Archive for the ‘life stuff’ Category
real grace
“She has not raised kids, endured severe financial hardship or cared for a dying loved one – in short, she has not lived enough of life to offer us real grace.”
TheOOZE Viral Blogger Review of As Is by “monster,” July 14, 2010
A monster recently crossed my path. A big, hairy monster with a heavy shadow to boot. And the monster said that I didn’t have any “real” grace to offer because I hadn’t given birth to a mentally handicapped son. Because I hadn’t nursed a dying loved one. Because I hadn’t endured financial hardship. Because, in monster’s opinion, I hadn’t really lived. So how could I dare to write about messy grace – a topic that has “been done before and done better by others” in his opinion.
You see, monster decided to read and review As Is for TheOOZE’s Viral Blogger platform, a platform that has earned As Is mixed reviews at best. But in many ways, it’s been refreshing. I have invited the comments and suggestions from peers and have been inspired to work that much harder at my craft. Until this review. Truth be told, monster knocked the wind out of me with his assumptions and judgments as he questioned the authenticity and validity of who I am.
So, as is my MO, I’ve been thinking. Thinking about this book review. Thinking about my writing. Thinking about my story, my life’s story. And most of this thinking has been good because it landed me in a place I needed to be. A place where I was forced to unearth truth and beauty again. And it was there that I discovered we – all of us – have something to say about grace. Because we all have a story. Some stories are grittier than others. Some stories are, on the surface, a little tidier. But not long after we’re out of the womb, life on planet earth collides with us and brings us face to face with moments when grace, mercy, peace, love and truth must show up if we are to go on.
Some of us have cancer.
Some of us have eating disorders.
Some of us have anxiety attacks.
Some of us lose our jobs.
Some of us bury children.
Some of us suffer deep betrayal by the one who said, “till death do us part.”
Some of us are raped.
Some of us endure racial hate.
Some of us are physically abused.
Some of us are bullied in school.
Some of us have barren wombs.
Some of us endure the tragedy of front-line warfare.
Some of us have multiple sclerosis.
Some of us lose limbs in car accidents.
Some of us go without food.
Some of us are sold into sex trafficking.
Some of us are alcoholics.
Some of us suffer depression.
Some of us don’t have clean water to drink.
Some of us lose our homes in floods.
We all need grace. And we need it spoken to us in a variety of voices.
Maybe monster has the luxury of being choosy about who he’ll allow to speak “real” grace into his life. Me – I’ll take grace anywhere I can get it. I’ll take it from the 16-year-old kid at the grocery store. I’ll take it from U2 or Hoagy Carmichael or Beethoven, Annie Dillard or Joan Didion or Frederick Buechner. I’ll take it from my single girlfriends who have no idea what it’s like to be married with children. I’ll take it from my husband who has never suffered a panic attack or battled an eating disorder. I’ll take it from my 13-month-old son who has barely been touched by the tragedy and pain of this world.
I’ll take it from anyone, anywhere, any time. Because if I demand that anyone who speak “real” grace into my life go through the hardest, most catastrophic life events or the exact circumstances I have experienced before they’re qualified, I’ll never receive grace.
I’ve lived long enough to know that none of our storms are the same. And the minute we go around comparing, judging and deciding whose got the biggest, baddest, most hardcore life story, we lose sight of what grace is all about. We lose sight of something whole-making and powerful. We lose sight of coming like children – clamoring, hands open, excited to receive whatever is given.
No, I don’t have the luxury of being picky about where grace comes from. I grasp for it. I inhale it. I gulp it down like a beggar at a feast. And I find it not only in the hardest and most tragic moments that life hurls at me and those around me. But I find it in the mundane and monotonous. Because grace is for all of us in all our moments – not just for those whose stories are the deepest or darkest.
So it turns out that even in a malicious review and personal attack, grace found me. She reminded me who I am, whose I am, and that life is grace (as Buechner says). So thanks, monster. In spite of your shadow, grace won. Real grace.
Grace finds beauty in everything.
U2, Grace
No Commentsi remember
I remember the light -
the way it slipped through the slats in the
vertical blinds as we began the final leg of our
journey together.
I remember you -
the way you felt when your
daddy laid you on my chest,
soft and slimy and
perfect.
I remember the midwife -
the way she told me how
beautiful you were and how
perfect your butt was and that I should
kiss it…so I did!
I remember everything about the night before -
the way my water broke at one,
the ride to the hospital at two,
three contractions at the admissions desk,
the way your daddy held me up through
every pressure wave,
the water pouring over me,
going to the furthest threshold of pain without any barrier of relief,
the way you turned after all our hard work.
And I remember the moment -
too sacred to tell.
I remember the light -
the light of your life and soul
so new and fresh,
the light of you in a world wanting for brightness.
Happy Birthday, sweet Jude. I will always remember your story and love your life.
No Commentsas is interview
I laughed as Jude cuddled up close to me. It was his new way of letting me know he was making the poo-poo. As his poops become more solid, he is becoming more freaked out by the whole “number two” thing. So he cuddles.
I looked at the clock. I had time, or a few minutes anyway. “Alright,” I said, “let’s go change that diaper, let’s go change that diaper….” I sang our made-up diaper song as we cha-cha’ed to his room and proceeded to swap out the hot mess. I got him all cleaned up in time to prep a little for my podcast interview.
But as we sat on the floor a few minutes later – me with my laptop and Jude with his blocks – it happened. Jude crawled quietly over to me and climbed into my lap, again, wrapping his arms around my neck.
“Aw, buddy, what’s going on?” But I already knew. More poop. Big time poop.
I sprang into action with just a few minutes to spare before I’d be chatting with Josh Case of the Nick and Josh Podcast. But not only was this the messier of the two diapers, Jude wasn’t even remotely interested in being on his back for another diaper change. He was so opposed, in fact, that he rolled over before I could catch him, dragged his leg through the stinky mass, crab-crawled toward his blocks and laughed.
With about sixty seconds to spare before my interview appointment, I chased Jude down, cleaned him up, put on a fresh diaper, and scrubbed the carpet. Then I did this interview. An interview I’m proud of if for no other reason than that it was born out of a very authentic, very as-is moment. There’s just something about a laughing, cuddling, pooping one-year-old that keeps you real, humbled and completely incapable of posing.
No Commentsbaby talk
“Abba. Abba. Abba.”
Jude keeps saying Abba. All the time Abba. While he’s playing with his blocks. While he’s eating his Toastie O’s. While he’s riding in his car seat. Even as he drifts to sleep.
I know he doesn’t know what he’s saying, what his baby talk means. But there’s something in it and it is not wasted on me.
“Whoever becomes simple and elemental again. like this child, will rank high in God’s kingdom.”
- Gospel of Matthew 18:4 (The Message)
3 Commentsthe climb
Who is that little girl?, I think as I pull out the 28-year-old snapshot I carry in my journal. Legs folded Indian-style. Hands grasping her ankles. Face set in an unapologetic expression. She would not be moved from the roof of the brown truck. She had climbed. Scaled the back bumper. Soldiered through the bed. Conquered the rear window. She had reached her destination.
And she would not be moved. She would not deny who she was or what she had done. She would not ask permission first, but charge ahead, unrelenting, full-boar. She would ask forgiveness later (if pressed). But there was nothing to forgive. She was only being herself. Her tenacious, curious, undiluted self. She was only doing what a confident, inspired, spirited little girl would do.
Was it dangerous?
Sure.
Was it risky?
You bet.
But safety, comfort, static-ness – they were overrated.
As I think about my son and my role as his mother, I am decided. I must find the value of risk again. Risking the climb, risking the fall, risking what people might think of me. Because Jude needs that kind of mom. A mom who plays hard and loves harder – no matter the heights to fall.
Yes, if I am to care for Jude in the best way possible, that little girl needs to emerge again. Because she’s still there. I know she is. And she needs to come out to play. And climb, climb, climb the hard places beside him.
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