Here Again

The weather has finally turned in Galveston.  I'm sure that to anyone from farther north than Dallas, it appears we've merely turned our nose towards fall, but the skies are gray and the water is choppy and winter at the Beach is still winter.  I've enjoyed the reprieve from cold weather that comes from moving farther south, but last night when I took Gareth out for a bit, I had to make sure we both wore jackets.  As the breeze blew over me, so did unhappy memories.

It's November again.  If months have colors, November is gray to me.  It was in November that the police first contacted Cliff about our impending ordeal.  It was in November that he was convicted and sentenced to prison.  It was in November that my dad's cancer got its name.  My facebook feed is full of people celebrating November - some are writing novels and some are growing beards and some are donating money to charity and some are recounting their thanksgiving each day.  But I cannot celebrate this month.  The cold winds start blowing and with them come the ghosts of the past three years, and the chill in the wind merely lets me know that it's time to gird up my loins and trudge towards December.

Thankfully, this month only has 30 days.

All the newness of my life here most assuredly helps mitigate the power of these November days.  I have plenty to focus on at church.  No one here remembers those days and their ignorance is actually a boon: there is no pity in the eyes of those around me.  I do not have to drive past the dreaded courthouse, or take the turn to my house and wonder if the police will be there; I do not have to pass by the community theatre where Cliff took our wedding vows in hand and ripped them as if they were fragile muslin.  Here, there is only the water and the rocks and the sand and the strangers and local businesses and the life yet undiscovered.  

But it's still November.

The song of this month is a sad one, melancholy notes, minor chords sliding around in the air,  plaintinve sighing strings and wordless choral moanings.  I think perhaps that it will always be this way, though the years will blunt the jaggedness of the pain until all that is left is the song, the song and the memories and the wind like a sigh that the whole earth lets out on my behalf.

I am far enough from those knife-sharp days, though, to see the people around me and wonder.  Who else is swimming through memories like I am?  At the post-office, in my congregation, at my son's daycare, who else feels the cool weather change and finds themselves unhappily transported back into their own past? Or who is frenetically celebrating these current days because they have made it through their own painful anniversaries?  Or who is looking ahead to the days to come and planning their survival strategies?  We are all around you my friends - perhaps you are one of us.  The invisible crowd who carry on with around you, shouldering our tragedies and unshed tears like modern day Atlases.  

November is a time when I frequently find myself standing still, gazing at horizons.  My mind wanders widely during these days, and I cannot help but stare out beyond the people and places around me, vision cast out and searching the vast expanse of sky.  I have less words during this month, less coherent explanations, fewer stories to tell; I have less words and more need for silence while I listen to the song my soul is trying to sing.

I named my blog "Lonely Bird" after Psalm 102, a psalm of grief and loss that contained these haunting words: "I am like an owl of the wilderness, like a little owl of the waste places.  I lie awake; I am like a lonely bird on the housetop."  In the wake of all the tragedy that swallowed me up 2 years ago, this psalm seemed to speak most closely into my broken heart.  And though since then I've found joy and peace and happiness again, November is the time when I return to the roof of my soul and perch like the little owl of the waste places, lonely and fluttering in my memories.  I won't stay up here forever, my friends.  I've life to come down to now.  But still, this is a retreat I must make.  These are days that must be counted.  These are memories that must be aired out again.   Even gray Novembers have their place.

26 more days.

Gravity

The Deer Make-Up in Question

I went to the movies last night and saw “Gravity” upon the recommendation of most of my Facebook timeline.  It seemed appropriate – Halloween is the day when you’re supposed to let yourself be scared, and I’m much more likely to watch a science fiction thriller than a bloody horror flick.  So with my face painted like a deer, 3D glasses, and tub of butter popcorn at my disposal, I settled in for some fun.  

I wasn’t prepared for the visceral impact this movie would have. 

Thankfully I was the only person in the theatre, because throughout the film I would frequently fling my arms up around my head in stunned fear or let loose an “oh God, no!” despite the fact that I hate it when people talk through movies.  This movie, y’all.  Holy Hell, this movie.  It was gorgeous.  And terrifying.  And heart-wrenching.  And grip-your-chair-arms intense. 

When it was over (it was only 90+minutes), I walked to my car and started driving home.  And then burst into tears.

Dramatic, right? 

“Gravity” was exactly what excellent Sci-Fi should be – a story framed by the technologically (im)possible but focused on the heady questions of existence and life.  As I drove along the seawall, catching glimpses of rough seas and shredded cloud-cover and the lights of stars long dead, I tried to make sense of what I’d seen.  It’s the consequence of degree programs that push analysis and elaboration; you can never “just” watch or read anything ever again. 

As I reflected, it occurred to me that “Gravity” was about more than just the titanic struggle of astronauts; it was about, amongst other things, the desperate struggle to live in the aftermath of the cataclysmic choices of other people; it was about the aching loneliness that survivors feel as they struggle to carry on; it was about the difference between merely living and choosing life.  It was, at its heart, a story about what it means to be human – to suffer, to experience joy, to accept defeat, to conquer adversity, to let go, to live with hope, to die with dignity.

Or maybe that’s what I saw because I see all things through the lens of my own history and experience.  In Sandra Bullock’s character, I saw myself – the numbness, the hopelessness, the fear, the anxiety, the incredulity that life could really go as badly as it was.  But I also saw myself in her struggle for meaning, her relentless unwillingness to lose it all, and her self-discovery that she wanted more than just existence but LIFE.  To search for dawn, and earth in her hands, and the possibility for a tomorrow that isn’t burdened by loss.

For so long, I thought I was the shredded remains of a life destroyed, listless in the vacuum of tragedy, being pummeled over and over by the circling consequences of Cliff’s choices, consequences that never seemed to stop multiplying.  But I cried in my car on the drive home from a space-movie because I realized I am more than a scarred victim – I am the triumphant survivor who has emerged from the unthinkable and discovered that I still have the power to walk.

Choose to LIVE my friends.  Choose to carry on.  Choose to walk out of your own darkness.  And if it seems too hard, call on me and I will venture back into the shadows for you.  We can make it – together.

A Word from Dark Places

I haven't really followed the story of the Steubenville rape trial. My own intimate knowledge of trials and sex crimes and media attention makes me incredibly averse to getting sucked into another tale of woe. The other day, though, I couldn't avoid the story as it was plastered all over yahoo and cnn - two teenagers convicted of raping a drunk/unconscious girl and now facing jail time. I didn't read any farther - that was enough for me to think about. "All those lives ruined..." I thought. And then I put it aside.

Until I started reading about all the backlash in regard to HOW the media was reporting on the trial.  Read this to catch up, or this one from Jezebel.com.  You can even watch a satire video from the Onion here that was made two years ago and seems to fit right in with the current news coverage. If you don't want to look at any of those links, to sum up: a lot of the push back has been at the framing of the boys' sentences as "tragic" and the lament over their "destroyed dreams" as it seems to value their lives over and against the shattered life of the girl they victimized.

I've felt incredibly conflicted about both the trial, the reporting and the backlash because I DO feel incredibly sadness for ALL of the parties involved here, the young men who committed the sex crimes AND the young girl who was victimized.  To be clear, I firmly believe in the equal value of all people and I also believe in the Christian responsibility to pursue justice for the victimized and to hold people accountable for sin. Society has judged that rape and sexual assault are terrible crimes for which there must be heavy consequences; I'm not disputing that.

What I AM disputing is the unwillingness to let the boy's punishments be labeled as tragic.  "They got justice!" you cry, "it's a tragedy what happened to that girl!"  And you're right - they did receive a just punishment  and what happened to that teenage girl is reprehensible.  But it is not out of bounds to label the WHOLE SITUATION as a tragedy.  To say their sentence was tragic is NOT to say that it was inappropriate; the word tragedy merely implies that the outcome is a dismantling of all the good that could have been.  3 teenagers are now living in a reality unimaginable before: a girl shamed and exploited and raped in the midst of bystanders who did nothing to protect her; two boys who will spend time in prison and then be labeled sex offenders for the rest of their lives.  All of them living with a future that is dark and painful and was AVOIDABLE.

And maybe this is wrapped up in what I understand tragedy to be.

A fellow young clergywoman I know is reeling as her church has just burned to the ground after a freak lightening strike.  It is terrible, but nature is random and unpredictable and no one acted in a way to cause this fire to happen.  It is a tragedy, but of a faceless kind.

The Steubenville rape trial and convictions are a tragedy that has a face, has many faces.
- The faces of those two boys who will now carry the stain of this crime with them till they die.
- The face of the girl who has to find a way to heal from the terrible violation of her body and self.
- The faces of those apathetic teenagers who watched sexual assault happen and did nothing.
- The faces of all of us who participate in the perpetuation of rape culture, that insidiously implies that girls who make unwise decisions "deserve" what happens to them, as if sexual exploitation was a natural consequence rather than a sinful act of terror.

It's a tragedy of the first order because it could have been avoided.  It's a tragedy for those boys because they sinned grievously and now will be marked forever.  It's a tragedy because someone, ANYONE could have said NO and helped this girl get to safety.  This is what sin looks like - this is where choices lead.  This is what desolation looks like.

I am so sad for this girl who will be haunted by her rape.  I am so sad for these boys who will suffer under the weight of a punishment they earned.  I am so sad for those crowds that saw no reason to act.  I am so sad for all of the families involved, the parents and siblings and cousins and friends who are unseen but living with the consequences of choices they didn't make.  The family that has to help their precious girl heal.  The family that has to figure out how to love and support their sons while they linger in jail cells they deserve to be in.

I am sad because this is my story too.  My husband destroyed his life, crippled my life, handicapped his son's life and he could have chosen otherwise.  It IS a tragedy when human beings choose evil, and suffer just consequences: Because it never should have come to this at all.  

These are my words to you from the dark places carved out by tragic circumstances: Choose better.  Choose rightly.  And weep for all who suffer, especially those who suffer by their own sin.

For a day such as this

The following is the text of a sermon I preached today. My scripture was Matthew 2:13-18.
---
In the first and second chapters of Exodus, we read a violent and terrible story of an evil pharaoh whose fear and need for power leads him to murder babies. The command goes out that every baby boy born to the Hebrews should be thrown into the Nile to drown. And Moses’ mother hides him for three months until in an act of desperation and breathless hope, she fashions him a tiny boat and floats him down the Nile. It is a terrible world indeed where a three month old child is safer in the waters of a Nile than in the house of its parents. A terrible king. A terrible world.

Lord have mercy. Christ have mercy.

In the second chapter of Matthew, we read a violent and terrible story of an evil king whose fear and need for power leads him to murder babies. The command goes out that every child under the age of two in Bethlehem should be killed. And Jesus is spared only because an angel of the Lord appears to Joseph in a dream and warns them to flee to Egypt. It is a terrible world indeed where a child is safer on the run and in exile than in the house of its parents. A terrible king. A terrible world.

Lord have mercy. Christ have mercy.

On Friday, we read and heard and watched the violent and terrible story unfold of an evil man who murdered adults and children in an elementary school in Connecticut – 20 children between the ages of 6-7. It is a terrible world indeed where a child is not safe in an elementary school. A terrible man. A terrible world.

Lord have mercy. Christ have mercy.

And today is the third Sunday in advent and this is supposed to be the Sunday of Joy – when we remember the angels who appeared to Shepherds who were watching their flocks by night and sang a song of exultation that our King had come. And maybe you are like me and feeling as far from joy as dark is from light. How can we possibly feel any joy when we see the faces of our children and fear clenches our hearts? How can there be joy in a world where children are murdered in elementary schools in Connecticut, in their homes in Syria, in refugee camps in the Sudan?

Lord have mercy. Christ have mercy.

Our poets have long been lamenting the sorrows of this world, and as I've been laid low with grief by this tragedy, the words of William Butler Yeats came to me: Things fall apart; the center cannot hold; mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, the blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere the ceremony of innocence is drowned. The poet Jeremiah, in his Lamentations, says words that ring very similarly as he lives through the destruction of Jerusalem: My eyes are spent with weeping; my stomach churns; my bile is poured out on the ground because of the destruction of my people, because infants and babes faint in the streets of the city. They cry to their mothers, ‘Where is bread and wine?’ as they faint like the wounded in the streets of the city, as their life is poured out on their mothers’ bosom.

Lord have mercy. Christ have mercy.

Many have been quick with words for the tragedy of this last week – claiming to know the mind of God, the will of God, the purpose of pain, the causes and solutions to this present darkness. Well meaning folk make God an idol of child sacrifice with careless words and misread scripture. Well intended people use tragedy to bolster pet arguments or silence dissent. And many of us sit in stunned quiet, our wounded spirits crying out at the spilling of innocent blood, in voices like the martyrs of Revelation: HOW LONG, O GOD?! HOW LONG?!

Lord have mercy. Christ have mercy.

I do not have an explanation for what has happened. I know of no reasons, of rational explanations, of sure-fire steps to be taken to prevent further tragedy. I refuse to take this pain from you with easy answers and theological chloroform; children are dead and their bodies are still in the classrooms where they were murdered and Christmas is in 9 days. And today is the Sunday of Joy. And somehow we must hold our grief in one hand and this Advent season in the other and discover a way to negotiate them both. Somehow we must hold our children close and then send them to school.

Lord have mercy. Christ have mercy.

This is what I can say to you. Jesus was born not because the world was so good, but because the world is so broken. The Christ child came not because it was the perfect setting but because the times are terrible. The Messiah entered the world by way of a teenage mother in the company of livestock because we needed to be saved and He is the only one who can save us. The bliss of his birth was followed closely by unspeakable evil, which only served to underscore HOW MUCH WE NEED THIS CHILD. And adds depth to the songs of the Angels who sang: I am bringing you good news of great joy for all the people: to you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is the Messiah, the Lord.

There is joy to be had in this day, and it is nothing like the easy happiness of fortunate times, of full bellies and safe homes and absent violence. The joy in this day is that violence and terror and loss and grief and murder and evil and injustice and inequality and hatred and malice – they are not the final word. The joy in this day is that the story we are hearing, of lost innocence, is not the STORY that God is ultimately telling in Jesus Christ. That God sees our suffering and is DOING SOMETHING ABOUT IT through the birth, life, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ. That we are more than just grieving family and friends but the community of the Church who have been empowered to go out into a dark and broken world with the GOOD NEWS of JESUS.

Our Joy is that the people languished in darkness for centruies but that the light finally came.  That a young girl could sin a song about God, a God who shows His mercy is for those who fear him, who scatters the proud in the thoughts of their hearts.  Who brings down the powerful from their thrones, and lifts up the lowly; who fills the hungry with good things, and send the rich away empty.

Our Joy is that God is with Us. When we attend funerals and cry over tiny coffins. When we rail against violence and political apathy. When we search for answers. When we ask impossible questions. When we take a stand against evil. When we sacrifice for the sake of others.

Our Joy is that God is the center and God will always hold, that the kingdom cannot be drowned, that anarchy is not loosed forever.

Our Joy is that Emmanuel was born, is about to be born, is coming, will come again.

Lord have mercy. Christ have mercy.

Early

My 2 & 1/2 year old son does not sleep late.  Ever.  I now am an early riser, though I'm not a cheerful early riser.  I'm dreading Daylight Savings this Sunday; we'll "fall back" and I fear that means Gareth will be getting up at 5 instead of 6.  That's TOO EARLY.

I voted early this year - the first day I could.  I feel that I should now be exempt from all political chatter, as I have done my civic duty.  I wish there was some way to input a "I voted early" code into my tv or computer that would then filter out all political chatter till after November 6th.

Saturday I got up very very very early (even earlier than usual) and left home by 6am to go visit Cliff.  It was cold and I'm pretty sure God was still asleep.  On a gruesome note, there is a LOT of road kill on the side of country highways very early in the morning.

I celebrated Thanksgiving early this year - Saturday afternoon, in fact.

In just a few short weeks I'll be reliving the past: the one year anniversary of Cliff's trial, conviction and incarceration is just on the horizon.  And because it happened JUST before Thanksgiving, and because Daddy got his cancer diagnosis JUST DAYS before Thanksgiving, I knew this year that the holiday would be full of bad memories.  So, instead of having Thanksgiving and the beginning of the holiday season ruined, I decided that I was going to have Thanksgiving early, preempting the weight of the anniversary of "All the Evil."

My mother, father, brother and sister-in-law all came to Waco for what we called "Harvest Day" or "Late Canadian Thanksgiving" and we had all of the traditional holiday foods: turkey, gravy, stuffing, rolls, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce, green bean casserole, green salad, pumpkin pie, & strawberry rhubarb pies.  I made the pies and cranberry sauce the day before, brined the turkey, prepped fresh green beans from my father's garden, and my mother generously prepared everything else.  And it was not fraught with pain - we'll call that a win.

Sometimes "early" is unavoidable - especially if you have small children.  Sometimes "early" is by necessity - a measure of responsibility and time-management.  Sometimes "early" is a matter of survival - an attempt to preempt suffering or loss.  I think about "early" a lot.  If only Cliff had confessed EARLIER, he would have been able to accept a plea deal with a vastly shorter sentence.  If only I had confronted Cliff about his patterns of infidelity EARLIER, he could have gotten help and (maybe?) avoided his crimes.  If only....

But I can't change the past, and ruminating on if only's is a recipe for disaster, so now I just consider the "early" that I can control.  I CAN have Thanksgiving early so I can enjoy it.  I CAN plan a birthday party for myself early so that I don't spend the day ruminating on what I'm missing.  I CAN make plans with friends and family early so that I don't spend day after day after day without adult companionship.  I CAN schedule therapy appointments early so that I make my mental health a priority.  I CAN vote early so that I don't spend election day in long lines listening to political opinions I find alarming.

So right now, I'm trying to think ahead, trying to plan early for the "DAY OF", trying to build an emotional fall-out shelter to survive the storms of grief that are right on the horizon.  The Early Bird gets the worm?  For me, it will probably be more like, the Early Girl has enough wine.

An anniversary

I read 'Jane Eyre' this week and was surprised at how wonderful it was. I'd been experiencing literary guilt because of how little I enjoyed 'Pride and Prejudice', so I was thrilled to enjoy a classic in the same vein. I found the dialogue honest, the story surprising and the characters to be interesting and intriguing. The only difficult part about reading this book were the declarations of love between (SPOILER ALERT) Jane and Mr. Rochester. Like this one: "All my heart is yours, sir: it belongs to you; and with you it would remain, were fate to exile the rest of me from your presence forever."

I cried at that. In fact, every time Jane and her lover spoke to each other of devotion, constancy, their passion for one another, I cried. I cried when they rejoiced in their love, I cried when fate separated them and I cried when thy were reunited. I cried because their words pierced me too deeply, too fiercely - because they revealed that my heart is still so deeply wounded by the one I trusted before all others. Because I had said to him "all my heart is yours" and then he had an affair.

It was two years ago this weekend that he violated our vows. And because of that, I've been living in pain this last week. Wracked with memory and anger, loneliness and feelings of worthlessness, this is an anniversary that I wish I could forget. This is an anniversary that need not be commemorated, but it is one that I am afraid will always cry out to be remembered. And merciful God, how I wish it wasn't so.

Jane Eyre promised her lover that even if they were exiled from one another that her heart would remain constant. And this week, during this painful anniversary, it is hard to remember my vows, my covenant promises. It is hard to continue to give Cliff my heart, to be his life partner, to love him with abandon. This week, more than all others, I lean heavily on God's mercy and ask for the grace to continue to remain my husband's lover in exile.

But God...it hurts.

Moving Day

A family down the street is moving today.  One of those huge commercial moving trucks is parked in front of their house, a ramp bowing and bending under the weight of loaded furniture and appliances.  It made me think of all the times we moved when I was younger.  I was born in Alaska, but months later we moved to Seattle.  And then months later after that we moved to Dallas.  When I was in the second grade we moved to Houston, and then back to Dallas when I was a sophomore in high school.  And then there was the move to college, all the moves in Phoenix to different dorms and apartments, and then the move back to Dallas after graduation.  Then came the move to Waco for Grad school, the move to our first place as a married couple and then the move to our house.  The house we first brought our son home to.  Looking back, it seems like my whole life I've been packing and unpacking boxes, looking up apartments, crunching budgets, transferring services, leaving a forwarding address.

But I had another moving day this week, one that I was expecting and dreading.

Cliff has been in the jail in town since November, and I'd gotten used to our arrangement.  I saw him every Tuesday and I brought Gareth to see him on Saturdays - 40mn a week to talk and see one another and share our broken hearts and abiding love.  We knew that he could be transferred to Huntsville at any moment, but we tried not to talk about it.  Tried not to focus on the fact that when he was transferred that we would be limited to one visit a month - a 2 hour visit - but just one.  Tried not to focus on the fact that we wouldn't be able to share long phone conversations anymore.  Tried not to focus on the fact that the miles that separated us would be long and difficult.

Thursday, I got a letter in the mail from the Sherrif's office, notifying me that Cliff had been transferred and that I needed to go pick up his property.

Moving day had come and gone and no one had told me.

I went by the jail as soon as I could and waited while an officer collected Cliff's belongings.  He came out with a big bag, jumbled with Cliff's stuff.  Books and paper, what seemed like hundreds of letters and cards, pictures and Cliff's clothes, his rings, his shoes.  The sum total of my husband's possessions was thrust into a large plastic bag and carried out to my car for me.  When I got it all home I sat in the middle of his possessions and sorted, books from letters, papers from clothes.  I touched everything he had touched, wishing that I could feel him instead of his absence, wishing that I had more of him than legal papers and uneaten candy bars.

I don't know where he is right now.  I've called to Huntsville but he isn't in the system yet.  I will try again this afternoon and every day until I find him - like a treasure hunt where the treasure stays locked away from you even when you discover it.  I won't be able to visit him or talk to him for 30-90 days while he goes through processing.  I will be able to write him and send him money for his commissary account, but I will have no contact until this system works him through and spits him out to his permanent facility.  My husband has been taken from me and hidden within the inner workings of a beast that has no mercy, and all I can do is look for him and wait.  I have no words to describe to you the powerlessness that has gripped me.

The moving truck down the street that reminds me I will be moving soon as well.  Though I am being helped financially by many family members and friends, I cannot live in this house much longer.  The mortgage is too much for my salary.  Once again, I will have to pack boxes, look for apartments, crunch numbers, cancel services, and leave a forwarding address.  And even though I have had my share of grief during other moves, the sadness of leaving behind family and friends, of fearful transitions and unsure future, this move is different.  This grief is more violent, this sadness tinged with anger and frustration, this fear unshakeable and life-altering.

Moving day has come.  Moving day is coming.

Lord Jesus Christ, Have Mercy.  God, Have Mercy.

My resentment

Every day is different for me.  Sometimes I wake up and the first thing I think is "Oh God, I hate this life."  Sometimes I wake up and the first thing I think is "You will survive!"  Mostly, I wake up and the first thing I think is "Why won't my son sleep? I'm TIRED!"

Every day I get up, take Gareth to daycare, get ready for work, and do all the normal things that people usually do.  Eat, facebook, laundry, life.  And that is fine and easy and the "every-day" has stopped being so incredibly painful.

Except...

Except when I see a dad playing with one of his children.  And I resent him.

Except when I see a pregnant woman holding her belly.  And I resent her.

Except when I see a couple holding hands.  And I resent them.

I resent their blind happiness, their unknowing acceptance of their life, their ignorance of the painful paths being tread around them by me, by others like me.  I resent that I appear to be a "normal", that a cursory glance reveals nothing of the devastating wreckage which I am trying to clamber out of.

I wish that Cliff was playing with Gareth out in public.

I wish that I was pregnant again - or could ever hope to be pregnant again.

I wish that I could be holding hands with my husband.

I wish that resentment didn't have such a stranglehold on me.

Please, don't take this as some sort of plea for you to remind me of what I DO have.  I know those things.  I am thankful for those things.  But another thing I resent?  People trying to hurry me out of grief, out of despair, out of the period of mourning that I have damn well EARNED.

Please, don't take this as some sort of passive-aggressive plea for you to hide the joys in your life.  I love that you are pregnant, have children, have a spouse or partner who loves you.  I love that you can play together, and I love that you may NEVER EVER KNOW this kind of pain that has tattooed itself upon my soul.

But right now, resentment is the first feeling I have, the gut-reaction that I must push through to experience anything else.  Resentment is my veil. 

And I resent that too.

So this is Christmas

We ate a late lunch today - roast, mashed potatoes, green bean casseroles, cranberry sauce, french onion soup, rolls and two kinds of pie. It was quite an ordeal to put together, even with the help of the whole family. It was nice, though, to be busy and productive. And I was doing just fine until I hugged my father and he whispered "I love you."

Then I fell apart. I walked quickly to the kitchen to clean up (and escape the tears choking my throat) and the only thing I could think was "this day is terrible - my daddy has cancer and my husband is in jail."

This Christmas sucks.

In the last two days I have helped to lead three church services and sung countless carols extolling God. I have prayed, spoken, sung, pondered and given thanks for God's Advent into the world. But really, today still sucks.

Instead of rejoicing in a full house, I am brought low by Cliff's absence. Instead of commiserating over swollen bellies, I am fretting over my dad's dwindling appetite and his few painful bites of food. Instead of peace, I feel brokenness.

If there is a part of the Christmas story that I feel closest to right now, it is the slaughter of the holy innocents. My family has been ravaged and now we are struggling to find consolation in the aftermath. I don't feel the peace of God's presence. I don't feel the joy of angels or shepherds. I don't feel the awe of wisemen. I feel the desperate confusion of the mourning mothers and fathers of bethlehem - shocked at their ripping loss.

So this is Christmas - this year at least. About the only thing I DO have hope for is that 2012 and all it entails will be better than 2011. And that next Christmas I will feel the presence of Emmanuel.

But this year?

Not so much.

The Power of Staying

Yesterday I read this article and today I read this article and they got me thinking about the state of my own marriage.  Usually I agree with what Granderson has to say, but this time I had an immediate and vehemently negative reaction to his contention that the phrase 'till death do us part' is “just another fire and brimstone tactic absentmindedly handed down from generation to generation just to get people to stay in line.”  Now, to be fair, I have no idea if the phrase has roots in the “fire and brimstone” tradition of using hell and damnation as a tactic to compel believers to make moral life choices.  But even if it is in some way related, I absolutely did not mean those words in that way when I said them over 4 years ago.  When I said “till death do us part” it was about the totality of experience, about a  commitment beyond expiration dates and ‘rational’ expectations.  “Till death do us part” was a promise laced with God’s grace – words that revealed the deeper mystery of how God can affect human relationship.   Like Ms. Goldberg said in her article, I believe that the vows and ‘I do’s’ that you make at your wedding “launch the creation of an entity, a union, that exists apart from the daily ebb and flow of difficulties and joys” that marriage is an “absolute yes” without condition.

My beliefs about marriage stem from my beliefs about God, Christ and our lives as Disciples of Jesus.  And even though my marriage is in an unbelievable tragic state, I’m committed to staying married.  I’m staying married, to put it simply, because I’m a Christian.  And from what I understand, part of being a Christian is that your whole life is a reflection of who God is and what God does for us through Christ.  So, because God makes a covenant that lasts forever, because Christ’s death makes forgiveness for all sins possible, our lives – our relationships – our decisions, should reflect that truth.  And in my case, that means that even though Cliff violated our covenant vows, I will keep them.  It means that my love, my forgiveness, are not conditional – they are eternal and unconditional because God’s love is eternal and unconditional.  And my ability to love, forgive, extend grace and keep covenant is not by my own power, but by the power the Holy Spirit enables me to have.  I can love, forgive, remain faithful, and extend covenant grace because God has and still does.  I suppose this may be the cross that Christ warned me that I would have to bear – and I choose to bear it.

This choice has consequences of course.  My decision to stay will affect every other part of my life.  My professional life could be potentially derailed for awhile – my hope and dream to serve a church as Senior Pastor put on hold until a congregation can be found that has an open heart to my life situation.  Unless some miraculous intervention takes place, I will never have another child, will live a life of celibacy.  Because Cliff will remain my husband, I will raise our son alone – juggling a job, Gareth’s needs, our future, all by myself.  From the perspective of an outsider, I am making a terrible choice, and isolating, bizarre and naïve choice.  I’m choosing to see this, though, with (what I hope) are Kingdom eyes.  When I said “for better or for worse, till death do us part” I could never have known this would be what worse meant.  But each day, I wake up, thank God for the grace that I continue to receive….

And then I turn around and give that grace to Cliff.

That’s the power of staying.

One Month Past

Today Gareth is 20 months old - so close to two but still so much a baby.  I must admit, when anticipating Gareth's birth and listening to all of the well intentioned advice from friends and family, I fell for that line that every parent hears before their first child is born:

"My son/daughter/niece/cousin started sleeping through the night at 6 weeks!"

Well, let me tell you, my baby did NOT start sleeping through the night at 6 weeks.  Or 16 weeks.  Or 16 months.  He is STILL not sleeping through the night, though intermittently he will clock in a solid 9 hours of sleep without waking.  I'd gotten used to his sleepless nature because I had a partner to take shifts with.  When I couldn't get Gareth to go down at night, I would pass him off to Cliff and take a breather on the couch.  When Cliff had suffered with Gareth for over an hour in the middle of the night, I would slap in and do my best to calm the wild beast.  But now...now Gareth and I are the only foes who meet at bedtime.  Night, after night, after night.

Today marks a month since Cliff was sentenced and began his long stay in jail.  A month of me discovering all the things I would have to do alone.  Like cooking all the meals.  ALL of them.  And remembering to take the trash out every Friday.  EVERY FRIDAY.  And doing all the shopping, and the bill paying, and the yard work, and, and, and....

But somehow, getting Gareth to sleep is the most difficult task that I have to do alone.  And not just because I'm emotionally, mentally and physically exhausted.  But also because he has started to ask for Cliff at night - "mommy did it, mommy did it, mommy did it..."  Last night I finally figured out what he was saying.  "Gareth, do you want daddy to come in here to put you to sleep?"  ::nod::  "mommy did it."

He's right.  "mommy" (Gareth's name for Cliff) was always the best at putting him to sleep at night.  When I had done my best and Gareth was still struggling against sleep, Cliff could take him to bed and work some kind of daddy-magic and Gareth would go down within 20 minutes.  When this Mommy couldn't do it, "mommy did it."  But thats not an option anymore.

"I'm sorry Gareth, daddy isn't here."
"...NOOOOOO!"

Oh my boy, I know how you feel.

So we're one month out into this new life, this normal that I hate so much.  We're one month in and still I just can't bear the thought that I have years of months left, seemingly countless Januarys, Februarys, Junes, Octobers and more.  Years of Christmases and New Years and Valentines Days and our Wedding Anniversary, all without him, all alone, all having to explain...

"I'm sorry Gareth, daddy isn't here."

"I'm sorry, I guess you haven't heard."

"I'm sorry...."

He isn't here.

One month has past.

And he isn't here.

How We've Changed

It's been awhile since I last posted and much has taken place in the meantime.  The one constant joy in the last 8 months has been Gareth.  He continues to grow and learn, a light in the midst of our own personal darkness.

I'm loathe to go into too much detail right now as the pain of our family's present circumstances are jaggedly new.  Some moments I feel as if I'm walking around in a shroud, a thick gray blanket that makes it hard to see the world around me. Some moments feel like an unending shriek of distortion, a painful and inescapable intrusion into the song of our life.  And mostly, life is full of a new and quiet loneliness, an abundance of absence.

I've changed the name of the blog to "A Lonely Bird", a reference to the 102 psalm and its powerful and poignant images of desolation, grief and distress.  It is an apt depiction of life for our family right now, a glimpse into the desolation, grief and distress that bind us so tightly.  This blog will focus on that journey - the struggles, the moments of joy, the mystery of forgiveness, grace and covenants that cannot be broken.  Of course, there will also be posts about Gareth and his progress.

You are welcome to join me on the journey.

A Place Called Terrible-Land

Life has been....

Severely Complicated for the last several months.

And by Severely Complicated, I mean that there have been lots of tears, lots of prayers and so many unanswered questions that sometimes I'm not sure even the ground is really solid.  We're living in a place I like to call "Terrible-Land."  "Terrible-Land" looks the same as "Life-is-Normal-Land" except that we now know so much more clearly what instability, vulnerability, fear and trembling, and terror mean.

It sucks.

I can't really be anymore specific for legal reasons.  YES.  IT'S THAT KIND OF SEVERELY COMPLICATED.

So why do I bring it up at all?  Because we need your prayer so desperately.  Because your support keeps our fears at bay.  Because I just can't keep it all bottled up all the time.

So here is how you can pray for our family during this sojourn in Terrible-Land.

1).  Pray that we would feel the peace and provision of God in every moment
2).  Pray that we would remain healthy and strong to weather the unending storm that we are living through
3).  Pray that God would bring about miracles for us
4).  Pray that we would be a witness to God's love throughout the pain
5).  Pray however the Holy Spirit leads you

"Fear not, I have called you by my name and you are mine. When you walk through the waters I will be with you and through the rivers, they will NOT overflow you. When you walk through the fire you will not be burned nor will flames scorch you... for I am the Lord your God the Holy one of Isreal, your Savior!"

Isaiah 43:1-2

Reflecting

The images coming out of Haiti are horrific.  Stunned people wandering down streets filled with rubble and bodies, dust hanging in the air from buildings that collapsed into each other, onto each other, on top of their inhabitants.  The ruined husks of hospitals.  The markets destroyed.  The government vanished under the weight of collapsed timber.  I am shaken by the pictures of already destitute children, staring at the remnants of their orphanages, wondering where they will sleep, what they will eat, and where they will go.  Haiti is a table of dust and ashes, of empty plates and cracked glasses, of overturned chairs and shattered hopes.  And Christ is among them, suffering with them, loving them, calling us to help them, unrelenting in his compassion.

How will you answer God's call to care for his beloved children?

How will I?