Open Hands

It is a funny thing, perspective. Sometimes all it takes is a subtle shift and all of a sudden, the world looks very different than it did just moments before. Yesterday was not exactly an easy day. I was feeling the stress of waiting for the results of a medical test before my dear husband even started it. And when he walked out into the waiting room, I knew it had hit him too.

The ride home alternated between him trying to find the words to express what he was feeling, me trying to find the words to encourage him when I didn't feel so encouraged myself, and silence. Lots of silence. And in a twist of really bad timing, on a day when I was doing the very best I could at showing up, I received a pretty ugly text from a hurting person who wanted to hurt someone else. Bullseye.

Those words cut straight through all of the surface courage I had managed to muster that morning and hit me at the core of what I suspected might be true: Nothing I do is good enough. I am not good enough. Those feelings sat there like a heavy rock on my chest. And then I did the thing I knew I needed to do. I reached out to someone I knew would speak truth and healing to my heart. She listened and she reminded me of the things I knew, but had forgotten in that moment. Sick people--people with addiction and the brokenness that goes with it--can't love people. It isn't in their skill set. And as much as we could use their love--especially when we are hurting--we just can't expect it. They are doing what they can with what they have. I listened for several minutes to these words that spoke the truth of people I love who can't love me back. And I listened to her speak my truth. I am hurting, but I am loved. And it is a deep, deep love filled with grace and mercy.

 You can't be reminded of that kind of love and stay the same. That love--the words of God on the lips of a person who has let themselves be changed by that love, changed me. It helped me unfurl my fists. And that rock that had been sitting on my chest, so heavy and suffocating, began to move. I learned once again rocks can be moved and our wounds healed when we pray with our hands open.

Annie

I have a confession to make. I have a tendency to read sad books, watch sad movies, and listen to sad songs when I am already sad. There, I said it. I'm that girl. Everyone knows her. You might even be her.

There is a series of young adult books by Lurlene McDaniel that were popular with many (meaning most) of my female students when I was teaching. I called them the "death books" because someone died in every book. I heard so many booktalks that tearily began, "This is the best book I have ever read." I watched student after student cry through page after page and yet, they could not tear themselves away from the series. I laughed about it, often with crying girls, about the fact that we enjoy being sad.

Maybe it isn't so much that we always enjoy it, but when we let ourselves be sad when we need to be sad, we understand a little better what it means to be happy. I've had a lot of conversations about sadness lately. If a person is going to be sad, the holidays with their sense of necessary joy and fuzzy-edged nostalgia can bring it to the surface. There is a lot of mourning that happens at Christmas. And I'm starting to think that is okay as long as we keep walking, purposely moving through it, firmly grasping hope on our way through.

I read a story a couple of days ago that made me cry the ugly cry while I read it. It is a story of pure grief.  A heartbreaking story of deep sorrow, but deeper hope. We need these stories at Christmas. We need these stories. Period. To remind us that when we are lost in our own thoughts, independently living with our own hurts and griefs, there are others out there doing the same. And thankfully, some of these people let us walk with them, in a small way, through their pain, showing us that hurt is universal. But so is hope. And it is easier to grasp when we hand it to each other.

Here is Annie's story. I hope you read it and share it. May we all hand someone the hope of our Savior this Christmas.

Be Still...

from Sue Monk Kidd's When the Heart Waits:

"…I sat beside her, unable to resist the feeling that we shared something, the two of us. The wounds and brokenness of life. Crumpled wings. A collision with something harsh and real. I felt like crying for her. For myself. For every broken thing in the world.

That moment taught me that while the postures of stillness within the cocoon are frequently an individual experience, we also need to share out stillness. The bird taught me anew that we're all in this together, that we need to sit in one another's stillness and take up corporate postures of prayer. How wonderful it is when we can be honest and free enough to say to one another, 'I need you to wait with me,' or 'Would you like me to wait with you?'

I studied the bird, deeply impressed that she seemed to know instinctively that in stillness is healing. I had been learning that too, learning that stillness can be the prayer that transforms us. How much more concentrated our stillness becomes, though, when its shared…."

Primum non nocere

When I began working on my master's in counseling, I was taught that when counseling a client, a professional should Do no harm. A relatively simple concept. Short and to the point. It is a directive, not a request. It is not conditional and needs no qualification. Do no harm.

I've been thinking about this maxim lately. Mainly because I have seen an incredible amount of harm done. I'm fully human and have done harm so I know what it looks like. I know what it is to have hurt someone's feelings. I know what it is to have broken relationships with those you love, to act coldly, to keep score, to give up on someone. But I also know what it is to pray for restoration that is yet to come, to turn the other cheek, to return hate with love, to extend an apology, to try to pick up the pieces when my own brokenness caused someone else's, to humble myself before another because I messed up. Of course, I still regularly get it all wrong. I still act out my own brokenness on someone else. But hopefully, I get it right more than I get it wrong. And when I'm aware of it, I try to fix it. Even in my personal life--especially in my personal life--I try to do no harm.

I wonder what would happen if all of us humans lived by that motto? Would there be less pieces to pick up, and more healed hearts? Would we not act with disregard when we are trusted with the love of another? Would we realize the implications of our actions, and act judiciously when we would rather hold someone in contempt? Would we walk away when we'd rather assault? Would we stand guard over the hearts of the wounded when it is safer to retreat? Would see with clear eyes our own potential for inflicting harm and know that sometimes we may be tempted to use it in the name of good, or even worse, God?

I like to think so. I'm an optimist, even though sometimes I have to remind myself of that fact. As long as there is potential, there is hope. And hope is bigger than our brokenness when it is placed in a God who redeems and restores.