The verdict is in.

So I opened another one of those letters from the District Attorney's office yesterday. While I was off on a mission trip the last week of June, "our robber" (as I tend to call him) went back to court. I was happy to not have to testify and even better, to be out of town while it happened. I fully expected this letter in the mail, but instead of reading once again that his trial had been postponed, I instead read that he pled guilty.

Those were words I didn't expect to see. Then I read that he was sentenced to ten years, which I then read was probated five years. So after a minimum of six months in a lock-down drug treatment facility, our robber will once again be out and about.

How do I feel about this, you may be wondering? I honestly don't know. I am conflicted. As soon as the familiar ball of fear welled up in my chest, it just as quickly turned to anger. Then there was the self-doubt. Did the words in my victim impact statement get this guy an easier sentence? Was I serious when I said I forgive him? Because I'm certainly not thinking the thoughts of a forgiving person now. I have some stuff to sort out--to say the very least. But what I do know is that how I respond to this information, whether I choose to live in a space of fear and anxiety the next six months and the days that come after, or a place of peace, has nothing to do with him, but everything to do with me. I can't change the sentence, the letter I wrote, him, or anything else other than myself. Just me. And I'm already doing that. Maybe that is the forgiveness in action that I spoke of when I wrote "I forgive you." Because I'm realizing you can't hold on to the hurt and move past it at the same time. You have to loosen your grip.

Upside Down

It has been one of those weeks that takes a lot of all the stuff I need more of.  We are in week two of the low iodine diet and the thought and preparation that has gone into every single meal is starting to wear on me. My patience is thin. I know it could be worse, but I long for the opportunity to not have to think about every meal and every ingredient.

On Wednesday night I taught a lesson on The Beatitudes. We talked about the idea of each beatitude bearing a double blessing. The blessing of current condition--which is not necessarily a pleasant state, and the future blessing--the reward. I love The Beatitudes because they teach us what we don't really want to know: suffering or struggle can be a blessing. Little did I know how much I needed to hear myself speak these truths out loud.  

On the way home that night I stopped by the post office to get the mail. I pulled two packages out of the box. I sat in my car and looked at the first one addressed to me from the District Attorney. I felt my heartbeat begin to quicken, my stomach begin to turn. I knew what this was. Finally, after a lot of deep breathing and a call to my courage, I opened the package. Inside I found a letter detailing the arraignment and May court date of the man who robbed us before Christmas. There were forms instructing me of my rights as a victim, there was information regarding a possible subpoena to testify, there was a form for me to fill out detailing the impact this crime has had on my life. And it all came flooding back. 

Later that night, when I couldn't sleep, I opened the second package. It was a book of blessings I had ordered and didn't expect to receive until next week. In the introduction to his book, The Space Between Us, John  O'Donohue writes "...God is omnipresent, and life itself is the primal sacrament, namely the visible sign of invisible grace. The structures of our experience are the windows into the divine.When we are true to our call of experience, we are true to God." I breathed in those words and welcomed, at least for that night this blessing of experience. 

Of course, everyday is a new day, and when I awoke yesterday, I woke with a heaviness. As I went through the day, I found myself feeling more and more lonely, more and more angry, but only because I didn't want to let myself feel what was trying to surface again: fear. I had almost talked myself out of yoga class in the evening until I realized fear was what brought me to that class in the first place, and I couldn't let it take it away from me. Needless to say, by the time I got to the mat, I was a ball of issues. I struggled the entire time. Nothing came easily. Blessedly, our class was small last night and our teacher talkative with all of the stuff I needed to hear, so by the end of class when it was time to go to the wall and stand on our hands, I remembered why I was there. When Aaron asked me if I was ready to kick up on the wall--the thing I have always refused to do--I said "I don't want to, but I think I need to." And here is what I realized: When we have to call on our strength, we immediately feel weakest. When we have to be brave, we feel the most fearful. With the help of a compassionate teacher, I went up on that wall even though everything in my body told me not to. The moment was brief. I cussed. And then I cried. But I did it.  

On the way out of class, I found myself in conversation with a sweet soul of a woman. I had never known her name, but she has always been one of my safe people in class--she has an easy smile that she often directs at me. We stood in the parking lot talking for awhile. She asked me my story and spoke sweet, sweet words to me. She told me some great stories and shared her heart with me. She hugged me when we parted, and I was thankful that after being willing to be upside down for a moment, when I stood back up, there was someone standing there and that was where I found my blessing. In a parking lot, in the space between us.

Nose kisses

Some days I wonder who I am. Who is this crazy woman wielding a spatula, screaming at her dog to "STOP BARKING AT ME?" Screaming in a way that makes the one other human and the one other animal in the house cease movement and look at her as if a crazed stranger had taken free reign of the kitchen and body of a previously sane woman. A woman who has a personal code against raising her voice in anger against humans or animals. A woman who is ashamed that she can suddenly have so little control over her emotions. A woman who says "I'm sorry," turning back to the dinner she is preparing in tears and shame.

And then there is that little barking dog who not even thirty minutes later stands in the doorway sneaking shy peeks at the woman. There are smooching noises. A wagging wisp of a tail. Nose kisses and forgiveness.

Sometimes our broken humanity comes crashing down on us like that. And we need little barking dogs to remind us we are human, to offer us the forgiveness we don't always allow ourselves.

Stop rearranging furniture

One of my favorite writers, Anne Lamott, has a new book out called Some Assembly Required. I look forward to reading it, but spent a little time last night flipping through one of my favorites by her, Bird by Bird. This book is equal parts writing guide and life instruction manual. I think that may be why I love it so much.

While reading, I came to a chapter on Voice that I have reread countless times. For whatever reason, it resonated with me more deeply than ever. She says:

We write to expose the unexposed. If there is one door in the castle you have been told not to go through, you must. Otherwise, you'll just be rearranging furniture in rooms you've already been in. Most human beings are dedicated to keeping that one door shut. But the writer's job is to see what's behind it, to see the bleak unspeakable stuff, and to turn the unspeakable into words--not just into any words but if we can, into rhythm and blues...But you can't get to any of these truths by sitting in a field smiling beatifically, avoiding your anger and damage and grief. Your anger and damage and grief are the way to the truth. We don't have much truth to express unless we have gone into those rooms and closets and woods and abysses that we were told not to go in to. When we have gone in and looked around for a long while, just breathing and finally taking it in--then we will be able to speak in our own voice and to stay in the present moment.

And maybe that's it. The present moment in all of its fleeting glory is the gift we are given. It is what we get when we decide to stop rearranging furniture and instead decide to pull back the curtains and throw open the windows on the rooms we convinced ourselves were off limits. This is what I want for myself, to breathe in the dark places and watch the light flood in.