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.