For all those whose journey of faith preceded ours,
Lord, we give thanks.
For those we have lost in this past year and miss dearly,
Lord, we give thanks.
For Christ’s power that brings victory over the grave,
Lord, we give thanks.
For Your presence in the valleys of shadow and death,
Lord, we give thanks.
For Hope that does not disappoint,
Lord, we give thanks.
I’m so grateful for all the saints…
It’s in the pencils
that I find you today
God, tucked between the points
and the possibilities. You smell
like wood and things pressed too long
between heavy objects
to be anything other than hard.
Today I will give
away the permission to cry
out to myself, to others
mothers, children, men and miseries
each aching to express something
of what it means to find ourselves
between the pointed barrels
hoping what you’re going to write
is something other than
lead, hoping the violence
against us will stop, today,
and we will find what is being written
by the sharp edges of lives
is love, and that there is softness
enough at the other end of our questions
that they will be (we will be?)
rubbed smooth by grace.
September, it’s not you—it’s me. (Or maybe it was you.)
Normally, September, you and I have a thing. It’s be a really steady thing, dependable, and I’ve just come to expect it out of you. Maybe it was me, getting lazy, or maybe it was that I was so focused on other things.
We started off on the right foot, and you had some amazing highlights, don’t get me wrong.
First of all, you pulled out your usual: the beginning of Autumn. You know just how to catch my heart, September, with your cooling days and your crisp nights. There were a few great nights on the porch with our new neighbors, talking about life and listening to the darkness. (But that black widow spider you threw in? Were you trying to be funny? Death-dealing arachnids aren’t cool at all, September.)
You played host to some awesome guest posts I got to write this month, too. This post on being a monk in the world at the Abbey of the Arts in advance of some upcoming work Christine and I are going to do together? That was awesome. And I also wrote for A Beautiful Mess about celebrating that big thing that happened during you, September.
That big thing was finishing up the first draft of my book manuscript. I know you didn’t do that, but you made that possible, September, and I’m so very grateful. It’s been a dream I’ve had since I was a little girl, and you made space for the Holy Spirit to hover over, and for these words to come to life:
Good on ya, September.
Then there was that Soul Care Day up at Potter’s Inn. I know you share that honor with all the other months, but I needed it just when it came around, and your timing didn’t fail.
You pulled out all the stops at the end of the month. I mean, what can beat a new niece being born? Really, now, just look at that face:
You hosted that party of cuteness, September. And I thank you for it.
But you did rain on your own parade quite a bit. And by quite a bit, I mean way too much. Really, the 500-year flood in Colorado, September? Haven’t we had enough natural disasters in Colorado this year? The whole flooding thing cancelled a retreat I was set to speak at, not to mention wrecking a whole lot of people’s lives.
And then there was the working all the time, and the deadlines. There was the stress-test, and the There were the great books (some of them advanced copies by friends, September, c’mon!) I didn’t have time to read, the movies and TV shows that I couldn’t get around to and the really rough stories you played host to, September. Haven’t you learned that you need to be a little more fun? Stop hanging around with Destruction and Despair, September, I don’t like what they’re doing to you. When you rolled around it used to be all bright colors and pumpkins, and this year you’ve been wearing black and talking about how pointless it all is. Quit it, September. You’re my favorite month.
I know you tried to pull it together at the end there, with my birthday and that great dinner out, but the damage had already been done for this season. I’m not going to dethrone you from your place atop my calendar favorites, but let’s try to hold it together a bit better next year, okay, September? Because this year, I just wasn’t that into you.
So, how about you? How was your September? Were you more into it than I was?
I’m linking up with the wordsmistress Leigh Kramer. Join us, if you’re so inclined!
The events at the Washington Navy Yard have broken my heart on so many levels recently. I am (very) tangentially connected to one of the victims of the shooting, who leaves behind a beautiful little family—young girls who will never get to walk down the aisle on the arm of their dad or have him wave to them as they cross the stage to receive their graduate degrees. The trauma and pain each family must be experiencing is beyond words. And I am so deeply aware of the tragedy and torment of mental illness, the ways that it robs you of reason and hope, and the ways that we turn from mental illness instead of toward it (I hold myself guilty on that account, oh too many times).
I don’t wish to minimize any of this suffering, or the regular suffering going on around the world, but I have to share how deeply my heart has been caught by the sorrow of Cathleen Alexis, and how she will never know why her son did this, will walk bearing the pain of his actions as well as the pain of his loss. As I sat with that pain, and the tug of my heart toward God, toward prayer, I came across this blessing from John O’Donohue.
Cathleen Alexis, I don’t know if you’ll ever read this, on this small corner of the internet devoted to prayer and silence and hope and God. I don’t know if this will ever reach you, but if it does, I hope that it soothes the torn edges of your heart just a bit. I pray it for you today, as I pray it for every parent whose child has committed a crime. I am so sorry that you will never have the ability to ask Aaron the questions your heart needs answers to—I pray that God will meet you in that ache and fill you with His comfort and kindness.
Cathleen Alexis, and every parent whose child has gone off the rails, this blessing is for you.
For the Parents of One Who Has Committed a Crime
No one else can see beauty
In his darkened life now.
His image has closed
Like a shadow.
When people look at him,
He has become the mirror
Of the damage he has done.
But he is yours;
And you have different eyes
That hold his yesterdays
In pictures no one else remembers:
Waiting for him to be born,
Not knowing who he would be,
The moments of his childhood,
First steps, first words,
Smiles and cries,
And all the big thresholds
Of his journey since…
He is yours in a way
No words could ever tell;
And you can see through
The stranger this deed has made him
And still find the countenance of your son.
Despite all the disappointment and shame,
May you find in your belonging with him
A kind place, where your spirit will find rest.
May new words come alive between you
To build small bridges of understanding.
May that serenity lead you beyond guilt and blame
To find that bright field of the heart
Where he can come to feel your love
Until it heals whatever darkness drove him
And he can see what it is he has done
And seek forgiveness and bring healing;
May this dark door open a path
That brightens constantly with new promise.
John O’Donohoue, The Bless the Space Between Us
Cathleen Alexis, I know that those new words, those small bridges of understanding, are not possible for you, or for Aaron, now. I know that Aaron can’t seek forgiveness, and I know that breaks your heart. But I pray that beyond the breaking, there will be bridges—bright, unexpected moments of connection—that bring understanding and hope to your soul. I hope that this dark door will one day brighten, indeed, with new promise. I will be praying that for you, and for your family. I will be praying that for every parent whose child has committed a crime—every parent who remembers their son’s or daughter’s delighted giggles on the playground and ache with the agony of knowing what they have done. Because you still hold him in your heart has he was—human, flawed, broken, beautiful—and that is a great gift to us all.
Image source: Layout Sparks, door hollow way dark.
Just for my blog readers, I wanted to let you know that something new (well, lots of new things, actually, but I can’t tell you about those yet) is in the works at Anam Cara Ministries.
I’m really excited to be working on a new offering for those longing to go deeper with God.
Head on over to the Retreats & Resources page to check it out.
Oh, you want a hit?
Okay, okay. Here’s one: Retreat Curation.
(I’m SO excited!)
Some blogs don’t allow comments. Others eschew advertisements. Still others don’t link to outside sources, preferring to keep the reader focused (or as focused as one can be, online.)
Here’s what I don’t have: stats.
I heard a few bloggers just gasp reading that. A few agents shook their heads. Some publishers cringed. An author or two who writes about platform thought seriously about smacking their foreheads against a hard surface.
And I get that, I really do.
I’m not sharing this because I believe the way I do things to be the correct, best or (worse) only path. I’m not saying that I’m better or holier than anyone else, nor am I saying my choice should be your choice. I’m sharing it as a confession—and as an affirmation. You see, I don’t have stats on my blog for two important reasons:
1. I’m a recovering performance addict.
2. You are the only you in the whole universe and that really, truly matters to me.
That first point is one of my besetting sins—something that keeps me humble and at work tending my own soul on a regular basis. If I’m too busy, too frazzled, too far from God, my need to be affirmed rises from the grave I’ve buried it in one more time. And one of the nails that I use to keep the affirmation monster inside of me pinned to the Cross is the inability to track what’s going on here at AnamCara.com.
I know how valuable statistics on blogs can be—I use various tools for my work at Conversations Journal and to tend the Anam Cara Facebook community. I believe that statistics tracking can help make a website more responsive, an online space flourish, important connections possible.
I also know that when it comes to things close to my heart, words that I whisper because they are so sacred or ones that I am called by God to shout as loud as I can, I can get too caught up in the response. Did people hear me? Did they like what I had to say? Too easily, I choose for numbers and trends to affirm the value of my words, rather than leaning back into the reality that I am the beloved of God, valued well beyond words. I get sucked into the social imperative to reach more eyeballs, get more clicks, as if those things denote success or meaning.
As an act of obedience in this space, I’ve chosen to keep Anam Cara statistics free. This is first a valuing of my own soul and my walk with God. It’s saying no to the crazy-making and yes to who God says I am.
It’s also an affirmation of who God says you are. Yes, you. The person whose very real hands navigated to this post. Whose very real eyes are reading the syllables on this screen.
You have a world behind those eyes. More story than I could imagine. We could sit together for days, weeks, months, years, and I would only ever begin to plumb the depths of what makes you you. Unique. Individual. An irreplaceable image of God.
It’s the same reason that I struggle when people ask me how many directees I have in my spiritual direction practice. It’s a simple question, I know. But the people that I journey with aren’t numbers. They are specific people with specific names and beautiful, varied stories. When asked that question, I come back with a fuzzy answer, not because I’m being sly but because I can’t think of those I journey with as object to be counted. It hurts my soul—it hurts theirs—to be thought of this way.
If I had statistics tracking this blog, it would be easy, must too easy, to think of you (yes, you) as a number. And you’re not.
If there’s one thing I want to get across in writing this, it’s that you (yes, you) are not a number to me. You’re not a commodity to be sold, you’re not a set of actions to be tracked. You’re not an object, able to be used and manipulated to my (or anyone else’s) ends.
To me, you are a gift.
You are a one who has come to this place, as a regular visitor or a one-time guest. You are welcome. You are valued.
You can be as seen as you want to be.
I don’t have statistics so that you can tell me your story, in your time. I’m not monitoring what country you’re in, not looking at how long you stay in this place. I’m not tracking where you go when you’re here, or what it is that you seem most interested in.
Instead, you can come here invisibly, view what you want, and stay as long as you desire. You don’t have to interact with me, and you’re not doing so on some invisible level that you’re not even aware of. Which means that each comment you make (yes, you) I cherish. Each comment is someone dropping a prayer card into a box in the sanctuary. It’s a reaching out to take my hand. It’s a real interaction with a real person—a real person who God loves deeply.
So, thank you.
Thank you for being here, and for reading.
Thank you (yes, you) for visiting here with me for a while. Know that you are valued, just as you are, for who you are, in this place.
I’m getting this in right under the wire. With less than two hours for the link with with Leigh, I figured I’d put in my last-ditch effort to get ‘er done.
July has been primarily about WRITING. THE. BOOK. And I did (although I also still am.) My goal was to reach my intended word count by August 1, and on August 1 I was sitting in my favorite café in Santa Fe, NM, drinking jasmine tea and pushing over the finish line. Beautifully poetic, because Santa Fe (and the Glen Workshop) is where the seeds of this book were first planted deep within me. I still have a few (two, actually) chapters left to flesh out, but it looks like I’m on track to get a spit-and-polished manuscript to my very patient InterVarsity Press editors on October 1 (the official deadline.) Hallelujah!
Because I’ve been focused on writing, things like reading, watching television or hanging out with real human beings hasn’t happened all that much, so what I’m into this month is primarily going to be… well… writing. And Scrivener. And eating cupcakes.
And a few other things…
Read and Reading:
Well, one of the only things I read this month was my owns words—and a few blogs here and there. Book nerd fail. Writer win.
I did read Marie Howe’s The Kingdom of Ordinary Time, which is a lovely collection of poems that kept me sane during my prose-heavy season. I’m also reading her chapbook What The Living Do for my book club this month.
I’m also working my way through At the Still Point: A Literary Guide to Prayer in Ordinary Time which is a truly lovely compilation of Scripture, poetry and book excerpts for Ordinary Time.
On My Nightstand:
I’ve got a ton of books stacked up, ready to read (or return, sadly, to the library unread.)
The Artist’s Rule: Nurturing Your Creative Soul With Monastic Wisdom by Christine Valters Paintner. I’ve read this before, but I’m about to go through it again with a writer’s group in an online course (Story201) and I’m looking forward to dipping in again.
The True Secret of Writing: Connecting Life with Language by Natalie Goldberg. This has come recommended by several people recently, so I’m eager to read it.
An Unhurried Life: Following Jesus’ Rhythms of Work and Rest by Alan Fadling. I’m looking forward to this book by a colleague.
Darkness Sticks to Everything by Tom Hennen. Poetry recommended by one of my favorite contemporary poets, John Blase.
The Creative Habit: Learn it and Use it for Life by Twyla Tharp. An oldy but a goody—and one I haven’t read yet.
Eve’s Striptease by Julia Kasdorf. I missed her at the Glen this year, but I’m happy to have her poetry nearby.
Mars Being Red by Marvin Bell. Another poetry collection recommended by a friend. I need more poetry in my life right now.
Conversations With Denise Levertov edited by Jewel Spears Brooker. A gem I found at Eighth Day Books and couldn’t leave behind.
Bad Religion: How We Became A Nation of Heretics by Ross Douthat. Every year, I ask Warren Farha of Eighth Day which book from the past year MUST I read. This is one of two he recommended this year. Jeweled by David Rhodes (a new novel) was his second recommendation.
Finding God in a Bag of Groceries by Laura Lapins Willis. One of the sad things about being focused on writing is that I don’t get to read my friends books the MINUTE they come out. Looking forward to dipping into Laura’s work.
The Courage to Create by Rollo May. I may have a theme going on here.
The Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion—still, yes. I’ll get to it
TV & Movies:
I’ve been keeping up (or catching up, via DVR) on Next Food Network Star (go, Damaris!) and So You Think You Can Dance (which got fascinatingly odd last night). My husband had the flu for nearly two weeks, so he lay on the couch and watched back to back episodes of Dr. Who, which I tried to ignore him by means of a noise cancelling headset and loud cello music. I was, inevitably, drawn in, so now after late night writing binges I top off my sleep-deprivation with an episode or two myself. We’re still mid-David Tennant, so I’m waaay behind on the current Dr. Who drama. At the same time, I kind of like dipping into this oeuvre slowly and with intention, rather than snarfing it all down at once, like I did Call the Midwife.
Music:
Not much new here. Mostly dancing around to my writing anthem, Brave, and listening to classical cello. I know I should be into the new Civil Wars album, but I’m not. I may be a late adopter, or I may just be done with their drama.
Words, Words, Words:
I’m over 59,000 words on the manuscript, which feels SO GOOD. There will be more words this month, along with a lot of reading on the topic. I have a stack of as-yet-unlisted-for-you books that I’m reading as research, and I’m going to step back into those in August.
On My Blog & Elsewhere:
The blog has been fairly quiet in July, due to the aforementioned writing. I wrote over at A Beautiful Mess on Savoring the Sameness this summer, and bled out a vulnerable piece about step-mothering and creativity over at Elora Nicole‘s called How Do You Answer?
Things I Love:
So, how about you? How was your July? What are you into? What are you up to?
I’m linking up with the wordsmistress Leigh Kramer. Join us, if you’re so inclined!
I’m over at A Beautiful Mess today, writing about what it means to savor life this summer.
With the door propped open in the evening, I am beginning to parse out the smells the wind brings over the threshold—the neighbors barbecuing burgers, fresh fertilizer two streets over, the way the lawn is telling us it needs a drink.
I’ve been sitting with and loving John Baillie’s A Diary of Private Prayer, which was published in 1949. The cadences, the honesty, the grace and the humility of these prayers quiet and reorient me.
Here’s one for this evening for you:
Evening Prayer
Almighty God, in this hour of quiet I seek communion with You. From the fret and fever of the day’s business, from the world’s discordant noises, from the praise and blame of men, from the confused thoughts and vain imaginings of my own heart, I would now turn aside and seek the quietness of Your presence. All day long I have toiled and striven; but now, in stillness of heart and in the clear light of Your eternity, I would ponder the pattern my life has been weaving.
May there fall upon me now, O God, a great sense of Your power and Your glory, so that I may see all earthly things in their true measure.
Let me not be ignorant of this great thing, that one day is with You as a thousand years, and a thousand years as one day.
Give me now such understanding of Your perfect holiness as will make an end of all pride in my own attainment.
Grant unto me now such a vision of Your uncreated beauty as will make me dissatisfied with all lesser beauties.
Though earth and man were gone,
And suns and universes cease to be
And Thou wert left alone,
Every existence would exist in Thee.
I am content, O Father, to leave my life in Your hands, believing that the very hairs upon my head are numbered by You. I am content to give over my will to Your control, believing that I can find in You a righteousness that I could never have won for myself. I am content to leave all my dear ones to Your care, believing that Your love for them is greater than my own. I am content to leave in Your hands the causes of truth and of justice, and the coming of Your kingdom in the hearts of men, believing that my ardour for them is but a feeble shadow of Your purpose.
To You, O God, be glory forever.
Amen
(from A Diary of Private Prayer by John Baillie, New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1949. p. 27)
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