I was 17 years old when I first became aware of the Darkness as a presence. I had been rejected by a boy I dearly loved in favor of a girl more popular and less complicated. My family life was disheveled and I had the self-esteem of a slug. I had very little hope for my future and I was tormented by the inertia of my life and the force of my despair. Even then, though, in all my raw and immediate pain Grace was working on my behalf. I muddled through the rest of high school and there were a few bright lights along the way pointing to a more hopeful reality. Slowly, with help, I began to relax and loosen Darkness’s spindly grip around my heart. I discovered through time, and again, Grace, that the Presence of God was somehow more ultimate than any of my dark sorrow and that this Presence was all that mattered in a very fundamental way. This Presence–the Great-I-Am-With-You-Always–was revealed to me as the “bottom line,” the ground of my being, the only true Essential. This direct knowledge sustained me for many years giving my spirit equanimity and peace and offering a certain freedom to my life that was otherwise unimaginable. I wish I had the words to describe what that experience of healing was like, but I can only say that God did for me what only God could do. (I have found this to be a good prayer in every raw moment: “God please do for me what only you can.”)

Now I find myself in the second dark age of my life–17 years later. It occurs to me that the Dark Arts are really about finding Presence. When we name the darkness, learn to speak and write of the darkness, surrender to the darkness, struggle with desire and longing, embrace hope, accept inspiration, wrestle and demand a blessing, and commend ourselves to the care of God, what we are really doing is invoking and finding present the Presence in the midst of it all. While I doubt there will ever be anything more fundamental I can say about God other than that God is present, I see that this dark night has added something important, and equally essential, to my understanding of God.

In my previous experience, the Presence of God to me meant that God is /was here with me and that I can experience that Presence in some way that makes a difference. Now, though, I am learning that the quality of that Presence is inexhaustible and personal and ever-deepening.

The presence of another person is something that we rarely talk about as “presence”, but we experience it directly all the time. We might speak of others as genuine, refined, jovial, gracious, intellectual, energetic, intense, gloomy, withdrawn, or shrewd. To speak this way is to say something about the person’s presence–not simply that they are present, but rather what it feels like to be with them as opposed to anyone else. The poets and songwriters know this and are instructive. I can hear James Taylor singing, “there’s something in the way she moves, looks my way, or calls my  name….” Or Lord Byron, “She walks in beauty, like the night of cloudless climes and starry skies, and all that’s best of dark and bright meets in her aspect  and her eyes.”

I can say now, in a way that I perhaps could not have said 3 years ago, that it is the quality and particularity of God’s presence that matters. This is perhaps what I wish to say to every person who has ever wondered what the big deal about God is in general, and about Christianity in particular. This God is so transcendentally “other” than any human experience and yet, this God is so personal. This is the God who speaks, who is present, and who offers the gift of Presence over and over again.

In all the loneliness, I have found God to be the true anam cara, the true soul friend. Jesus is the strong-yet-humble, seasoned-through-suffering-God who understands my need for solidarity and courage in this exhausting and interim time. My old life is dead, and yet I am still being delivered and resurrected. God is the non-anxious Presence who holds me with strength and tenderness and with the ultimate knowledge that in the end all shall truly be well. I can only imagine that God’s eternal Presence must pervade all of heaven with a profoundly beautiful equilibrium. God’s passion for and suffering with the world, through every darkness,  is always encased in the gleam of resurrection. It is this Presence that makes all the difference both in this life and in the life to come.

My prayer for all who wonder where God has gone is from John O’Donohue:

May you, even in the darkness, ” allow the wild beauty of the invisible world to gather you, mind you, and embrace you in belonging.” May you know the Presence of God and may the quality of that Presence make all the difference in your life.

Amen.

Baseball has been the subject of much art and literature, including the popular movie Field of Dreams in which the game takes on a sacramental and healing quality for a middle-aged Midwesterner. One of my favorite first-person accounts, though, is from Pat Conroy’s character Jack McCall in Beach Music. I imagine that if I had  been a boy and had played baseball, this is what I would have said:

“I loved playing right field for the baseball team during that long season as we sparred on the immaculate fields in the sheer beauty of the game’s discipline, a law unto itself. Right field was a home place for thinkers if you had the arm to keep the swift boys from going from first to third on a double. I had the arm and the mineral patience of the daydreamer and I roamed the outfield green, lamb happy and nervous when southpaws came to the plate.” So lovely.

On a more personal note, in my actual  life, the decision to separate has been made. There are no words to do justice to the sadness and difficulty of making such a choice. I can say, though, with conviction and peace that in the end, it is the most loving option. As husband and wife there is so much disrepair that stands between us and asphyxiates our love. As friends and parents, though, we are able to step beyond the pain and love each other freely, gratefully, and without expectation. I am exceedingly grateful both for the 8+ years Chris and I have shared and the 9+ months of heartache and soul-searching we have endured.

And so now all I know is that I feel greatly dislocated and alone. I don’t remember how not to be married. I don’t know what it will mean to look at my left hand, unadorned of its circular symbol of  chosenness.  I am not sure what this new reality should look like, or even what I want it to look like. This year has been raw, yes, but also methodical and measured in its questioning and discernment. In contrast, this new season seems to be offering less mind and more body, less method and more spontaneity, less honored history and more unfolding future. It seems now that the field of dreams is opening again and I am being asked to enter with imagination and trust–a little worse for the wear, but still game.

My sister sent me a lovely clay bowl, cardinal-red, with this verse attached for my birthday last week. It seems so fitting, given the state of my marriage. I am struck that the vessel “was marred”–passive voice in Hebrew–while still in the hand of the Potter. Remaining in God’s hand apparently does not mean that the creation cannot be spoiled. God’s sovereignty neither negates our own agency, nor necessarily negates the agency of other forces at work, forces which may not have our best interests at heart. Could I have made different choices that would have prevented the demise of my marriage? Could I have chosen a different path? Was I listening to God’s voice eight years ago? Was there any way to avoid the pain, anger, fear, loneliness, grief, and envy–dark feelings that are now my regular sparring partners? My feelings frighten me. I am a lover of equanimity and peace. Could I have avoided all of this?

I was talking about these things with a wise mentor and we came to the conclusion that the answer is “yes, of course!” Just like the choose your own adventure novels I enjoyed as a child, I could have made different choices. I could have turned to page 45 rather than page 27. I didn’t though. Would the outcome have been different? Yes. Could I have avoided these feelings and uncertainties? Who knows. I couldn’t have known where this path would lead. I made the decisions with a certain amount of fear and trembling, but also with confidence that God would be present and would make me equal to whatever the future might hold. Does that continue to be the truth of my life? Yes. The vessel that is my marriage may be marred, but I remain in God’s hands.

And so, I proceed in hope and gratitude to the next chapter, knowing that no matter what it holds the outcome of my life is secure because of the determination and love of the Potter. I am ready to be remade. I am learning that the antidote to all the scary feelings is certainty: certainty of purpose, of belonging, and of the goodness and mercy that are doggedly pursuing me. As some very dear dreams are dying, I await the birth of others, with all the hope of Advent and the coming adventure. This is a story with a happy ending.

In just a few days, I will celebrate my  34th birthday. I’m not the kind of person who minds growing older. My dad always says that the only alternative to aging is death. I see his point, and to me, each birthday really is a reason to celebrate another year of being graciously upheld and supported by Life itself.  I  love cake. I love to laugh with friends and family, and I’ve never been shy about the delight of opening presents and finding a thoughtful gift inside.

This year, though, I am celebrating life while staring death in the face. The death of my marriage. My husband and I have been married eight years and we have struggled for the last three to reconcile our differences. We are, in fact, extremely different people. We have different ideas about what makes life worthwhile. We have different ideas about faith, about parenting, about marriage itself, about the role of happiness, the nature of commitment, the importance of work, about fiscal health, and even how to spend leisure time. Despite our best efforts, we haven’t made much progress in saving our marriage, and we are considering separating.

You may be wondering about now, why I would share something so personal over the Internet. I happen to believe, along with my favorite theologian Henri Nouwen and others, that what is most personal is also most universal. I hope that by sharing the shadowy places of my life, others may find renewed courage to live with faith in their own dark places. I know I have certainly benefited from this kind of transparency from others. I should also add that this particular post is written with my husband’s knowledge and approval.

Our life together began on Halloween night 1999. Our first date was a costume party at the house of some fellow grad students. He was “Joe the Redneck” and I was “Roxy the Hooker.” Although Roxy was a challenge for my conservative, white bread self to pull off, that was exactly why I chose her. She symbolized my desire to surprise myself with my openness to life, to new experiences, and to this new man that I found very intriguing. As we pulled up to the house, I started to get nervous and whimpered something about how I wasn’t sure I was ready to go inside. His car door was open and friend walked by and said, “Hey Malarney, what are you doing?” Chris replied calmly, “Well, right now we’re working on getting out of the car.” I appreciated his steady, gracious demeanor, his willingness to let me go at my own pace, and all the laughter we ended up sharing that night. I assumed that those qualities would be present during the many challenges of our life and the many transitions into uncharted territory.

First Date

When we married 3 years later, I hoped our  marriage would be a sacrament, an visible sign of God’s gracious work in our lives. I believed that, being such different people, we could have a different marriage, one marked by true respect, steady communication, and a desire to create something more than just ourselves. I wanted our love to be a benediction not just to us, but to the larger world. I wanted our marriage to be a symbol of God’s covenant with humanity. Irrevocable, complete, never-say-die love and commitment.

I am not ready for my dreams to die. I don’t want to let go. There is so much at stake, the greatest of which is the heart of our very best blessing, our young son. I am coming to realize though, that despite all our best intentions, we too live with the brokenness of being human. Marriage is mutual. I cannot unilaterally make everything okay by just making the “right” decision. I cannot control all outcomes simply by the force of my desire and belief.

Perhaps more importantly, regardless of the outcome–whether we stay together or separate, I am learning about the sufficiency of God’s grace. As St Augustine knew and stated so well, my heart will always be restless until it rests in God. Psalm 23, the text so often read at funerals, calls me to this rest in God’s provision. The Lord is my Shepherd. I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures. I believe I can learn this divine rest whether married or single, and perhaps this is the true sacrament. This is where God’s grace will be seen–amidst either a difficult marriage or a broken one.

I am learning how to walk through the valley, in the shadow. The proper response to the deep darkness? Fear no evil. Why? Because You are with me and that is enough.

Me: I can’t wait to watch Dan Henderson fight tonight!

Friend: Who is Dan Henderson and what are you talking about? Do you mean “fight” as in guys punching each other?

Me: Yes,actually. I know it’s weird, but I am a big fan of Mixed Martial Arts. It’s kind of like boxing and wrestling and karate and jiu-jitsu combined. Dan Henderson is this great fighter that I really enjoy watching. He’s got this big right-hand and…

Friend: Wait! Jiu-what?? Is this like pro-wrestling or something? Are we talking about Hulk Hogan? I can’t believe you- of all people- like this!

The conversation usually ends here because I don’t know how to explain my fascination with this sport (yes, sport) and it feels a bit like swimming upstream to try and explain this to someone who has the likes of Andre the Giant in mind.

So, in honor of Dan Henderson’s fight tonight on CBS, here’s my best effort at explaining myself.

I would not know anything about MMA if I hadn’t started watching The Ultimate Fighter reality show on Spike TV. I probably would have never considered even watching the Spike channel at all, except that my husband had me captive in a hotel room down in St. Simon’s Island in summer of 2006 for a vacation and insisted on watching The Ultimate Fighter. He used to work with Forrest Griffin at the University of Georgia Police Department during graduate school. Forrest went on to become a well-loved poster boy for the UFC  after his win on season one of the show.

Long story short, I sit down to watch and am hooked. Fourteen alpha males living in a house in Las Vegas with nothing to do but eat, drink, fight, and jaw at each other proved to be fascinating. I was amazed that they had so much to prove, so much to say, so much aggression, so much pain, and surprisingly, so much heart.

I cannot fathom what it would be like to be punched in the face, not once, but over and over, and to continue to get back on your feet, grapple, clinch, and swing your heart out, and then when it is all over both you and your opponent, bloodied and exhausted, smile and give each other a big hug. Let me just say that all this is completely and totally foreign to me. But, like the guy from Paris in your high school lit class, it’s all very fascinating and attractive precisely because it is different and incomprehensible.

I admit that I am not a usual suspect for an MMA fan. I am generally viewed as a sweet, soft-spoken Southern girl, who rarely swears or even argues with anyone. I was raised in the Bible Belt. I don’t listen to metal, and I’ve only ever been to Vegas once, as a sixth-grader. More importantly, I am a seminary graduate who believes that time is best spent loving God and other people, and as such, I’m pretty much a pacifist at heart. Truly. I don’t even believe in spanking as discipline.

There is something in me though, that resonates with these fighters.To me they are a symbol of the courage it takes to face life’s challenges head-on. They remind me to train for what I want, embrace the difficulties with clear-eyed confidence (and maybe even enthusiasm), give it my all, dig deep when the going gets tough, and always be gracious in both victory and defeat. Dark arts, indeed.

When I am feeling a bit bruised by life’s ground and pound, I remember that if I have willingly stepped into the octagon of life, I’m no victim. I have choices about how to face life’s challenges and I can do my best to live with authenticity, skill, and heart. There are people in my corner who are cheering me on and just maybe the way I handle my fear will be inspiring to someone else facing their own difficulties.

As for the fight tonight, I hope I will see Dan Henderson’s big right fist hit its mark and know that there will be days when I, too, will win a few rounds.

I am usually okay with this sort of spiritual discipline, but sometimes I feel downright tormented.  The uncertainty of the outcome is bad enough, but it is the tension of the very pregnant pause between all the action that truly bothers me most. It is not unlike the desire to meet for the first time the child who has been percolating inside you for many months, and yet your deliverance lies completely beyond your control. In a strange way I feel like a victim to my own desire. Melancholy. Dissatisfied. Impotent.

Desire for what? I can hardly say. I can tell you that it is not a desire for something I can provide for myself, in which case I would not be writing this, sitting here in the darkness of midnight.

I wonder, if I were to meet Jesus tomorrow on my daily walk down the road, would I stop him and ask the big question of my life? Maybe following the manner of the rich man in Mark 10:17-27 (the one who Matthew calls the “rich young ruler”)? This man wants to know what he should “do to get eternal life.” Is he speaking of life after death? Probably, but I suspect Jesus knows that there is more at stake here than eternal destiny, as if that was not enough. Jesus tells him to keep the commandments in order to have eternal life and the man replies that he has kept them all from his youth. Jesus then speaks plainly to the man, forgoing the usually cryptic parable. He says that the man lacks only one thing, to give away all his possessions and come follow him. And of course, in true tragic style, the young man having just come in contact with the Source of all life and true freedom, misses the point and turns away, sad and forlorn.

What is it that I am holding onto that keeps me from having real life–right now? Have I made an idol out of my dissatisfied self, when the Source of all satisfaction is asking me to let it all go and follow him? If I am so caught up in my own longing, am I really fit to be his disciple?

I hope this young man was able to live with the question of his life for about as long as it took him to walk home. Just as his lovely villa came into sight, I hope he realized that he just left the satisfaction of all his longing walking out there on the road. I hope the next thing Jesus saw when he looked behind him was the rich young man running with abandon, a gleam in his eye, and the taste of freedom on his tongue.

I guess my prayer is that Jesus would look upon me with the same “genuine love” that he felt for this man…and not give up on me just yet.

In my experience, darkness calls forth creation in a way that a tepidly neutral landscape cannot. A Genesis Spirit  hovers over the darkness and void calling forth order, goodness, beauty, and growth. Darkness and light are magnets, irresistibly drawn to each other in their desire to be whole.

It is in the darkness of the soil that the seeds of new life are sown.

But how does one give language to the transformation? How to describe the inner alchemy, the strange  reaction? Darkness has a vocabulary all its own and it seems to me that metaphor is the first word on the list.

Metaphor is a very great friend for one such as myself who struggles to give voice to the inner experience. So, here’s a little stab at my current musings in poetry rather than prose:

I am blue

tranquil and buoyant

vast

varied

height and depth

ocean and sky,

choosing the Cornflower Crayola every time.

I am blue

a Bossa Nova swaying samba

cool and inviting.

By rhythmic turns,

both

melancholy lover and girlish muse.

I am blue

the color of his room

of his favorite blanket

hope wrapped around him

soothing and strong.

I am blue

the throbbing vein on the fighter’s face

learning to stand

and bang out

a few victories.

I think C.S.Lewis would understand. His image for God in the Chronicles of Narnia is not that of a lamb, but a lion–dangerously powerful and wild. God’s sovereignty may ultimately be about love and redemption, but it has sharp teeth and claws. Is intimacy with One such as this possible, or even desirable?  The things we need and desire the most are often not completely within our ability to provide for ourselves: health and healing, a child of one’s own, a meaningful vocation, freedom from fear, loving relationships, forgiveness.  What do we do with all of this longing…wanting all to be well, and knowing that ultimately the outcome depends upon Someone else? Some days we are confident in God’s kind intentions for our lives and at other moments we succumb to our exhaustion and fear.

There is no doubt about it. We are vulnerable. Bad things happen everyday and sometimes they happen to us and to the ones that we love even more than our own lives.  Who can live faithfully in all the tension, the suspense of this wild ride as the pendulum of life swings between great joy and great pain?

All I know is that the heroes of my life are the people who have embraced both the suffering and the love that has been offered them. I think of Mary, Jesus’ mama. She could not have known about the “sword that [would] pierce [her] very soul” Luke 2:35), the ultimacy of her son’s destiny and pain, or the love that would consume her. All she knew was that an angel appeared and told her that she was dearly beloved and chosen for a great task. I suppose she could have run the other way, argued, or fell victim to her fear. She could have asked for a guarantee, something to take away the anxiety of feeling herself in suspense. Amazingly, though, her response was, “let it be unto me as you have said” (Luke 1:38). And with those words, she becomes the tree of life, bearing  the fruit of God unto the salvation of the whole world. The choice that Eve could not make, to listen and to yield, Mary chooses instead and Jesus becomes the Way of life.

I think the only way to live faithfully in all the uncertainty of life is to know ourselves deeply, deeply loved. It is only in the experience of Divine Love that we are able to take a breath, unclench our hands, and reach for God. In God’s grasp there is confidence and peace, knowing that nothing can separate us from this fierce and tender love. Jesus, himself, only began his work on earth after he heard the words of his Father calling him the Beloved (Luke 3:21-22).

And so, my dear friend, my prayer for you and for myself, and for all of us who struggle with our unwieldy God, is for more and more love. I pray that you will experience his love so deeply that you find yourself the Beloved, encircled by his spirit and beginning to relax into the warmth. May you know that this is the love that you are destined for and this same love that holds you safe, holds your son also, and your very heart with tenderness and compassion. When the cold winds blow, I pray that you will know that there is nothing worth having more than God’s presence and that this can never be taken from you, come what may.

Teresa of Avila says it better than I can:

“Let nothing disturb you;

nothing frighten you.

All things are passing.

God never changes.

Patience obtains all things.

Nothing

is wanting to him

who possesses God.

God alone suffices.”

Believe and be at peace, my friend.

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.

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.