I held these two words in disbelief and wonder. I wasn’t expecting a hug goodbye or even a glance back. That didn’t mean I wasn’t hoping for it. Now, I was holding the gift I’d wanted for so long.
For years, I sat outside a heart shielded by self-depreciation. Too risky to hope, to enjoy the sunshine, to say who they are. Much safer to stay inside and not be.
It wasn’t easy to wait. Leaning against that cold wall made me cold too– cold and weary of waiting. Afraid of what my beloved might become, I shielded myself.
But Love found a way in. Love said to me, “Trust them.”
Those two words made the wall between us porous.
Love whispered these two words to others shut out in the cold, and they too began to trust this beloved one.
Then one day my beloved wanted to be in the sunshine, believed the light revealed their glory, smiled, and found two words.
“Love you,” my beloved said to me.
After 93 million miles, the sunlight finds things, even an old stone wall, to make it beautiful. —Steve Garnaas-Holmes, Sunlight
On May 7, hundreds of people showed up at the base of Burnaby Mountain, which is a few kilometres from where Fred and I live, to protest the Trans Mountain pipeline project in an event called Hug the Mountain. I regret that I wasn’t one of those huggers. Yet, I’m grateful for the people who did join hands in protest and for sending this message.
Credits and References: “Love Heart” By Louise Docker from Sydney, Australia (My heart in your hands) CC BY 2.0 via Wikimedia Commons. Steve Garanaas-Holmes quote from the poem Sunlight on the blog Unfolding Light. “pattern of sunshine on stone wall” by spodzone. Used with permission/
For days after I heard how my words wounded another, I was visited with the recurring judgment that I was a bad person, an unsafe person. I was shrouded in shame until God found me through a Lenten reflection on labyrinths with the themes: release, receive and return.
Gently, God helped me to enter the tomb with Jesus and release the expectation that I would learn from my mistakes and stop hurting or offending people.
It was a painful death, letting go of the hope that I could leave that dark part of me behind. I wrote a poem about it called Resurrection Is Personal in my blog post for Easter. It ended with these three questions.
What would it be like to love that dark part of me even when other people can’t?
What would it be like to stand with her when she feels the pain she caused, hold her when she sees her mistake, and forgive her seven times seventy times?
What would it be like to release her from the expectation that this can never happen again?
These questions allowed me to breathe again. I heard: Even if another person finds it hard to love me, I can love myself. I can forgive myself. I will offend others again and feel sad and disappointed, but I will be all right. I received these comforting and liberating words from God with gratitude, and peace began to return.
I shared my experience of resurrection with my spiritual director, weeping while I spoke. Accepting my humanity, forgiving and loving myself was freeing. Yet, I noticed how raw I felt. I wanted to withdraw from people. I felt as if I had no skin on.
My director asked me to pause there with those feelings and notice how God might want to be with me in them.
As I sat there, I sensed God’s tenderness and compassion. Then the idea came to me that God wanted to be my skin. I imagined God lovingly covering and protecting my raw hurting self. I felt so safe and protected.
I told my director what came to me in the silence. “God seems to understand that when an incident like that happens, I’m hurt too, and it takes a while to recover. I think God is inviting me to take the time I need for my skin to grow back.”
I returned home reassured of God’s intimate and particular care for me every step of the way.
You lead me in the path of goodness to follow Love’s Way. –Psalm 23:3 Nan C. Merrill, Psalms for Praying: An Invitation to Wholeness
I am so grateful to be a part of the love mischief that happens in the Living from the Heart course. I hear testimonies like these from participants and am moved every time. I love to hear that people are releasing false thoughts and expectations, receiving a felt sense of God’s intimate love for them, and returning to their true selves. The course is offered in person in Alberta and BC and online for anyone anywhere.
Once I acknowledged that I was on the ADHD spectrum, I saw things I could do to make life easier for myself and those around me. For example, I stuck a post-it note on the inside of our front door: keys, wallet, phone. I didn’t just make lists of what to pack on our vacation to Ucluelet, I checked off each item. I set an intention to pause and consider how others might hear what I say before I speak or send an email.
Fred asked me how he could help. “When I get back from a bike ride or errand, ask me if I unpacked my things,” I replied. I often leave a jacket in a bike pannier or keys in a pocket, and then they’re not where I expect them to be when I go out again.
Most evenings, Fred and I enjoy a game of Sequence. We’re dealt seven cards and each turn, we play a card, then pick up a new one from the deck. It doesn’t matter what cards I had the last round nor does it help to wish I had more Jacks. I just make the best move with the cards I have in my hand.
With greater awareness of who I am and what I have and don’t have in life, I can more freely choose what I want to do with each day rather than feeling like I’m the victim of circumstance. Sometimes, I give in to the allure of distractions and follow rabbit trails of thoughts. Other times, I’m aware of a deadline and choose to focus on what I’m doing. Completing a task pays off with a feel-good dopamine hit. However, pushing myself to always be on task drains me. There is no right way to play the same hand, just different ways.
I thought about all these things as we pored over maps and brochures of Pacific Rim National Park, Tofino and Ucluelet. I wanted to make the most of our week there. Should we get an early start or wait until mid-day when the tide ebbs and the beach rolls out? Should I explore the town or read my book?
One thing we knew for sure was that we wanted to be outside walking on the beach and listening to the surf or on a trail among the silent trees, old stumps, and sculpted limbs.
“In him, we live and move and have our being,” Paul writes of Christ. I love that God is incarnate in all living things, and we are always walking around in God. I felt surrounded in love and beauty in that holy place where ocean and forest meet, that thin place between heaven and earth. Yet there was always a low hum of repetitive thought. You’re doing it wrong, it said to whatever I decided to do.
I heard that accusation again when I sat to pray one morning during our vacation. The words prickled in my throat. My shoulders and arms felt heavy. As I stayed present there, a thought came to me in the silence. What if you believed that you can’t make a wrong choice, that whatever you decide is a great way to play your hand?
A wave of relief washed over my body and caressed my throat, shoulders and arms as it receded. I held that glistening question with curiosity. Of course, this invitation didn’t refer to moral choices. God was inviting me to relax and stop treating all choices as moral ones.
For in him we live and move and have our being.–Acts 17:28
Credits and References: “Nurse Log” by Larissa Sayer. Used with permission. “Boom” Crashing waves at South Beach, Pacific Rim National Park by Colin Knowles. Used with permission.
We humans are the young ones, the last to be created long days after the earth, mountains, seas, and trees.
What might we learn from our elders who awaken us with birdsong, feed us with nuts and berries, comfort us with their soft fur, enliven us with colour, and call us to glorify our maker by simply being who we are?
Abundance. Patience. Solidarity. Stillness. Surrender. Hope. Resilience. Transformation. The interconnectedness of all living things. Beauty.
Our elders speak no words and yet, their gospel stories shape our lives, their gifts keep us alive. On their backs, we rest.
These wise ones love us well.
How shall we honour our elders this day and every day we breathe fresh air, feel the ground beneath our feet and open our hands to receive?
John Robbins, author of Diet for a New America, and his son, Ocean, have been working tirelessly for decades to share cutting-edge research and insights on how the earth and all her inhabitants benefit and thrive on a plant-based diet. You can join the Food Revolution Summit on April 23 -30 for free. In 2020, this summit inspired me to be like one of their success stories. And it happened. But more than that, I found a way to honour the sacred bond I have with the earth.
Credits and References: “Giant Old Growth tree-Sitka Spruce” by Nick Kenrick. Used with permission. Mushrooms by Sylvia Sassen. Used with permission “Chica, my adopted Spanish kitten” by Sylvia Sassen. Used with permission. “Wheat” by FarbenfroheWunderwelt. Used with permission. “Got some flowers for the hummingbirds” by Chrissy Wainwright. Used with permission.
Resurrection isn’t just about living forever. It’s about living now and how we pick up our cross, go through death and become a new revised version of ourselves. Resurrection is personal.
This Easter, I entered the tomb after denying Christ in me three times. Three times I was Judas.
I can go through periods of time when I’m the beloved disciple people want to be around and wonder if the part of me that can be so insensitive so unkind so hurtful has finally died. I want to believe this shiny new me is here to stay.
Then the dreaded thing happens again, and again, and again. and I realize that the transformation I desire is not happening. It likely never will.
I spend three days in darkness letting go of the hope that I will learn from my mistakes, and finally become the person I wish I could be.
In the light of dawn, a new thought emerges from the tomb.
What would it be like to love that dark part of me even when other people can’t?
What would it be like to stand with her when she feels the pain she caused, hold her when she sees her mistake, and forgive her seven times seventy times?
What would it be like to release her from the expectation that this can never happen again?
Credits and References: “Resurrection of Lazarus” by Andrey Mironov 2011, CC licence via Wikimedia Commons
Such a familiar place, this standoff between the part of me that wants to and the part that doesn’t
I can list all the good reasons why I need to do this but something in me has shut the door leans her body against it and yells, “Leave me alone.”
I can force the door open. She isn’t very big, but she’s the master of sabotage and eventually gets her way.
This leaves me no peace. I really want to do this and that wanting doesn’t go away.
Then one day, instead of giving in, forcing or pleading, I sit down on the other side of the door and rest my hand on it –touching it touching her– and softly ask, “Tell me what you’re feeling.”
“It’s too hard, this thing you want me to do.”
“It’s hard,” I say, letting her know I’ve heard her.
“I don’t know how to do it. I don’t know if I can.”
“It’s hard,” I say again and let myself feel what she feels.
As I do, the door opens a crack.
We remember a quote from Glennon Doyle, “We can do hard things.”
I feel a shift. I’m no longer two parts but whole.
And I get up and do the hard thing I want to do.
One day, a wise, old owl flew by and saw the little bird all alone looking sad. The old owl flew down next to the nest. When the little bird looked into the kind face of the big owl, something inside felt safe and right to ask, “What do I do?”
The old owl gently moved over next to the little bird and said, “When you grow quiet inside and listen to your body, what does it tell you needs listening to more than anything else?”
–Edwin M. McMahon,“The Little Bird Who Found Herself” in Rediscovering the Lost Body-Connection within Christian Spirituality by Edwin M. McMahon and Peter Campbell
Questions for your Lenten Journey
Where in your life do you feel like you are at a stand-off with yourself and unfree to do what you’d like to?
What happens as you grow quiet inside and listen? What do you feel in your body? What do you hear?
Notice what happens as you simply listen and keep that feeling company.
Is there a thought, image, memory or feeling that comes to mind? If so, what goes on for you as this symbol interacts with what is going on inside you?
Is there a shift? What do you notice in your body?
What grace has God given you?
Credits and References: “DK” by Andy Simonds.Used with permission. Quote by Glennon Doyle in Untamed “The Open Door” by Eric Magnuson. Used with permission.
I do that, I thought. And that. And that sounds familiar. Unease, enlightenment, and caffeine gently pulsed in my veins.
When my friend referred to herself as neurodivergent, I reached out with a “me too” and suggested we get together for coffee. In our conversation, she referred to folks like herself who have ADHD or others, like me on the autism spectrum, as simply not the majority in the same way that left-handed people are in the minority.
“Do you know how many things are designed for right-handed people?” she said. “It’s infuriating.”
She felt the unfairness of it. I heard that being neurodivergent was not bad or wrong or anything to be ashamed of. I heard: there’s nothing wrong with me; I’m just different.
Now I was discovering another difference.
“Two years ago when I read that people on the autism spectrum often have ADHD as well, I couldn’t take it in. I didn’t want one more label,” I said to my friend, “but I experience much of what you’ve described.”
I wondered if many of the struggles I face daily are traits of ADHD, so I took an online test and checked every box. That led me to notice how often I get distracted, how hard it is to sit still and listen, and how accomplishing a task becomes impossible when I’m not motivated to do it. In re-reading and revising blog posts for my third book, I saw how often I’ve unknowingly done something that offended someone, and, as you read in a recent post, it keeps happening.
The real eye-opener was when my friend told me that people with ADHD are hypersensitive to rejection. That made me want to cry. Repeatedly being blindsided with the discovery that I did something wrong again has imprinted the fear of rejection on my nervous system. I’ve experienced repetitive little traumas with no abusers, just people reacting and responding to my impulsive actions, my sin.
As I awakened to the possibility that my hurtful actions didn’t stem from a moral or spiritual problem but a physical one, I felt angry at the way the Bible has been read and Christianity taught through the narrow lens of morality. I can see now that my Christian beliefs contributed to the denial that kept me from recognizing the traits of ADHD. I believed I was “normal” and that my messiness was because I didn’t value ordinary work. I thought I repeatedly misplaced things because I wasn’t present enough. I procrastinated doing things that were boring because I didn’t care enough about others. I fed my addictions to word games and food because I wanted to feel good more than I wanted God. I interrupt because I’m not patient. I watch the clock for meetings to end because I’m self-centred.
I have learned to judge myself in all these ways. Meanwhile, I’m as guilty as a person who is left-handed, colour-blind or has to buy specialized shoes. Sheesh!
I’m angry and I’m grateful.
I’m grateful God doesn’t judge, despite what the Bible seems to say. I’m grateful to be in communities that celebrate diversity. I’m grateful for the work LGBTQ+ people and mental health advocates have done to destigmatize differences. I’m grateful for friends brave enough to share their stories of not fitting in and loved ones who listen. If it wasn’t for them I would still be beating myself up for not being good enough.
Notice what you struggle with on a daily basis. What would it be like to offer yourself compassion instead of judgment? What goes on for you when you hear God or a loved one says, “This is hard.”?
Sometimes people think that if they aren’t hard on themselves, they won’t improve, that acceptance means we resign ourselves to the belief that things will never change. Studies have shown that the opposite is true. When we accept ourselves and our situations with tenderness and compassion, we find the energy to make the changes we can.
What new ways of being come to mind as you treat yourself tenderly?
Credits and References: “Birds on a Wire” by Julie Falk Used with permission. “Western Scrub-Jay” by Jerry McFarland. Used with permission.
We are gathered in a circle, and a question is placed before us.
Memories come vivid and sharp of feeling weighted by expectation confined by shoulds inadequate when I failed.
I sense a groaning, a churning a pushing against a wanting release.
I give words to my no certain that it’s the no we all need
until
on the other side of the room I hear a quiet yes in response to the same question.
I see a smile. I hear an opportunity taken a wonder at what became possible satisfaction delight.
My experience, my feelings, my thoughts are not theirs.
Thinking about it days later on a bike ride, I stop at a light and these words snap into place: certainty isn’t clarity.
I had a piece, not the whole.
The piece is not the whole yet the whole is not complete without the piece.
In that sacred circle, we held our yeses and our noes and found a way forward together.
The interplay of two polarities calls forth a third, which is the “mediating” or “reconciling” principle between them. In contrast to a binary system, which finds stability in the balance of opposites, the ternary system stipulates a third force that emerges as the necessary mediation of these opposites and that in turn (and this is the really crucial point) generates a synthesis at a whole new level. It is a dialectic whose resolution simultaneously creates a new realm of possibility.—Cynthia Bourgeault, “The Third Way”
Questions for your Lenten journey:
What happens to you when you discover others have a different experience from yours?
When you consider that your experience is only one piece of the puzzle, are you tempted to dismiss it as unimportant? Do you want to find another puzzle with pieces that match yours?
What’s it like to consider that we need to hear and value each other’s experiences in order to find a “third way”?
What might God be offering you as you notice and welcome what is arising in you now?
Credits and References: “Puzzle” (only visible in banner) by Olga Berrios. Used with permission. “Puzzle” by Olga Berrios. Used with permission. “¡¡¡última pieza!!!” by Olga Berrios. Used with permission.
Jesus asks, “Are you coming?” I say, “Yes.” And then what?
I’m not instantly empowered like a superhero released from the kryptonite of salt and sugar, egoic desires, or negative thoughts. Taking Jesus’ hand won’t prevent me from sinking into self-criticism, making mistakes or experiencing fear or depression. He isn’t asking me to walk on the sea of my suffering unaffected by it.
Yet when I hear Jesus’ invitation to go with him, I do hear a we’re-going-to-do-this-thing grit. It isn’t a brute force I’m given that makes transformation possible. It’s courage to continue the journey of deepening awareness, grieving losses, receiving compassion, letting go, and not deserting myself when I can’t let go.
And that even sounds easier than it is. Deepening awareness involves recognizing how my patterns of behaviour affect others. This can evoke feelings of sadness, disappointment, regret and shame, recriminating thoughts, and fear of judgment and rejection. Grieving our losses isn’t a walk in the park either. Receiving compassion is hard when everything in me wants to stay behind a self-protective shield. And if I hear that Let It Go song one more time, I’m going to scream.
“It isn’t simple. It isn’t easy,” I tell Jesus.
“It isn’t,” he replies softly.
Once again, he offers me his hand, and we take a step toward my suffering: my disappointment over a pattern of behaviour that hurt someone.
Instead of pushing my uncomfortable feelings away, I feel the cold waters of sadness rise over my ankles, my thighs, my chest. Waves of regret, insecurity and inadequacy peak and fall. But as Isaiah promised, I’m not swept away. I feel buoyed up. I’m able to hear from God and from another that I’m forgiven. That empowers me to forgive myself.
I notice something else buoying me up. As I ruminate over what happened, I make a discovery that’s liberating.
I know that we’re all human and that on some level we all struggle with feeling inadequate. But I realize now, I didn’t really believe it.
Some people seem so together. They look together. They say the things I wished I’d thought of. They are wise, kind and loving. So I assumed they don’t struggle the way I do, that they can handle anything, that they’ve arrived.
But they haven’t. My confirmation bias simply set aside moments I’ve witnessed and times they’ve told me about when that they feel as insecure as I do.
A friend said recently, “I can look like I have it all together when I don’t, and it doesn’t do me any favours.”
So here’s my take away. Nobody walks on water.
When Jesus says, “Are you coming?” he isn’t inviting me to put on my superhuman cape and be what I’m not. Yet, he’s determined to take me somewhere and do something miraculous with who I am.
When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and when you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you. –Isaiah 43:2 (NIV)
Questions for your Lenten journey?
What do you hear when Jesus says, “Are you coming?”
Where do you think you’re headed?
What goes on for you when you consider allowing your feelings to be acknowledged and felt?
Have you ever been swept away by them? Is something in you afraid of being swept away again? What’s it like to name that and receive Jesus’ compassion for you in that place.
Credits and References: Superhero invasion by kath.Used with permission. Father Damian by just.Luc. Used with permission
An Everyday Pilgrim 