinpoint, no matter how fast you turn your head to try and catch it, you cannot. You can't see it plain. Not until it's on top of you. Not until it has knocked all your breath out with a hard kick to the soft spot in your belly.
You lean over.
You pant. You gasp.
And when you straighten to see what it is,
it's not a surprise.
Because you knew something
something
was on its way. You just didn't know it's name or how it would introduce itself at your door. Would it knock?
No. Of course not.
These things don't knock
or ring door bells.
They don't call first to see if you're busy, to see if your life is going oh so well and maybe we should do this at another time.
oh no
They huff and they puff and they
blow your house
down.
And it leaves you standing there, with dust and broken 2x4's and screws and nails with the names PROMISE and HOPE written on them but they are on the floor, they are buried, and you are standing
alone.
The screaming in your head and the shredding of your heart slams against the silence of your home, your room, your bed, your expectations of the future. The silence opens wide, wider, and swallows it all.
whole.
and in pieces.
No matter how hard you try to focus, to pinpoint, no matter how fast you turn your head to try and catch it, you cannot. You can't see it plain. Not until it's on top of you. Not until it has knocked all your breath out with a hard kick to the soft spot in your belly.
You lean over.
You pant. You gasp.
And when you straighten to see what it is,
it's not a surprise.
Because you knew something
something
was on its way. You just didn't know it's name or how it would introduce itself at your door. Would it knock?
No. Of course not.
These things don't knock
or ring door bells.
They don't call first to see if you're busy, to see if your life is going oh so well and maybe we should do this at another time.
oh no
They huff and they puff and they
blow your house
down.
And it leaves you standing there, with dust and broken 2x4's and screws and nails with the names PROMISE and HOPE written on them but they are on the floor, they are buried, and you are standing
alone.
The screaming in your head and the shredding of your heart slams against the silence of your home, your room, your bed, your expectations of the future. The silence opens wide, wider, and swallows it all.
whole.
and in pieces.
May 1, 2014
Clump of dirt
When I visit my mom, we smoke. She lights up a fat cigar and I suck on a camel. I always make sure I have a fresh pack, because by the time I leave they are almost gone. It is not weird to smoke with my mom. Sometimes I wonder what we would do with our hands if we didn't.
Together.
Would we cry? Would we scream? Would we drown inside it all? Or would we laugh until the crazy left us? I am not sure. But when we talk and swap stories, sometimes the words are so heavy, it is the drag that lifts us back up, gives us the pause to catch our breath, and enables us to keep going. This will not be the case forever. But for now, I have given myself a break and I will take it as it is. Until we are ready.
I sat with mom just a week ago on her back porch. The sun warmed us as the ocean air breathed over us. For five hours we sat. Together. Giving and taking strength - comfort. We talked about the monster and how everyone celebrated him. How they cried in sadness and eulogized his life. I shook my head at how blind people choose to be, unable or unwilling to pull the covers back and see what really is. Was.
It was always my plan to go. I wanted to see him dead. I wanted to watch the dirt fall and bury him. I always pictured that with each clump that fell and sealed him under, it would in turn release me. I wanted them to see me, see how unbroken I am. I wanted them to look into my face and remember, remember how they forgot about me, how they pushed me aside, how they failed a little girl and left her to fend for herself. I wanted them to know that the truth is still here and no matter how many miles separate us, the horror of it all will always bind us together in a way distance can never separate.
But I did not go. And my mom did not ask me to.
I have another Grandpa, a real one. One that loved me. One that took me to Padres games. One that told me stories while he smoked his pipe. One that had few words but would nod his head and tell me, "You've done real good, Shannon. Real good. I'm proud of you." One that wasn't sure if it was ok to hug me when I came back to California at nine years old, traumatized and soul broken. One that called me once he had moved to Missouri to tell me he was saved now and he had kept the letter I had written him, telling him about Jesus. One that I wasn't afraid to have my kids know. He was a good Grandpa. The best. He died this past year and I couldn't go. The reasons are many and life, but I was so sad to not be there. To honor him. To show respect for him and all he has done, all he has given.
How could I not go to the funeral of the grandpa I loved and go to the funeral of the one I hated most of my life? The irony of it hit me hard in the gut and I knew I could not do it. I would not give the monster that honor. I refused my presence in his life. I would refuse it also in his death.
My mom told me later how glad she was I was not there, even though she had been so close to asking me to go with her. "I don't think you could have stood it," she said quietly. "I could barely stand it. It made me sick.... You would have been SO angry.I thought about getting up and saying something, telling everyone there who he really was ... but I didn't have the balls." She looked up at me, from her cigar and the sun, "But you would have."
And in that moment she gave me a little piece, a clump of dirt, and my soul moved up. Just a tiny bit higher.
Together.
Would we cry? Would we scream? Would we drown inside it all? Or would we laugh until the crazy left us? I am not sure. But when we talk and swap stories, sometimes the words are so heavy, it is the drag that lifts us back up, gives us the pause to catch our breath, and enables us to keep going. This will not be the case forever. But for now, I have given myself a break and I will take it as it is. Until we are ready.
I sat with mom just a week ago on her back porch. The sun warmed us as the ocean air breathed over us. For five hours we sat. Together. Giving and taking strength - comfort. We talked about the monster and how everyone celebrated him. How they cried in sadness and eulogized his life. I shook my head at how blind people choose to be, unable or unwilling to pull the covers back and see what really is. Was.
It was always my plan to go. I wanted to see him dead. I wanted to watch the dirt fall and bury him. I always pictured that with each clump that fell and sealed him under, it would in turn release me. I wanted them to see me, see how unbroken I am. I wanted them to look into my face and remember, remember how they forgot about me, how they pushed me aside, how they failed a little girl and left her to fend for herself. I wanted them to know that the truth is still here and no matter how many miles separate us, the horror of it all will always bind us together in a way distance can never separate.
But I did not go. And my mom did not ask me to.
I have another Grandpa, a real one. One that loved me. One that took me to Padres games. One that told me stories while he smoked his pipe. One that had few words but would nod his head and tell me, "You've done real good, Shannon. Real good. I'm proud of you." One that wasn't sure if it was ok to hug me when I came back to California at nine years old, traumatized and soul broken. One that called me once he had moved to Missouri to tell me he was saved now and he had kept the letter I had written him, telling him about Jesus. One that I wasn't afraid to have my kids know. He was a good Grandpa. The best. He died this past year and I couldn't go. The reasons are many and life, but I was so sad to not be there. To honor him. To show respect for him and all he has done, all he has given.
How could I not go to the funeral of the grandpa I loved and go to the funeral of the one I hated most of my life? The irony of it hit me hard in the gut and I knew I could not do it. I would not give the monster that honor. I refused my presence in his life. I would refuse it also in his death.
My mom told me later how glad she was I was not there, even though she had been so close to asking me to go with her. "I don't think you could have stood it," she said quietly. "I could barely stand it. It made me sick.... You would have been SO angry.I thought about getting up and saying something, telling everyone there who he really was ... but I didn't have the balls." She looked up at me, from her cigar and the sun, "But you would have."
And in that moment she gave me a little piece, a clump of dirt, and my soul moved up. Just a tiny bit higher.
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