Exhale - Five Minute Friday

Exhale? But what if there’s no air left to inhale? Isn’t it better to hold my breath, concentrate on staying alive without breathing? There’s too much in the air, too much discouragement, too much pain, too much disappointment, too much negativism. It’s so polluted, I’d rather not breathe.

I guess it doesn’t make sense, though, never to breathe at all. But where? Where can I let out this breath, pour out the fear and anger and bitterness I hold inside, without polluting someone else’s air? I’m not sure it’s wise or responsible to exhale.

Where can I inhale, too? Where is the air safe to breathe? People depend on me. I can’t run around not breathing. I have things to do. They need me. Where can I go, or we go, or they go, to be able to breathe? Exhale?

Inhale. Exhale. It sounds so simple. It’s not even conscious. For most people, I guess.

I’ve held my breath for most of my life, though.

Do I let it out in one brief, fierce scream of exasperation? In a long, low moan? I’d prefer it to be an exultant song, a praise to the Creator Who allows me to live and share in the joy of His being. If I’m singing, too, the breathing is easier, in and out in rhythmic phrases.

So even my breath can be a testimony to God’s goodness?

Yes, Lord, my breath came from You, and I will trust You to manage even that.

I . . . will . . . I will choose, intentionally . . . I will exhale.

Grateful? - Five Minute Friday

Last Friday's prompt for Five Minute Friday was "grateful." I was surprised by how difficult it was for me to write on that. Finally, today, on Wednesday, I was able to find words to respond to the prompt. Five minutes; here goes:



Grateful? Gracious, I hadn't thought of it recently. Grace - we say thank you for our food.  Daily grind; grin and bear it; don't lose your grasp. Grateful? Grr. Grumbling does no good. Good grief. Grateful. Grimace.

What happened? I've been thinking all week about this word, and I can't write a cohesive sentence about gratefulness without getting angry. I don't like to gripe. I don't want to be UNgrateful. But I've been gripping so tightly to hold on to joy through some grim realities that I don't FEEL grateful. Just exhausted.

Not so many months ago I could have extolled the virtues of the mundane or celebrated the wonders of simple existence. I could have written pages about things that moved me to feel grateful. It would have been an uplifting exercise to meditate on being so. But not today. Not this week. Not this month. Not this year.

Not yet. I'm still hopeful.

I'm remembering to see the beauty. I'm reminding others to look for it. I'm encouraging those who falter. I'm honoring the weaker members. I'm structuring plans for improvement. I'm hoping this will all lead to . . . something to be grateful for?

I'll lay aside the grateful challenge. I'm grateful for grace to minister where I am sent. That'll have to be enough for now.

Mess - Five Minute Friday

Mess is an artificial construct, an implied judgment that reveals more about the speaker than the situation. That's my fancy way of saying there's no such thing as a mess unless you want to call it a mess.

My mother didn't like to bake bread because it was too messy. She baked biscuits, but that was a small, contained, short-term mess. Baking yeast bread required more mixing, more floured or oiled surfaces, more time - and ultimately more cleanup. I, however, prefer baking the slow-rising bread that requires more interaction, more tactile experience, more . . . relationship? With yeast? It can feel like that, yes. I don't mind the cleanup.

I wasn't sure I could help my children be artistic, because, you know, it's messy. Paint and Play-doh and bits of colored paper all over the carpet or the floor or the table or the clothes. I got over it. Watching them be creative was worth the price of wiping up a spill or doing an extra load of laundry.

I didn't think I could have people over to visit because my house was too much of a mess, until I finally realized I wasn't having people over to visit my house, but to visit me. Since I got over that hesitancy, I've had loads of people over, and never once has someone left in shock or refused to return because of the mess.

So I've stopped calling myself, my things, my place a mess. Mess implies less - less neat, less orderly, less self-controlled, less organized, the list can go on forever. Instead, I'm choosing more: more attention, more connection, more community, more relationship. And sometimes the peaceful folk who frequent my place even help me tidy it up.


Thanks to Lisa-Jo Baker for the weekly writing prompts. You can see more thoughts about messes over at her Five Minute Friday page.

Friend - Five Minute Friday

I took the Five Minute Friday instructions pretty literally this time. I read the prompt and just wrote for five minutes, letting the words line themselves up on the page. I decided to leave it as is, stream of consciousness, train of thought - even though I'm not sure the train's on the track at all. Sometimes I write to clear the rails, I guess. All aboard! Here we go.

"Friend"

so we were talking about, you know, marriage and life and relationships and loneliness and stuff, and I thought, well, I guess some people don't want to be married because they're like, I dunno, ok alone. but I'm not, I thought, except maybe I am? because sometimes i guess everybody wants things their own way, but do we like other people because they tell us our way is right, or because we like their way? or maybe, I dunno, it doesn't have anything to do with right or wrong? i guess the whole friend/lover thing is different for everyone because we're all different. i mean, how am I supposed to encourage a friend, I mean I think we're friends, but how can I say, yeah, it's cool if you don't want relationships. I mean, if you don't want to be with other people, do you want to be with yourself, though? do you want to be at all? i mean, human - doesn't that mean being with other humans? i can't figure it out, like, whether we're supposed to want to be together or if we just want someone else to want to be with us or if we really just want to be left alone unless somehow being together makes us better at being who we were in the first place.

What's a friend, anyway?



This is my contribution to Five Minute Friday over at Lisa-Jo Baker's site. She posts a one-word prompt every Friday morning, with the challenge to write for five minutes. She hosts anyone who wants to come along. Wanna play?

Glue - Five Minute Friday

Glue?  I’m chuckling, ever since I read the writing prompt.

Glue, as in the stuff that keeps siblings encouraging one another instead of tearing each other down?

Glue, as in the stuff that holds together the confidence of aging parents, supporting and ministering and accommodating so that they have space to be and keep becoming as time grows short?

Glue, as in the stuff that patches together shattered ideals and somehow makes a mosaic that’s still beautiful, still worth living in?

Glue, as in the stuff that secures the bandages, repairs the tears, tightens the bonds?

Glue. I guess I am. I’m not sticky on my own, though, because there’s obviously some pretty strong glue holding me together. Yesterday I was caught by surprise when I listed my duties for the next hour and a half: finish drama dress rehearsal, go home and change from rehearsal clothes to show-night garb, prepare and serve dinner for mother-in-law recovering at our house following surgery, get a bite of dinner for myself, bring a sandwich to the actor son, return to school as assistant director and welcome guests to the presentation. The surprise was in my friend’s voice when she heard this and replied, “Why do you look so calm? How are you holding all this together?” Ha! I didn’t know!

Glue. It’s pretty strong stuff. Thanks, God, for keeping me stuck together and sticky.




 

This is my contribution to Five Minute Friday over at Lisa-Jo Baker's site. She posts a one-word prompt every Friday morning, with the challenge to write for five minutes. She hosts anyone who wants to play along. Wanna play?

Red - Five Minute Friday

It's been a few weeks since I've been able to post here, but I couldn't pass up this prompt. It's about me!

Red?

I AM red. Red hair is the first thing people notice and the last thing they forget about me. It was my nickname through elementary and even high school: Debbie the Red, Red on the Head, just plain Red.

In third grade Thomas Geisberg called me a Redheaded Baldheaded Chinese Woodpecker, so I called him Gooseburger.

My favorite, because it's the most creative, was in high school, when Star Wars came out the first time, and a friend dubbed me R1, for Red One, but after R2D2.

One of the best greetings, to me: "How's my favorite redhead?"

I like being Red.

Small - Five Minute Friday

Lisa-Jo Baker describes the Five Minute Friday group as "a brave and beautiful bunch." Some days I'm braver than other days. I tell my children that being brave is not the same as not being scared: being brave is doing the important thing even when you're scared, I say. Today, I'm brave.

The Five Minute Friday prompt today is "small." I like these prompts because they can go in so many directions. Today my thoughts took me to a very introspective place, and whenever I go there I write more in images than in direct, logical sentences. I spent my five minutes pouring out a poem. That part wasn't scary, but this next part is.

I'm going to share my poem. Brave and beautiful, I'm going to put this out there because I want to be a real part of an honest community. I don't like hiding, I hate hypocrisy, and today I just couldn't come up with a pleasant, uplifting, encouraging post about "small." I felt too small to stand up and do such a big thing. Instead, I'm being truthful - and brave.

(Are you a fan of Winnie the Pooh? I am, and I am repeatedly surprised by how deep and true is the philosophy of life acted out in the Hundred Acre Wood. I think I'm acting like Piglet today.)

a brave and beautiful bunch

a brave and beautiful bunch

Without further ado, here are my thoughts.

Small

Small? Too large to realize

the living space, the sense of size,

regardless of the yawning need,

the emptiness, the ache to feed.

Small, the size of words that bite,

piercing hope with shreds of night.

Through the rips, the bindings hold,

pulled too tight against the cold.

Small, the thoughtless sacrifice:

automatic playing nice.

Make the picture fit the dream.

Stop the breath to mend the seam.

Small remaining world may see

whether there is room to be.

Take the tonic. Numb the pain.

Growing time will come again.

Beautiful - Five Minute Friday

I’ve finally come to the place where I know I am beautiful because God made me so. I’ve said those words before, but the change is that now I can honestly look in the mirror and see this body, worn from many years childbearing and childrearing, and know that the picture in the mirror is not who I am.

I am beautiful because I am beautiful.

I am not beautiful based on my figure, my hairstyle, my clothing, or my accessories. Mother always said, “Pretty is as pretty does.” She said that true beauty comes from the inside, and that if I would cultivate that inner beauty I would grow more beautiful with the years.

My mother is beautiful. When I was a little girl I used to cry happy tears over Miss America pageants, over how pretty the young women were, and I would always say, “But not as pretty as you, Mommy.” True to her word, she’s continued to cultivate the inner beauty and she is more beautiful as the years pass.

Maybe that’s what’s happening to me. Maybe I’m finally seeing the results of years of forgiveness, patience, kindness, giving, serving, and loving. Maybe the hard work of hushing my critical spirit to do what is right and put others before myself is paying  an unexpected bonus. Maybe choosing to smile instead of frown really does make us prettier.

Whatever it is, it sure feels good.

Listen - Five Minute Friday

I need to listen. I am a good listener, to those around me. I'm not so good at listening to me, though. I forget even to have a me sometimes. If I listen, though, I'm there.

Too often I think I'm listening to me when what I'm really doing is talking to me. Instead of paying attention to what I think or feel, I'm telling myself what I ought to think or feel. It's a delicate balance; sometimes I need someone to tell me how to behave, because I am selfish and arrogant and mean, but I'm not always those things, and they don't define all of me. Sometimes I listen to myself talking in the voice that tells me how to behave and it squashes my spirit and keeps me from celebrating the joy and beauty and peace that also reside in me. Talk less, listen more. I need to do that.

More important is that when I listen honestly, God is there. I hear what other people say about God. I read the Bible to hear about God. When I get still and listen, though, I hear God. I hear what He says about Himself and what He says about me.

I have to be very, very quiet to listen in that way. I have to be so still that I hear my own breath before I can hear the inspired God-breathed words. It only takes a moment, though. I don't have to go far away. I don't even have to be alone.

All I need to do is listen.

Fall - Five Minute Friday

The password is “fall.”

Remember when Password was a game, not a fixture of life? It fell by the wayside about the same time as Richard Nixon. Almost that long ago, well, only a few years later, I received a microwave oven as a birthday gift from my soon-to-be-ex-fiancé. He fell away shortly thereafter, before my marrying him would have made the mistake permanent, but that microwave has been a fixture in my life ever since.

I learned to cook with that microwave, pleased with myself for saving time, conserving energy, reducing dishwashing and cutting fat. It wasn’t all sales hype; the microwave really did change the way I ran my kitchen.

It’s a huge thing, as big as some dorm refrigerators, but it’s been a faithful servant and a fixture in my kitchen for nearly thirty years. I’m glad we didn’t pay the extra $150 for the one-year extended warranty. It’s never needed service. It’s one of the things that I don’t even realize I assume to be permanent. Like honeybees on clover or trees on the hillside, it just is. It’s been here so long that I’ve never even thought about its not being. Of course, the honeybee population fell off years ago, despite my letting clover take over my yard to feed the few survivors; and the trees on too many hillsides are felled at an alarming rate these days.

My second son, as a toddler running in the house, got a warning from my father: “You better slow down. You’ll fall and break something.”

The little bounder shot back, “You can’t break me. I’m a people thing!” Sure enough, he didn’t fall that day, and the falls on subsequent days have never broken him, either.

I guess I thought the microwave was like that. We can’t break it. It’s a microwave thing.

We wore it out, though. I mean, I guess we did. It wouldn’t thaw cheesecake last night and it won’t cook oatmeal this morning. I’m pretty sure a service call is not in order for a 1984 microwave. It’s just that – I don’t know how to – think about – my day – without a microwave, that particular microwave, with the burned place from a foil-wrapped burger that my little sister put in when the oven was new; with a missing temperature probe that fell down behind the refrigerator two houses ago and wasn’t worth retrieving; with a stand just for it because it takes up too much counter space in our little kitchen and it’s too big to fit under the cabinets anyway. I don’t get attached to things, usually, but I feel as if a piece of my universe just disappeared and left a big-old-microwave-sized hole right there in the kitchen part of space-time. My microwave fell out of existence.

I guess I’ll have to be careful not to fall in, too.

View - Five Minute Friday

 

So it’s Friday again, and this time I’m meeting the day as it begins, still up at 1:00 a.m. This week's Five Minute Friday prompt is “view.” I decided to take a look at that for a while before retiring.

Five minutes: Go.

View is larger than sight

because view sees beyond what is there

to what it means,

I think.

I have a long view

of life,

and it helps me see

what’s important,

what’s nonessential,

what’s enduring,

and what’s not.

When I say there’s a lovely view,

some people just look quickly and nod agreement,

but others know

that I mean the sight has meaning:

it is lovely because of something,

something other than its appearance.

I suppose in my world,

this one, I mean,

the one everyone can see,

appearances mean more than views.

The way I see it,

life is all about the view.

Comfort - Five Minute Friday

Comfort ye, my people, saith your God.

It's not a cozy comfort I'm thinking about. It's a comfort in knowing a cozy comfort awaits.

Sometimes life is hard. Busy and intense and protracted like labor. Which is not to say it isn't good. Life is good and hard. And comfortable.

Someday may never come, but someday I'm going to be able to sit down and say, "Yes, that was done well." Perhaps God's reward will come at heaven's gate; I want the comfort of knowing I am doing well so that I will hear His voice say, "Well done, good and faithful servant."

That's definitely not cozy comfort. That's about being brave and patient and bare and strong and broken and determined for a long, long time. That's about doing the hard things when no one else does. But I take comfort from the promises that the work will bear fruit, comfort from the examples of those who have gone before and shown the way (and the fruit).

Here and now, today, my comfort often comes from making others comfortable. Is it coincidence that "comfort" starts the same way as "community" and "commitment"? I think not. I think comfort is something that comes when we share, when we pour out ourselves together in love.

Like Winnie the Pooh, though, I'm not sure I'm right about all this.

Wonder what Christopher Robin would say.

Brave - Five Minute Friday

I was brave this weekend because every single thing I did was something I’d never done before. I was a first-time mother of the groom. That’s why I’m writing today instead of Friday; it took me this long to have five minutes to sit still and write.

I tell my children that being brave doesn’t mean not being scared. It means doing the right thing even when you’re scared. I was scared a lot this weekend, but it all turned out well. I’m still quite scattered, unpacking, etc., but I kept thinking about things that are brave, so I’ve listed them. (Just so you know, they didn't all happen this weekend.)

going to your first dance

dancing

hosting a party

getting married

complimenting a stranger

caring for an infant

finishing the course

going to college

getting a job

living on a budget

smiling when you don’t feel like it

eating strange food

taking yucky medicine

accepting failure

getting out of bed

swimming in dark water

driving to the airport

holding a hand

waiting

staying quiet

listening

admitting your mistake

loving

Friend - Five Minute Friday

I did it! I’ve missed three weeks, I think, doing Five Minute Fridays. I am intentionally not going back to count. This morning I saw the prompt and just wrote. I didn’t feel guilty about the ones I’d skipped. I didn’t think, “Oh, I should go back and do those others so I’ll have done the whole assignment.” I didn’t listen to the voice that said I didn’t have time and I probably wouldn’t do a good job anyway, what with all the other things happening in my life right now. So when I say, “I did it!” I’m saying that I overcame the voices of defeat and discouragement this morning before they even had a chance to speak. I’m also saying that I just wrote.

Just writing is so good for me. It’s like exhaling after going around holding my breath, holding my tongue, holding my heart carefully in prayerful hands to keep it from speaking out of turn. I write and I feel the taut muscles in my mind relax. Then I get to read what I’ve written, take another deep breath, and go away to the many non-writing tasks of my day. Inhale. Exhale. I am very grateful for breathing today.

I’m also grateful for friends, and that’s the topic for today’s Five Minute Friday assignment: Friend. So here’s my bit about that, in five minutes or so.

To have a friend, be a friend, my mother used to say. I hope I am a friend. Sometimes I feel so blessed by my friends that I wonder what I ever give back. I look at the time they spend listening, encouraging, hugging, cheering, and sometimes just waiting, and I wonder if I give as good as I get.

My very closest friends are the ones in whose presence I feel whole and, despite all indications to the contrary, normal. They “get” me. I do spend a lot of effort explaining myself, because I think communication is important. But sometimes, even with well-meaning listeners, it seems as if the explaining is in the wrong language. My best friends speak my language. They know that when I say I’m going shopping, it means I am facing an unpleasant challenge. They know that if I mention that it’s a rainy day, I may be reflective but I am not sad on account of the weather – I may even be happy for the grey. They understand what I say and also what I mean.

I don’t know what language that is, the one I speak that they understand. I guess everyone has a friend language, an unnamed way to speak from the heart to those who are willing and able to hear. Whatever it is, I’m glad I speak it and I’m even more glad they understand it.

Having a best friend makes it easier to breathe in those moments when life sucks the air out of me.

Broken - Five Minute Friday

This week's Five Minute Friday prompt is "Broken." I wasn't ready for it Friday. Not on Good Friday, the day of all the year when I am most swept away by the spiritual. Not on the day when my attention is continually drawn to events that changed the world a couple of thousand years ago, events we commemorate during this season. I wasn't ready Saturday, the day when it feels as if the world held its breath: the Son of God was dead and buried; what could possibly happen next? I wasn't ready until after Sunday's sunrise service, when we celebrated the empty tomb, when the outrush of breath and inrush of incredulous joy reminded me yet again of the miracle of Easter, of life after death, of eternity mine. Then, after letting the rejoicing ring in my heart until the last lingering note faded, after  spending time in community and family (and celebrating my coincidental birthday a bit), THEN I was ready. Now, here it is - my writing on the topic, "Broken."

* * *

We are told that we live in a broken world. Preachers, politicians, and activists tell us so, and they all have ways for us to fix it. But what does it mean to say our world is broken?

For me, it means I live in two states of being at all times. I was created to be in fellowship with a loving Creator. He loves me as I am and He sees me as lovable, whole, and beautiful. However, not everyone in my world sees me as He does, and I often don't, either. It's as if my lenses are broken, fracturing my vision.

If I focus on Him, pay attention to what I understand about His love for this world and everyone in it, then I see things as hopeful and alive. But if I move my eyes just a little, even just a blink, I might all at once looking through a crack in my broken lenses, distorting and making everything seem impossible and ugly. One little eyeblink, and I move from feeling whole to feeling broken.

It's like standing with a foot on either side of a stream. If I were on one side, it would look a certain way, but from the other side, the light would be different, so the water and the bank and the trees would all look different. But I'm not on either side, I'm on both, and the bridge, the way from one side to the other, is broken. I don't have strength to push myself away from either bank to commit to the other. I'm stuck, looking through broken lenses, and I feel as if I might break.

I guess that's where Jesus comes in. He lived a human life, too, in a fallen world. Surely He felt the tug of war that brokenness engenders. But since He lived a perfect life in spite of the brokenness, wholeness won. He offers to be the bridge that connects the broken parts of my life, condemned and forgiven, body and spirit, fear and faith. He places Himself between my two states of being and lets me be the one He made me to be.

Loved, whole, beautiful. I am, you are, the world is. If only we can remember to look through the right part of the lenses, we'll see things aren't broken after all.

Remember - Five Minute Friday

It's Friday again, time to get my prompt from Lisa Jo Baker and her Five Minute Friday challenge. She posts a word just after midnight Eastern time and a whole bunch of us write in response for five minutes.  We're supposed to write freely, without editing, backtracking, or overthinking. This week's prompt was "Remember," so I did!



Sometimes I have a moment that I know I must remember.

Two years ago, I sat on a front porch step in the middle of the night, looking at the moon. I saw a cloud pass in front of the moon, but the moon was still visible, still shining, and the ambient light barely changed.

"Remember."

I needed to remember that I could choose to look at the cloud or choose to look at the moon. I could choose to focus on darkness or on on light.

I needed to remember that darkness cannot overcome light, but light can overcome darkness. I'm not talking about just spiritual stuff here. This is physics. Light is. It goes and goes. It can't be erased or stopped. It can be bent and redirected and focused and diverted, but it is not overcome. You can't stuff it into a too-small box and deprive it of air        and expect it to stop being what it is.

I needed to remember that there would be clouds in my life, but I could choose to see beyond them.

I needed to remember that full moon making a black world silver-white and remember to look for joy to light my nights and days.

So it's two years later now, and sure enough, clouds have come and gone and come again, in different ways at different times. Weather changes, clouds move, life goes on. Just now, right at this moment, it's feeling pretty overcast here. But I won't give up.

I remember.

Rest - Five Minute Friday

Five Minute Friday. Go.

I've been so busy today I haven't stopped even to think about writing about rest.

Huh.

Usually I think while I'm being busy. What happened?

It seems that when I feel too busy I stop thinking about rest because instead I'm thinking about what else I need to be busy doing. My thoughts are agitated - just like clothes in the washer, turning and churning, going nowhere - but my thoughts don't improve during this cycle. They don't get cleaner or brighter or more colorful. Instead they tend to spin me dry. Sometimes it feels more like they're being washed by hand, my head banging against a rock or bumping along a washboard. Still, they don't look any better after the full treatment, and neither do I. And the rest I need, basking in the light and warmth of God's peace, is no nearer when my thoughts are twisted around one another, wrung out and piled up, waiting for whatever comes next.

Lord, help me to rest. It's after midnight! Why do I keep pressing when I've been exhausted three times already today, barely able to keep moving? Will You please take these messy thoughts, my mental dirty laundry? Will You spot treat or soak or whatever they need so that when You hang them to dry I'll see order and light again? Oh, Father, how many times You have done my laundry when I haven't asked. Thank you for making me aware today that I need to ask, and thank you for letting me rest while You do the work I cannot do.

Stop.

Unwind, unwind, unwind. I'm going to take it on faith that my prayer will be answered, and that will be rest indeed.

Home - Five Minute Friday

Home is the place

where there is no space

between where I am

and where I want to be.

Home is the source

of strength in the course

of days without air -

it’s where I can breathe free.

Home is the light

that keeps me alive,

a lamp for my feet

as I travel to me.

Home is a friend

who loves with no end,

a safe place to grow,

to wonder, and to see.

Ordinary - Five Minute Friday

Ordinary. Brushing teeth, taking a shower, making lunch. Everyday things.

I cherish ordinary moments. My life is made of moments - I realized that long ago - and I don't wish to waste any of them. So to the best of my ability I pay attention to them. I pay attention now, not later, looking back wishing the moments had been different. I pay attention to the beauty in the ordinary things of life, pay attention to the joy of being, pay attention to my companions on this incredible once-in-a-lifetime journey.

I'm not a picture-taker, though. Pictures of ordinary aren't really that much to look at. Living the ordinary, though? That's an adventure. Talking about conflicting theologies while making Greek salad. Watching a child figure out how to tie shoelaces. Seeing how many birds can sit on the feeder. Listening to a loved one's breathing at rest.

Ordinary.

I, for one, would be lost without it.

Beloved - Five Minute Friday (One Day Late)

Being beloved makes the beloved beautiful.

More than anything, I want to live out love in my short passage through this world. Doing that consciously helps me to see beauty in so many unexpected places. I guess it's one of the mysteries of God that if I choose to love, the beloved becomes more lovable to me.

The part that's out of my control, though, is that when I feel beloved, I feel beautiful. I wish I could wake up every morning, go through every day, retire at night feeling beautiful and capable and . . . lovable. Truth be told, though, I don't. I criticize myself, I hear criticism (even unintended) from others, and I feel unlovely and unlovable. All it takes is a word, even a glance, to turn that all around for me. When someone offers love to me, I feel beautiful.

I hope I can remember that so that I can make this beloved world a more beautiful place.