One Mother’s Prayer at 3:43 AM

As the title suggests, I wrote the following prayer one sleepless night while tending to Gabe alone, in an effort to find meaning in my struggle. It is a reflection on who God is for me as a woman and a mother.

Winsome Lord,

You, whose  very desire is the crucible of creation

You, who speaks the invitation so alluring

“Let there be-”

Vulnerable and open, enticing yet restrained,

I can almost see the gleam in your eye.

We all say, “Yes.”

Trembling and ablaze,

rising to life.

I am so grateful to be your partner.

We are more than friends, you and I.

More than companions,

More than master and humble servant, grateful for your generosity.

We are divine conspirators,

breathing together new life.

You are the beginning and end of all my longing.

This night, as I rise again and again to the cries of my son,

may I know the satisfaction of this liturgy,

the call and response of your hungry love.

May the sun find me with a weary smile upon my face,

drenched in the dew of your desire.

Amen.

Autumnal Equinox

As October approaches, it is hard for me to believe I have been a mother for almost two years. The little life that has been entrusted to my care grows brighter and more vibrant every day and I am humbled by my role as Gabe’s nurturer and protector. Mother is a word of ever evolving meaning. Each new manifestation surprises me and I hope I am found to be a quick and willing learner of its lessons.

One thing I know for sure is that mothering is a full time proposition. Like many mothers, I work a 12-14 hour day and am then on-call throughout the night. For a contemplative person like myself, this sort of schedule has been quite the adjustment. There are no days off, overtime pay, or sick days. Maybe this is why we are biologically designed to bear children during the spring and summer of our lives; a time when the sap rises and we are energetic, fully present and engaged.

My own mother recently spoke of the mysterious nature of parenthood and the way in which days that are so long can  turn into years that are so short. I do agree. Despite the many days that are an endless succession of trains and trucks, parks and play dates, meal after meal, bath time and countless bedtime stories, the past two years have flown so quickly by. It seems that only a moment ago my curious, adventuresome toddler was a sweet, sleepy baby. I responded to my mother, though, by lamenting that while the days are long, it is the nights that are so short. Too short. Gabe is a restless sleeper and the nights that I actually get into bed and stay there are few and precious. It is this reason that makes me particularly ready for autumn’s arrival tomorrow.

At 5:18 pm the sun will pass over the equator and fall will begin. I am ready to give thanks for the warmth of summer, to bless its passing, and to fling open wide the doors of my life to the more temperate climate of autumn. The transition itself is one of balance as day and night will be approximately the same length. And then, in the wake of this autumnal equinox, the days will become shorter and the nights longer. More time to ponder the mysteries of the darkness. More opportunity for rest, renewal, interiority, and contemplation. I hope that Gabe senses the shift and finds it as compelling as I do.

Something to Say

Vocation has been a challenge for most of my adult life. I’m not even sure how to exactly describe the problem, except to say that nothing quite seems to fit. I have a recurring dream in which I am leaving a church or a shopping mall and cannot remember where I parked my car. Despite other variations, the outcome is always the same: I wander from parking lot to parking lot searching for my car, alone and in the dark. I feel afraid, confused, and weary, always waking without resolution. These are good descriptors for my vocational journey. I am very, very tired of searching for my vehicle.

The Spirit has a long history of speaking to people in dreams: Jacob, Joseph, Samuel, King Nebuchadnezzar, Daniel, the daddy Joseph, the Wise Men, and many others. Despite these many stories, though, it seems that God either stopped speaking through dreams just after John’s Revelation, or our contemporary society is so skeptical of anything unscientific that we no longer speak of such things. I believe the human unconscious is exquisitely sophisticated and I would not say that all or even most dreams are the voice of God. How easily these claims are often abused by violent and deluded people. It seems drastic, however, to throw away this mode of Divine communication altogether.

Some time ago I had a dream that  has become a North Star, of sorts, providing a point of reference in the midst of my disorientation. The more I live into this dream, the more it becomes a revelation:

I was sitting with a group of close friends on the landing of an outdoor stairwell in an apartment complex. We were overlooking a park-like area when a large falconish-owl-type bird flew into our midst. The bird raised one of its wings as if pointing toward the sky. As we followed its direction, wispy clouds began gathering on the horizon and forming into words.  The only thing more surprising than this phenomenon was the message itself: “You have my grace.” As we continued to watch, the clouds began to disperse and a large golden urn appeared in the sky. A man dressed in white robes dove into the urn which erupted with lava and fire. We seemed to know then that it was time to go and with a sense of certainty and benediction, my friends and I packed a few suitcases and left for some unknown destination.Perhaps most importantly, I woke up amazed and greatly relieved.

My friends’ reactions to this dream vary: “you are so weird,” “it sounds like Harry Potter,” “falcons mean something or other,” “you should go to Greece.” Although the symbolism is rich throughout, the plain-sense understanding of “you have my grace” is most fascinating to me. It feels as though the Spirit is reassuring me in an experience not so unlike that of  the  many Mamas and Papas of our faith. I am reminded of fearful, whiny, and conniving Jacob, fleeing the consequence of his actions towards his brother and wandering around the wilderness. One night he dreams of the angels going up and down a celestial ladder and somehow knows the presence of God because of it, knowing that God’s blessing to his Grandaddy Abraham is also the promise for him. That’s the beautiful thing about grace; it’s unmerited favor, no matter what. It depends wholly on God’s big, loving generosity and not at all on what we may or may not be able to make of our lives. An important message indeed for someone who can’t seem to do much with her life at all.

My life continues to unfold and as it does the dream also evolves and speaks in new ways. It seems that the meaning of “you have my grace” is not just the personal reassurance of God’s love. In true Divine fashion, the intimate embrace of Spirit and flesh creates more than the sum of its parts.

I am sure that a Jungian analyst would encourage me to consider myself in all parts of the dream: the owl, the urn, the angel. I don’t think I’m qualified to do that, but when I think of the clouds and their decree, I realize that perhaps the greatest gift of the dream is the gift of something to say. I am beginning to understand the certainty of God’s grace as the first and last word. There is nothing more true and nothing more foundational. The proclamation of grace by my own life is indeed a vocation.

I may still be searching for my vehicle and I am not so different from Jacob, wandering around in my own wilderness of too many parking lots. The dream assures me, though, that I am not wholly lost. The Spirit is present and speaking, often in the darkness of sleep when I am alone.

So…allow me to say that God’s unmerited favor is yours.  God’s “excessive kindness and unfair partiality” (see dictionary definitions of favor) are for you. May we trust a little more in this kindness every moment of our lives and be at peace.

The Flame

I have always loved the outside air just before a summer thunderstorm. The sky darkens and a cool breeze cuts the heat, adding some element of surprise to the otherwise predictable inferno of summer. Charcoal-hued clouds pile up as if Nature has washed her fluffy white towels in dirty bathwater. The birds cease their carefree chatter in respect and it seems as though time is suspended for a moment in anticipation of and even longing for the raw power and beauty of hot meeting cold. Thunderstorms are often described as “violent,” and they can have unfortunate consequences, but it is interesting to me that the thunder, lightning, and rain are in actuality generative, cleansing, and necessary. It seems that redemption does not always come neatly packaged, harmless and meek.

The calm before the storm speaks to me of something mysterious, alluring, and unexpected. It is this beguiling mix of opposites that I often appreciate in men. I confess that I find unexpected combinations to be particularly attractive: sheer physicality paired with mental acuity, a warm smile amidst a calm, almost disinterested confidence, or a wicked sense of humor couched in a scholarly mind.  It occurs to me, though, that these things that I find most compelling about certain men and thunderstorms ultimately lead me to a deeper knowledge of God. I am not suggesting that God is confined to human understanding or human categories. God is not created in our image. Believing, though, that we may know something of God’s character from God’s creation, I find myself contemplating God’s love in a new way.

Yesterday was Pentecost Sunday, the day we celebrate the coming of the Holy Spirit. Luke writes, “when the day of Pentecost had come, they were all together in one place. And suddenly from heaven there came a sound like the rush of a violent wind, and it filled the entire house where  they were sitting. Divided tongues, as of fire, appeared among them, and a tongue rested on each of them. All of them were filled with the Holy Spirit….” (Acts 2:1-4, NRSV). The Holy Spirit apparently desires a passionate and fiery relationship with us, both in community and as individuals.

One of my favorite movie lines is from the film starring the late Heath Ledger as Casanova. Regarding romance and seduction, Casanova advises his friend Papprizzio to “always be the flame, never be the moth.” I am particularly grateful today to celebrate the Holy Spirit as the Flame, that which kindles and renews and is the Source and Ending of all our desire.

John Donne, the 17th century poet, priest, and husband, says it better than I ever could in his 14th Holy Sonnet:

“Take me to you, imprison me, for I,

Except you enthrall me, never shall be free,

Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.”

Pondering Desire

October has always been my favorite month. The reasons are many, although the fiery beauty of autumn is motivation enough. Gabe was born in October. The holidays and holy days are approaching. The harvest moon looms large and primal. Change is in the air and the mystery of winter begins to creep around the edges of the evenings. All the significant romantic affairs of my life began in October. There seems to be something about that first seasonal gulp of chilly air, the shorter, less arduous days, the homecoming games, state fairs, and hikes through leaves aflame that makes everyone want to kick up their heels, frolic a bit, and find a warm hand to hold. So…it seems fitting that my thoughts have turned to the nature of longing, choice, commitment, and faith…

A few questions about desire:

• What is one to do with unfulfilled longing? I am finding that desire in the darkness can be quite a problem. I hope I can find a way to write about it.
• Without desire, perhaps there would be no darkness. There are those who would say that the goal of life is to want nothing except what actually is.  Of course, I’m not sure that this would be a faithful response from a Christian perspective since we might say that God seems to want quite a bit and we refer to Jesus’ suffering as his “passion.”
• Or, without desire perhaps there would still be darkness, but we wouldn’t know the difference. Do Adam and Eve have something to say to us here? (see Gen. 3) Was the problem their desire or their choice?
• How do we live faithfully with the magnitude of our choices? It seems that we have a bounded rationality: we can never fully know all the consequences of our choices and yet we are still responsible to them. How, then, do we live as people of faith? Do we leave the outcome to God?
• What if the outcome is at times, at least, hard to bear? Do we then turn inward and berate ourselves for our lack of wisdom? Or do we berate God for God’s lack of intervention? Or do we live somewhere in between? Of course, I would prefer not to berate anyone at all, but sometimes it is difficult to respect my own choices. Hmm…is compassion a possibility? I am thinking of Adam and Eve again and their life outside the garden. How could they live with their choice when it had cost them so much?
• Maybe we turn to the poets and songwriters.

Interestingly, it is 2:35am and I am writing alone in the darkness of my bedroom. And yet, it seems that I am not alone. There is an owl somewhere outside my window, just “who-wh-who-whoo”-ing his or her heart out. Mystery has found me once again. Truly, “the dark too, blooms and sings and is traveled by dark feet and dark wings.”

Your thoughts?

A Tomb of One’s Own

Dark Art No. 1: Befriending Death

Death has been personified, investigated, lamented, kept at bay, and obsessed upon throughout recorded time so I imagine I am in good company. I was quite convinced as a child that I would not live past 30. It was just too advanced an age to even contemplate. My mother will testify that every time I had a stomach virus there would come some point when, usually after throwing up for the umpteenth time with my whole body beginning to go numb, I would wearily look up at her with tears in my eyes and ask if I was going to die. Such agony! Just prior to middle school my best friend Stefanie and I developed a macabre fascination with teen novels in which someone was dying of cancer. In one particular tale, the main character, Deanne (whose name we decided should be pronounced “Deannie”) while volunteering at the hospital falls in love with a handsome young man who has cancer. They develop a relationship on the oncology ward and then spend an idyllic day on some secret island before…yes…sadly, he dies. I cannot begin to guess the number of times we read this book. My mother, sensing danger, finally banished it from the house. Years later I was looking for a scarf  in the top of the hall closet and found it way back in the corner in what appeared to be an entire stack of banned books.

As I matured and crept closer to 30 I realized that the fear of death usually came calling just as I was contemplating some new opportunity or was on the brink of a major life transition. Always on the cusp of something new, I could just see myself suddenly beset with an incurable disease, bedridden in the hospital, my mother’s face contorted with grief, and my future husband incapacitated with sorrow. I was gently labeled by my therapist as “not good at transitions.” The events of September 11, 2001 did nothing to allay my fears. Death equaled terror and terror equaled death. I am still surprised and relieved every time the plane lands safely.

Death seemed to slink away during my pregnancy. Being so full of life there just wasn’t much room for anything else. My old companion returned though, postpartum. This time, however, my prayer morphed from “Please God, I don’t want to die,” to “Please God, don’t let me die in Leesburg.” And yet, in some ways, it seems that is exactly what I am doing. I have been afraid that if I fully open myself to this time and submit to my present circumstances I will succumb to a frightening fate, that of a suburban mom and housewife. It’s not that I don’t believe that full time motherhood is a high calling. I do and it is. It may just be the highest calling there is. To me, though, it has always symbolized boredom, depression, and unfulfilled longing. (If you want to accuse me of a lack of imagination, it’s completely okay). As a child I watched my mother struggle with three children under the age of five and I saw my dad come home from work exhausted and unhappy. Somewhere along the way I began to associate that pain with our domestic life in the little brick starter home on the culdesac in Eastway Park.

I am now 32 and have beaten the mental odds of my childhood life-expectancy. I am learning that throughout our lives we die many deaths, some very great and some quite small. It occurs to me that Jesus’ own death may perhaps be a model for me.  We talk a good bit about Jesus’s crucifixion and his resurrection, but what about Saturday, the day in the tomb? It is the liminal day, the day in between all the action. For Jesus’ disciples, this was the Sabbath day, the day of rest. I can only imagine what this day must have been like for them. Between the passion of their Friend’s death and the promised hope of the third day, how did they spend their Saturday? Was it difficult to be still, to wait, to cease from their grievous efforts, to place their hope in God? There was nothing they could do.

And so it is with me. There is nothing I can do to change my circumstances in any fundamental way. I am dying to my former way of life, but I have yet to be resurrected into hope and joy. I can submit to the grave or continue resisting, full of fight and ingratitude. It is 4:15am and I have been up all night with Gabe, who is himself having trouble letting go. It all starts at such an early age. Maybe I will have something to share one day when he struggles with the losses of his own life. For now, I think I will just lay in the tomb for awhile and rest.

Swallowing Gnats

Mystery was my first love.

Some of its earliest manifestations were Nancy Drew and Harriet the Spy. As a young girl, I read every classic Nancy Drew novel I could get my hands on. Nancy was perky, brave, and resourceful and it didn’t hurt that she was often accompanied by the handsome and capable Ned. Harriet, on the other hand, could be a bit judgmental, but she was a precocious and spunky sleuth. Both Harriet and Nancy had me convinced that there was some great curiosity to investigate, intrigue around the next corner, excitement bubbling beneath the surface. I dreamed of great adventures, mysteries to solve, and like Harriet, I kept my own secret notebook of my observations. What I usually found, however, was rather mundane and definitely not mysterious. Disappointing, to say the least.

Enter Edisto Island, South Carolina. Edisto is one of the great gifts of my childhood, a bastion of mystery itself. There are no neon lights, chain restaurants, or boardwalks on Edisto. Ancient Live Oak trees line the main road onto the island; their limbs forming spooky tunnels covered in green vines and draped in Spanish moss. Gullah culture still survives in the homes with blue trim around the windows and doors, keeping the evil spirits at bay. Snippets of their distinctive Anglo-Creole language can still be heard at the Piggly Wiggly, the one grocery store on the island. If you drive by Botany Bay Road you will see the aptly named, “mystery tree.” A lone, skinny tree standing in the middle of the marsh that some unknown person honors with seasonal decorations (think ornaments at Christmas and flags for the Fourth of July.) Drive a little further toward the beach and you will pass the mattress swing, hung from chains under a tree. There may be children or dogs resting on top. And then, of course, there is the Atlantic ocean itself, vast and gray and tumultuous.

My grandparents had a beach front house on Edisto and I had the great privilege of spending long weeks there as a child with my family. We were bathed in brine, baked by the sun, covered in sand like sugar, and lulled to sleep by the ocean every night.

Enter Columbia Theological Seminary. After many years of vocational wandering it finally occurred to me that faith had always been the most important part of my life and seminary might be a good place to go. And it was. I became more of who I always wanted to be. I learned ancient languages. I became a preacher. I administered sacraments. I debated ethical issues. I surveyed the Old and New Testaments. I became an exegete. I wrote way too many papers. I practiced my skills in internships. I went to Mexico. I passed big, long exams. But most importantly of all, I was steeped in mystery. From day one of Greek School there truly were mysteries to be investigated in the next word, on the next page, or in the next conversation. I loved almost every minute of it (“Ministry Through the Year” was a huge exception).

Over time I found myself less concerned with the “right” answers and more and more in love with the Mystery. I wanted my whole life to be a sacrament (my seminary friends will remember that sacrament is a Latin translation of the Greek word mysterion, “mystery.” How appropriate!), a visible sign of God’s invisible grace. I prayed to be in over my head with God and all that Divine power and love.

Okay, what in the world does all this have to do with gnats?

Enter Edisto Island again, last week actually. Although my grandparents are no longer living and the beach front house was destroyed by Hurricane Tammie several years ago, we try to go to Edisto at least once a year. I was especially excited about this trip because it would be Gabe’s first experience of the beach and my parents and sister would be joining us for part of the week. My mom and I decided to take Gabe for a walk on one of those evenings when the air is thick and humid and electrified. Tropical Storm Fay was approaching and bands of dark clouds were forming out over the ocean. We talked as we walked and we noticed that every so often we would be slapping at bugs, eventually realizing that swarms of tiny gnats seemed to congregate at regular intervals along our path. As annoying as this was we also began to see small, dark birds flying over our heads in erratic patterns. Mom said, “Look at all these swallows! I don’t think I’ve ever seen this many at one time.” And of course, it finally dawned on both of us that the swallows were eating the gnats. We stopped in amazement as those sleek, black birds darted all around and above us.  I once again felt the thrill of being part of something much bigger than myself, caught up in the mysterious ways of Nature, which was actually intervening on our behalf.

I’ve thought much about the swallows and gnats since our return from Edisto and it seems to me that wanting to embody mystery is asking for trouble. How can there be mystery without some interplay between dark and light? To experience the swallows so dramatically we had to be among the gnats. As I think back on the many enchanted childhood days on Edisto, in addition to the magic there were also lots of mosquito bites, more than the occasional cockroach, and painful sunburns. The holy sacraments we celebrate consist of very ordinary bread, water, and wine. The mysteries are, by design it seems, quite mundane. Perhaps this is instructive for me as I struggle with suburbia, the daily routine of caring for a 10-month old, and a marriage stretching into that seven-year itch. Is the Spirit present? Will God do for me what only God can? Is there yet something bubbling beneath the surface?

“A Dark Luminosity”

I should begin by saying that I generally consider myself a creature of the light. Allow me to enter into evidence the fact that I am a Southerner. Sunshine, like barbecue, white rice, and SEC football is what we do.

I am also skilled at the practice of “warming my reptile” (aptly named by my husband). This ritual involves a blanket and a lazy nap in a sunny spot on the sofa. This is a blissful indulgence for my cold-blooded self. I should mention that unfortunately my reptile (named Morticia…more about that in a future post) has been in hibernation ever since the birth of my son.

If these facts aren’t enough to convince you of my light-loving nature, allow me to remind you that I am a seminary graduate. Jesus as the “light of the world” is a very well-accepted concept in seminary. (No, really?) As a “master of divinity” (you laugh, as you should) I rightly affirm the sovereignty of this Light.

Okay. The fact is that I find myself in a kind of dark night of the soul. A brief synopsis of 2007:

• January: Found out we were pregnant
• Two days later in January: Found out we were being transferred
• March: Placed house on market and dealt with unpleasant realtor
• January-April: Packed and wrote papers
• April: Went on house-hunting trip to find new house
• May: Graduated from seminary
• Later in May-Day before movers came: Finally sold house
• End of May: Sent all belongings to storage in Maryland as new house would not be ready until August.
• June: Chris moves to D.C., sleeps in friend’s apartment for 6 weeks, starts new position.
• June-July: Kate stays with parents in South Carolina and makes several trips to D.C. area. Attempts to find new doctor.
• End of July: Kate moves to D.C. and Chris and Kate move into hotel.
• July 27: 5 year wedding anniversary. Chris is traveling and Kate sits in Quest lab for 4 hours for extended glucose tolerance test. Kate has blood drawn many times and unintentionally offends one of the lab technicians. Not good.
• August: House is not ready as promised and money for hotel runs out. Chris and Kate move into a furnished apartment and rent by the week.
• September: Kate’s mother discovers that she has a lung condition that may be hereditary. Kate and Gabe, as yet unborn, undergo many scary tests.
• October 4: Gabe is born, healthy and robust.
• October 12: Rental apartment no longer available. Chris, Kate, and Gabe move back into hotel.
• October 15: Chris, Kate, and Gabe finally move into new house.

All this combined with Chris’s ever-changing work schedule and my subsequent resentment, my isolation and complete lack of friends and family in any proximity, and the temporary (hopefully) end of my vocational pursuits…and I often find myself sad, grieving, lost, hopeless, angry, and wondering how I’m going to make it through the day. Add in my dislocation in being a first-time mother and I feel as though I died and have been resurrected into a life I don’t recognize.

Author and former Catholic monk Thomas Moore says that “a dark night of the soul is dark because it doesn’t give us any assurance that what is happening makes sense and will ultimately be beneficial.” He also offers me this hope, via Jonah: “You are in the belly of the whale to get to Ninevah, to become part of the world, to add your important voice to its song. The people are waiting for you to be offered into society. They need you and you need them. But you have to be prepared by your dark night, which is both your pain and your deliverance. It is the great obstacle to getting on with life, and yet it is the best means of entry into what fate has in store for you.” [See Dark Nights of the Soul, p. 20-21, by Moore.] Hmm…this sounds a bit like giving birth.

So, I am going to embrace this darkness, try to befriend and understand it, and hopefully distill the gifts it has to offer. I hope it will be “a dark luminosity that is less innocent and more interesting than naive sunshine” (Moore, p. 6).