Driving

Some nights, I just need to go for a drive with God. In order to finally stop. And finally listen. And finally hear. And finally receive Love. And finally be gentle toward myself. And finally realize how much I’ve grown, how far I’ve come, how thankful I am. And finally say The Thing that’s underneath all the restless shuffling—the Thing I’ve been afraid to squeeze into words but once I do it’s such a sweet relief I wish I had it again to give, again and again.

Some nights, a drive with God becomes a holy, silent hour where the headlights and highway hums are chapel candles and compline prayers. Jesus in the passenger seat. He’s so humble like that. Never grasping for equality, never making much of Himself. He just sits there, King of All Things, smiling. So happy to be with me. So happy just to be with me. It’s the kind of unassuming love that gets caught in my windpipe, a big lump of need, needing just exactly that kind of love. But it’s hard to swallow, this beautiful, bold, bare love. His unashamed eagerness to love without requirement unveils me, makes me antsy. And that’s okay with Him. He will wait forever for my friendship. Until I’m happy just to be with Him, too.

Some nights, I drive somewhere for worship only to find that the noise and the crowd and the rush leaves no space for me as I am, another place I feel no place for me. And the loneliness starts to climb out of me furiously, emergency-exiting at last. And the Spirit is there, ready to catch all the little pieces that start breaking off. He’s so good like that, always comforting, protecting, giving me Life. Always dancing. Right into my darkness. And He lets me be. Be frustrated. Be wandering. Be inarticulate. He understands the language of groans. And when I’m grumbling that I drove all the way there and now all the way back for nothing, He’s whispering about how maybe it was the drive…have I thought about the drive?

Some nights, it is about the drive. The drive to get closer to Him that moves me off of the couch or onto my knees or into the car. Because I just want to spend time with Him but it doesn’t work like I planned until I realize that He just wants to spend time with me and now He’s worked out His plan to un-plan me. And those nights, I start to let go. I start to enjoy the drive. I stop waiting for the place I’m going to and begin to Be here now. That’s the magic moment when the veil drops and I see. I see that the cars are really people with lives and stories, that the world is really breathing for a Savior, that the work is really noticing not doing. And that I am really okay. I’m not driving to the store to get food to fill the ache, not driving into hopelessness, not driving over myself. I’m driving to a place- to any place- where I think He’ll be. I’ve started driving toward Him. Extraordinary. That’s the “height chart on the wall that hasn’t been checked in years” kind of growth. The kind of Wow Growth. And that’s when I am thankful to finally see. Where I really am. Where I’ve come from. Where I’m really headed. There are days when I don’t need the drive to see that. And those days are good. But some days, I need to take a drive with Him. And those days are good, too. Quite good.

Brother, Give us a Word

I am loving these daily lenten videos from the brothers of SSJE (Society of St. John the Evagelist), a Benedictine monastic community near Boston. While the traditional image of the nun is an angry, rule-abiding disciplinarian and the image of a monk an out-of-touch recluse, my limited time at Holy Cross monastery in the past two years and other encounters with monastic men and women have deeply altered that stereotype. I feel like monastics are often so much more generous in their view of prayer, of the Lord, and of community than we are. There is a gentleness to them that reflects a life steeped in practicing longing for God- which is perhaps what prayer truly is, as the video below explores. Anyway-- enjoy. (If you like it, you can sign up to receive one every day through the end of Lent).

http://ssje.org/word/

(or if that link to their blog doesn't work, watch directly on youtube- http://youtu.be/fRZl56N1mYw

Standin' in the Need

There's an old gospel spiritual that we occasionally sing at my church's evening service that goes,

"Not my mother, not my father, but it's me, O Lord, standin' in the need of prayer,

Not my sister, not my brother, but it's me, O Lord, standin' in the need of prayer.

It's me, it's me, it's me, O Lord, standin' in the need of prayer..."

I love how everyone starts to sway and clap, with big smiles and nods, when the music starts for this one. It makes me feel like I've been transported out of our urban Episcopal chapel and into a clapboard Baptist church somewhere below the Mason-Dixon Line. It's one of those songs that is fun to sing and just so simply true all at the same time.

It struck me particularly this past Sunday night. I'd come to church that night in a much-less-than-perfect state and to say the least, I was feeling "the need." I’d spent the weekend mostly alone and I felt like I’d whiled away precious free time. It was more than simply being unproductive; it was the feeling that I’d somehow unplugged the goodness and joy stored inside. Instead of replenishing that store through the things I know help me to rest (reading, knitting, worshiping, prayer, journaling, walks, cooking), I’d made choices that drained it, leaving me feeling stuffed yet empty, restless, and exhausted of my own mind. Long periods of time spent alone, like I had this weekend, often begin with relief at finally being hermitted away from the world, but end in overstaying my welcome, getting on my own nerves. 

While I actually had some amazing, revelatory moments of self-compassion this weekend (I'll get to that in a post in the next few days, I hope!), by the time Sunday rolled around, I still just felt BLEH. I knew I was supposed to be one of the healing prayer team members that night at the service, so that made me even less excited at the prospect of driving into the city for church-- how could I possibly pray for others when I felt such a general funk?

But what I love about our evening service is that there is a kind of permission to come as you are. So in the end, I dragged myself there (after, of course, finding every conceivable way to delay my departure), walked in toward the end of the sermon and snuck into a seat in the back. I sat there feeling inadequate and disconnected and completely the wrong person to soon stand up as one of the prayer team in a few minutes. But something made me stand up anyway. I took a spot leaning against a wall, gazed straight at the cross, and just whispered His name. So many times in life, that is enough. He simply doesn't require more than a breath of yes. 

And as people came forward for prayer, a beautiful thing happened. I prayed from the place I was at.  From "the need." And it turned into some of the most connected prayer I've done with others in awhile. I guess I've recently gotten used to praying for others from my knowledge of Christ's strength, rather than my need for Christ's strength. That night, I prayed with those who came, not as a warrior, calling down heaven and casting out the enemy….but as a fellow beloved struggler, “standin’ in the need of prayer.” When one young woman asked for prayer after losing her job and having to go live in a shelter, describing herself as having been pushed “fifteen steps backward," I prayed from the place in me that felt pushed backward and thwarted.When another described feeling disjointed in this city of hampster-wheel-living, I prayed from my own topsy-turvy and unfocused mindset.  I prayed from the place of need and it became a prayer that I could fully participate in. As I proclaimed truths of God’s love and provision and restoration over these women, I could sit under that fountain of His abundant love, too. Or, rather, stand. Because on the good days and the bad, if we're honest with ourselves, aren't we always just standin' in the need of prayer? 

Another year, another Lent

Hi again, friends. 

Well, well, well. Ash Wednesday brings me back to the oooold blog after all. I'm not really making any commitments to writing here this Lent but if it happens to happen, go me! For now, some musings as I step into the season:

The beginning of Lent has me thinking about how I struggle with daily turning my thoughts toward God. When I have down time, where does my mind go? That is, if I’m even allowing myself to have downtime these days. Too often, I am trying to fill every moment with something to do….ashamedly, because it must make me feel like a better, more valuable person. Somehow, I can go to sleep peacefully so long as I have maintained status as the Queen of Efficiency, the Keeper of the Lists, the Multi-tasking Marvel.

But multi-tasking is a clever enemy. Must every action be coupled with another, upon another? To what end? Soon, even the most innocent of behaviors, like waiting for a tall glass to fill up from the filtered tap, seems like it is dragging on your time—creating a burden too many seconds too long to bear. What should I do with those extra fifteen seconds while the water does its thing, filling the glass? Recently, I find myself looking around, frenzied, to find a quick task like wiping a counter or clearing some dishes. When nothing presents itself, I retreat to the mental task list and even inside my mind can’t just find rest. Maybe I can spend time solving that problem or brain-drafting that email I need to write. Or maybe I should use this time to just be and think. What should I think about? Maybe I should meditate on scripture or pray or something.

Or…what about just filling the water glass? What about simply, unproductively, watching the water fill the glass, slowly and cleanly? What if I just did each task as it came about (and the spaces in between) and relinquished my propensity for constant productivity? Maybe I would be better then about taking each moment as it comes, task or no task….entertaining each conversation, each thought, each whisper from the Spirit that enters and exits my little stage throughout the day, Maybe I would learn that what I do is not (how-many-times-do-i-have-to-relearn-this?) who I am. Maybe I would be more patient with the little snags in my efficient daily order—the unbearably slow driver, the impossibly long grocery line, the incessantly turning “beach ball of death” on my computer. Or the bigger snags—the unexpected delay in receiving residents in the house, the creeping loneliness, the sadness of a friend who is ill, the fear for a family member in trouble. In the practice of making each task its own sacred activity, I might learn to listen better to what is really happening around me—what the people I love are saying- and not saying, what God is doing and speaking, what I am experiencing emotionally and spiritually. Could all of this come simply from just filling a water glass, no tasks attached?

I should probably give it a try sometime. …you know, maybe during this whole Lent thing.

For now I’m off to go sip some tea. Then read. Then sip. Then sleep. Because you just can’t do all those at the same time. Thank goodness.

Resting and Rising

Note: I intended to post this last week, but just remembered that I never did. I wanted to keep editing it—it didn’t feel…what’s the word…perfect yet. You’ll see why that is particularly hilarious after you finish reading.

Last Sunday afternoon, I made my first foray into the bread-baking world. I felt instinctively that bread dough, like an animal, can sense your anxiety. And since I wanted my bread to be calm, fluffy and happy, I took some deep breaths as I began and assured myself (and the dough-to-be) that all would be well.

The first lesson I learned about bread-making is that it takes a lot of time. There’s no getting around that. It involves several rounds of resting, kneading and rising…and those mini-seasons simply can’t be rushed. So during the first dough rise, I took a walk to the park. As evening exchanged places with day, I breathed in the warm, flowering air and delighted in all the people walking, shuffling, and toddling about me. On my way back I even treated myself to a purchase in faith: a new jar of raspberry preserves. Sure enough, I arrived home and pulled a bowl brimming with pillowy dough from the oven. Huzzah! I did a little jig and the world felt right.

Then, I made a mistake. A little one….but big enough to squelch my jigging spirits. I punched the dough down. I thought I remembered somewhere that you’re supposed to do that. Unfortunately, not for this recipe. I realized this about 10 minutes later when the dough was sort of flat and unwilling to be shaped into loaves. Arrrg. I dumped the dough back in the bowl and, scowling, proceeded to eat a bunch of chocolate covered almonds.

After the regrettable almond episode, I calmed down a bit and decided that potentially awkward bread was better than none at all, so I went back and begrudgingly re-shaped the loaves. As I let them rise for a second time, I remembered my initial bread dough-senses-your-anxiety theory and forced myself to listen to music and do some yoga. At one point, a familiar chorus struck me anew:

“Lord you are perfect, in all of Your ways

You're not easily angered, You make no mistakes

No, nothing can stop You...Nothing can stand in Your way”

And that was when I realized. The LORD is perfect. Not me. Obviously, I’d forgotten about that (and not just with the bread loaves, but a lot of things recently).

Oswald Chambers says: “I have the responsibility of keeping my spirit in agreement with His Spirit, and by degrees Jesus lifts me up to where He lived- in perfect consecration to His Father’s will.” Revelation: I’m not created to aim for my own perfection— I’m created to agree with His perfection. Essentially, I can’t serve both God and perfection.

It’s an old problem for me but I’m realizing anew just how deep the roots have dug in there. Clearly, I need help. And as much as I resist it, part of the solution is found in worship and rest….when I do that He changes my perspective and I want to agree with Him. It takes TIME. There’s no getting around that. And it requires the kind of rest that allows Christ to raise me again to new life.

So as I slathered some jam onto a warm slice of whole wheat bread later that night (yeah…after all that, it turned out just fine), I sighed….reluctantly thankful for this unexpected lesson on the necessary imperfection of resting…and rising. 

In spite of the wonders

Today I wandered back to an old post from this blog to find a quote for a friend, and as I read through my thoughts from last year, I realized how many things, both within and without, have changed. I have grown in my ability to see light and beauty, to daringly plop my ankles into water and splash about in a hope-driven life. And yet, I am also struck by how many of last year's questions still remain, unwilling smudges I try determinedly to scrub out.

Take this morning, for example, when Psalm 78 stuck in my spirit like a chip in the windpipe. I believe I literally coughed at it. How dare the scriptures so baldly bare my soul to itself?

"They forgot what he had done,
   the wonders he had shown them....
18 They willfully put God to the test
   by demanding the food they craved.
19 They spoke against God;
   they said, “Can God really
   spread a table in the wilderness?
20 True, he struck the rock,
   and water gushed out,
   streams flowed abundantly,
but can he also give us bread?”

It was like a page torn from my thoughts. Thoughts I didn't even know I'd had. On the surface I've noticed a recent tiredness, body and bone and spirit tiredness. But underneath that surface….apparently….is my old friend, Unbelief. "In spite of his wonders, they did not believe" (78:32). I'm thankful for what has changed in the past year, I really am. But I still wrestle with this God who breaks open rock and pours water into my wide-mouthed need. I raise one hand in praise of his wonders while the other holds a little canteen of self-preservation close to my chest...just in case He runs out.

Once again, the Israelites and I are on the same page. "But can he give us bread?" I mean, sure, He can provide me with beyond-belief-gifts and rock-water-joy and deep-creased-change....but can he also give me bread? Essentially, can he sustain me? I'm content now, but what if I feel strangled again by loneliness, swallowed by depression, smothered by this city? What if I run out, dry up, and curl in? What if I fail? I am helplessly prone to wander away from trust in this God of Glories.

Last Thursday night, during lectio divina with my house church, we listened to the passage about the woman with a disabling spirit in Luke 13. Read the whole thing if you can. Here's a snatch:

11 And behold, there was a woman who had had a disabling spirit for eighteen years. She was bent over and could not fully straighten herself. 12 When Jesus saw her, he called her over and said to her, “Woman, you are freed from your disability.” 13 And he reach out and touched her, and immediately she was made straight, and she glorified God.

I'd been meditating on the phrase: "she could not fully straighten herself." The person leading prompted us to ask God: Who should I become in light of this? So I asked. Actually, I prayed, somewhat tongue-in-cheek, 'So God, are you asking me to become someone who can straighten herself out?' (Don't ask God questions like that. He'll answer you). And I just knew His response in my spirit. No, He replied. I'm asking you to let me touch you.

And so…..that's what I'm working on today, friends….and for the remainder of this Lent. Believing that God is enough. Remembering the rocks he's opened and trusting in Him to sustain me still. Admitting my inability to straighten myself out. And learning to let myself be touched.

Lessons and Carols

Hi friends! It's been a LOOOOOONG blog sabbatical, eh? I had intended to "reopen" the blog for advent, but that never happened. I do plan to come up with another blogging task for Lent this year, though-- so watch out!

In the meantime, though, I wanted to share these prayers that I have written for my church's Lessons and Carols service (coming up this Sunday!). I'm so excited for it, and I hope that maybe these words and the readings will be of some encouragement to you in these final two weeks of Advent. Enjoy!

Lessons and Carols 2011

I. The Creation and Fall of Humanity

Invocation

O Holy Breath,
Silence before the world and the word,
come silence us before you
and breathe into our imagination new life
to grasp how glorious and gracious
is the scope of the story you have written us into,
from the creation of the earth
to its redemption
to its continued sustenance by your hand.
Father, you are truly God: immeasurable, incomparable, indelible.

Exhortation
Come, let us gather together and listen with awe and wonder to hear of the God of Israel, the one and only living God, whose own hands crafted us out of nothing, whose very breath gave us life, and who, in spite of our turning away, relentlessly calls us back to himself, back to the garden, back to life in his light.

Readings
Genesis 2:4b-7, 3:1-6, 22-24

II. The Promise of a Redeemer

Invocation
O Mighty Shepherd,
lifter of heads and true Glory of the Father,
your undeserved gentleness and unceasing power
fills us with wonder.
Arrive now,
in your word
and speak to us of your promise,
fulfilled in spite of our faithlessness.
Prepare the way in our souls,
that all the rough and uneven pathways inside
might be leveled by the sheer force
of your mighty authority, and your boundless mercy.
O Prince of Peace, you are truly God:
heal us,
hold us,
herald to us your coming Kingdom.


Exhortation:
 Listen, people of God, to hear the good news. A light dawns on our darkness, a savior enters with authority, a shepherd carries us in his arms. Listen with the darkest places of your soul because it is there that His light will triumph. Listen, with the burdens on your back, for that is the very load He will lift. Listen, with your weariness, strife, and toil, because into that struggle He will bring His zeal, His authority and His endless peace. Listen to the good news.

Readings:
Isaiah 40:1-11
Isaiah 9:2-7

III. The Annunciation and Birth of Christ

Invocation
O Good Father, Draw us near to your heart as we listen to the story of your Incarnation, of God becoming Man, of God coming to be with us and for us. Teach us, as we marvel at this Holy Child, to become children, ourselves, and hold fast to your hand as the light grows dim, clinging to hope.
Jesus, you are truly God: 
quench our sorrow
deepen the shallow
and revive the fallow places in our souls, we pray.

Exhortation:
And now, let us abandon the wideness of the world,
the glories of the heavens,
the epic narrative of God's conversation with man,
and enter into the still, small inner world,
the world of the child,
the very womb of God
where we, with Mary,
wonder at the miracle of God's nearness
and wait for the revelation of His gracious glory to be born again within us. 

Luke 1:26-33, 46-55
Luke 2:1, 3-7

IV. The Proclamation of the Gospel

O Holy Word,
by your word we were first given flesh,
and by your flesh, you have given us the word of hope.
You have made a way for us
by unveiling the face of the Father,
full of grace and truth.
Speak now,
and silence the terrified storms of our souls with your word,
and boldly proclaim
that
you
have
done it.
Savior, you are truly God: above us, for us, and with us.

Exhortation
Family of God, do not fear. Be still before the Lord now, and receive the Truth. Christ has come, and Christ will come again. The darkness has not overcome us, and the end has become the beginning. This is the gospel. Hear it, and live.



Readings:
Luke 2:8-16
John 1:1-14

Oh, Grammy

It has certainly been awhile.... and I have missed writing! While I originally intended the blog as a Lenten practice, it turned into so much more....and even though Lent is long over, I do plan to keep the blog open, in case I randomly have something I want to share. In this case, I would like to share with you a piece of writing that I read aloud at my grandmother's memorial service, just yesterday. She was certainly one-of-a-kind. Hope you enjoy...

Grammy

In moments like these, words seem like such fragile, futile vessels for capturing a human life…for trying to contain the whole colorful, vibrant world of someone like my grandmother and somehow give it new breath. I can’t begin to pin down a life so full of motion, activity, laughter, love, and adventure….of secrets I’ll never know and stories I’ll never forget. Even in death, this wonderful, wild woman simply won’t be held down or summed up. So I’ll choose my words sparingly but deliberately…and offer up just another brush stroke as we re-member Grammy together.

Growing up, I knew Grammy was quite unlike any other. Other people would sometimes describe their grandmothers to me and I would chuckle to myself…. demure, quiet, likes to crochet? Not my Grammy! Grammy’s life was constantly brimming with adventure. She was always going, going, going. Running races, traveling the world, tutoring children, gallivanting about town with friends, fighting for causes, and supporting all of her children and grandchildren at games, plays, concerts, graduations, and the like. I might be one of the few people who can honestly say that my grandmother had a more complicated schedule than I do.

Grammy always had an incredible capacity for celebrating and enjoying life….every sweet drop of it….from an appreciation for art and culture, to her affinity  for parties and social gatherings, to her simple love of a sun-soaked day at the beach with drink in hand.

  And in all circumstances, she was unapologetically herself…comfortable in her own skin, whether playing basketball or dancing at a party or even walking around- as she did one fateful trip to the Bahamas- without any pants on (don’t worry, she had a bathing suit cover up on…but still)…she was who she was…and proud of it! How many times have I heard or used the phrase… “Oooh, Grammy” upon knowledge of another adventure or campaign or humorous conversation….But it’s always said with a smile…I think we simply can’t help but admire someone who lives so boldly and unashamedly… perhaps because deep down we all wish we could do that.

As I’ve gotten older—especially in the past few years, I have grown to see Grammy from an even clearer perspective. On more than one occasion, I’ve recounted—beyond merely funny stories— how grateful I am to have known and been related to such a passionate, courageous woman. I believe that my own love for language and literature, my passion for women’s empowerment, my knack for teaching, and my gutsy “tell it like it is” tendency has to be inherited- at least in part- from her. I’ve come to admire her fiesty perseverance and spunky resilience, her loyalty to friends and family, and her ability to do what few of us have the courage to do with integrity: to wake up each day and face the world head on, without apology or pretense…to drink in each moment and experience the whole, brilliant landscape of life…to laugh and to live from the very core.

This part’s for you, Grammy—improper as it may be, I think you’d appreciate it. I have to admit, for the past several days, a smile keeps creeping to my face as I can’t stop imagining Grammy running into Heaven, as she did upon finishing so many of her races in this life, with a wide grin and a hearty, “Somebody bring me a beer!” Yup. That’s my Grammy. And I’m proud of it. I love you, Grammy, and I’m so thankful for your life.

 

The Empty Place

Today I participated in a “wimp’s fast”—And lest you think my newly coined term is self-effacing, be assured, I say it with great joy, not shame. A few friends and I committed to fast today in order to remember to pray for someone, and as a very reluctant faster, I chose to simply skip eating from the time I left in the morning, to the time I returned to my apartment in the early evening. Essentially skipping lunch…. :) But with intention.

After a certain period of not eating, there’s a hungry space that becomes tangible. It is that space that reminds me to turn again to God, to lift up my needs and hopes and desires to him—for myself and for others—all of the little weights that, with time, become clearer, heavier, and somehow “ripe” for offering.

That hungry space is akin to what my yoga teacher called the “sweet spot” the other day. She said that in a certain philosophy (I can’t remember what culture), there is a belief in a deep sadness that lies within each of us. It is the kind of sadness we experience when we watch a sunset, or listen to a breathtaking piece of music, or witness some other small miracle. Apparently, it is believed that boredom, loneliness, frustration and the like are signs that we are actually moving closer to that sweet spot of sadness, not further away. We just have to sit with and through those emotions in order to arrive there….rather than covering them up with activity, stimulation, food, and other distractions.

My teacher’s point was that when we are stuck holding an unbearable yoga pose for a long period of time, we are moving closer to that sweet spot (or, as I prefer to call it, the “empty place”). Of course, at the time, as sweat pored down my face and my legs began to shake, I sort of wanted to strangle her with her own metaphor (or at least throw a block at her head)….but now looking back, I actually see her point. How often do I use ANYTHING I can to cover up and bury that feeling of sad joy…..whether it’s food, television, phone calls, facebook, job searching or restless “anywhere but here” daydreaming. And what is underneath all of those layers? What is left when I truly STOP and learn to be quiet, to be with myself, and to be with God?

Over and over again, God implores his people to WAIT. So many verses in the Psalms encourage the soul to wait on the Lord, to be still, to be quiet. Perhaps He really is calling us to spend more time in that “empty place.” To find ways to strip away the layers and be left with.....well....nothing—to truly know our own poverty, so that we might look to the One who feeds us. It is often easier to move, to act, to seek, to fill, to hold, to read, to pray, to GO. But I feel God distinctly calling me, in this season, to stop, to cease, to open, to empty, to release, and to simply BE. And wait. In the empty place…..in the tomb deep within, from which he longs to roll away the stone and show us his light, his face, and the healing power of his resurrection.

Complexity and Resilience

I don't apologize for the length of this one. Read it if you dare!


On Tuesday nights, I leave my desk at about 6:25 and walk down the countless flights of stairs to a big, brightly lit reception hall on the first floor. The hum of conversation is in tune with the live jazz and the smell of good food- and lots of it. Tonight, there's a Puerto Rican pork dish with rice and beans and little peanut butter cupcakes for dessert. Everyone keeps asking if I'm going to have some-- apparently, it's a hit.

People are still trickling in (and sometimes out) when Eric- the head of the program- steps up to the mic and welcomes everyone to Our Place: A Wellness Cafe. After we pray and sing a few songs, someone reads the biblical twist on the 12 Steps, followed by a testimony. Tonight, J. reads us her "homeless story," as she calls it-- recalling her childhood in Birmingham, AL in the 50's, her troubled teenage years in NYC, and the heartaches and joys of her adult life. She is simple and sincere. I admire how articulate she is, then immediately judge myself for focusing on that, rather than the story.
I glance around and take in the room as Eric begins a short talk....a few apron-clad volunteers collect plates and refill coffee. Someone gets up to go to the bathroom.  But most people just sit and listen. Some are dressed in crisp collared shirts with combed hair and an attentive eye. Others are layered in an assortment of shirts and coats, toting their lives on their backs. Some struggle to stay awake, others struggle to stay still. I find myself doing both. All walks of life converge for a moment here.

We break into small groups-- "wellness circles"--- and tonight we answer the question-- "what is one hurt, habit, or hangup that you have that just doesn't seem to go away?" I’m a bit distracted by a less-than-pleasant smell, but to try and discern its owner would be…well, tricky. I nudge myself away from my clean-freak tendencies and back to the conversation. Some of my group members share their struggles to survive in horrific living conditions, or stay afloat without a job, or recoup after their money or IDs were stolen at a shelter. Others share about the need to see God as loving, to let go of shame, to move forward in trust. We close with the serenity prayer and truly do hope to be supremely happy in the life to come.

Now it’s time for classes. The knitting group is hopping tonight—everyone is excited that it’s back in swing. The creative writing class gathers and is already scribbling away by the time my little cohort and I finally make our way down stairs for Creative Expression (my feeble attempt at making the word “Theater” seem less scary). It is always a small group, but every week God provides—both people and ideas, courage and hope. Tonight we are jovial. There is a lot of laughter at our collectively bizarre imaginations. Later, I lead them through an exercise using bits of news headlines I have snipped from the morning paper. They collaborate to create still shots that represent these titles. It is always interesting to watch a story emerge out of seemingly nothing….just a few words- “join the fight” or “tipping point” or “tough call” and you have an image. Add a few people and you have a scene. Add imagination and Voice and you have a story. One image from this exercise sticks with me as I leave later in the evening, dodging the rain on my way to the subway—two people, limbs intertwined,, growing into a man standing nearby. The stolen newspaper heading: “Complexity and Resilience.” Yes, I think, that is the perfect title for tonight.