Love Changes Us

“…love is an invitation to growth, a call to responsibility, and a hope for all that could be.”

(From the Opening Prayer, February 14th, 2021, Zoom Church, Bethel UCC, White Salmon)

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It was May 28th, 1994.

“I have a question for you.” he said.

On a snowy hike into the Indian Heaven Wilderness, and we had just stopped for lunch. I was pretty sure his question wasn’t whether I wanted the turkey or the ham sandwich.

“Will you marry me?” he asked.

“Yes!” I answered.

Hiking back out it hit me. On the trail going in, life had looked one way. Walking back out, life as we had known it had changed.

Because that’s what love does.

It changes us.

Whenever we say yes to love of any kind, we are committing ourselves to something bigger without knowing how it will all turn out. Love isn’t about certainty, but a commitment to continue to show up and say yes even when it’s hard. Especially when it is hard.

Before we say yes to love, our life looks one way. After we say yes, life as we have known it, will change.

Because that’s what love does.

It changes us.

27 years of continuing to show up and saying yes. Here’s to the next 27!

From The Logging Road: Lessons #5

We had a wicked wind storm a week ago, bringing with it all of the usual things. Detours due to downed trees, power outages, and flags, furniture, and fallen branches strewn hither and yon.

This morning was our first foray up the logging road since the storm, and rounding an early bend in the road, a downed pine tree blocked our way.

We had four options. Turn back, climb over, crawl under, or go around. All were viable possibilities.

Turning back didn’t even enter our minds. Arriving at the top, and the hike to get there have become a sacred practice. An intentional habit that anchors our week, fortifies our bodies, and fills our souls. Climbing over was doable, but not necessary, as was crawling under. So around we went. After a short scramble we were quickly on our way again , footsteps falling together on the trail.

Obstacles are inevitable.

The trick is to know what to do with them when they fall across our path.

Lost In Translation

This is what he said:

“Let’s just use the rest of this up.”

This is what I heard:

“You probably won’t think of this, so I’d better remind you. This food needs to be eaten up, and we don’t want it to go to waste.”

A little context might be helpful.

My husband and I are starting the Whole30 tomorrow, and trying to finish up all of the non-compliant food before then. Tom was referring to some of said food, and simply letting me know that he was helping us do that.

His comment wasn’t meant to criticize, correct, or challenge me. That, however, is how I heard it, and as a result, my response was less than gracious.

Thankfully curiosity came on the heels of my snarky comment. Following that thread of inquiry led me to the discovery of my very own inner translator. One that takes a message and instantly converts it into my mother tongue, confirming an old story that has been with me for as long as I can remember. In this case, the story that I have to protect myself from strong male voices that only want to keep me in my place, question my abilities, and tell me how things are.

Programs like Google Translate work to predict the likelihood of a sequence of words, and quickly convert them from one language to another.

Our inner translators work in much the same way.

In other words, we hear what we are listening for rather that what is actually being said.

Counting The Cost

When someone asks, it can be hard to say no.

Such was the case for me not long ago. An organization that is doing important work, as in really important work, asked if I would consider bringing my experience and expertise to their efforts. Because I hold them in high esteem, respect their work, and consider their mission critical, I was honored to even be asked. It was a request not to be taken lightly, which I didn’t. I took time to consider it and did my research.

There was a part of me that was ready to say yes. Another part still wasn’t sure. Until my good friend and colleague asked me the clarifying question I needed.

What won’t you have the time or energy for if you commit to this?”

As important and crucial as this work was, it wasn’t mine to do.

Saying yes to one thing means having to say no somewhere else. Putting energy here means less energy there. Committing the time to this endeavor leaves less time for that one.

Before jumping in to almost anything, it is good to count the cost.

Photo by Karolina Grabowska from Pexels

Too Good Not To Share

re-spon-si-ble

having an obligation to do something, or care for someone, as part of one's job or role

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Especially during COVID, staying connected matters more than ever. Thanks to technology we can still meet, gather, collaborate, celebrate, learn, remember, worship, and share a meal or bottle of wine together. We can work with a therapist, doctor, coach, personal trainer, or spiritual director, all from the comfort of our home office, closet, car, or tree fort.

As good as all that connecting is, sometimes it’s just too much.

Our devices ring and ding and vibrate, alerting us that someone somewhere is reaching our way, and we, or at least I, feel responsible to answer right there and then. It’s as if not picking up the phone, responding to the text, joining the video call, or answering the email immediately communicates that I don’t care. That that person isn’t a priority, and as someone who values connection and relationships above all else, I never want to convey that. Ever. And yet I have this fear that I do.

This was the quandary I brought to a monthly video conversation with my spiritual director. One of his many gifts is his practice of parsing words. He will take a word apart, maybe switch a letter of two, all in the service of looking at it in a new and more helpful way. In this case, rather than feel responsible to answer the phone or respond to the text, decide if, in that moment, I am response-able to do so.

Do I have the emotional capacity, at the time, to respond with the best of myself? Is my tank, at the time, empty, full, or somewhere in between? Do I have what it takes, at the time, to be fully present? In that moment, am I responsible or response-able to answer? It isn’t about not responding. It’s about responding well.

Some things are simply too good not to share.

(Once again, a grateful shout out to Dane Anthony.)

Photo by Wendy Wei from Pexels

The Scream

Ducking my head to walk underneath the small fort we built for the little people in our lives, I dropped to the ground to see if I could add another pushup to my tally. It was raining, and the ground underneath the fort was dry. Standing up, one more pushup under my belt, I headed back out into the rain. Because I was wearing my Seahawks Super Bowl Champs hat I didn’t see the low board ahead of me and walked right into it. I hit my head. HARD. I hate hitting my head.

The next thing I knew, I was bent over, screaming at the top of my lungs. I screamed, and screamed, and screamed, until I couldn’t. It’s a good thing our closest neighbors are a ways away, or they might have called the local sheriff to come investigate.

All I can say is that it felt really, really, really good to scream. It felt like a mixture of rage and fear, and a few other emotions that must have been lodged pretty deep inside for awhile.

I guess I just needed to scream.

There is a lot to be angry and fearful about right now. So many things out of our control. So many things that need to be addressed and fixed and repaired and built and changed, and most of us feel pretty powerless to do anything about it. Whenever we feel powerless, rage and fear aren’t far behind, and those emotions need to come out somewhere. For me, it was a guttural scream, bending over underneath a fort out in the pine trees.

Sometimes I guess we just need to scream. And then stand up and get back to work loving and helping the people and the world within our reach.

Mending

Yesterday my daughter spent time mending a pair of pants for her four-year-old son. Passed down from his cousin, a few years his senior, they already had history. Hours spent doing what little boys do. Rather than toss them, she carefully mended them. Artfully stitching together the old with the new, patching the hole, reinforcing the seams, and readying them for more of what this little boy will do.

What is true of a pair of pants is true of life. With time comes wear and tear, and the need for repair. Our fabric wears thin, feelings catch on sharp words, hurtful choices tear people apart.

Mending is the art of tending to what has been torn.

Mending matters.

(To learn more about the art of mending, check out Mending Matters by Katrina Rodabaugh)

With gratitude to HKK

By A Thread

When my parents died within six months of each other back in 2000, I was sad that they were gone and ready for them to go all at the same time. People have asked me if I had any regrets when they were gone. Gratefully I don’t. Several years before they passed the three of us were sitting in their kitchen, and I found myself telling them that I would miss them when they were gone. That they had been good parents in so many ways. That I never doubted their love for me. That the memories we shared mattered. That they mattered, and that they would be missed.

Are there other conversations I wish we would have had, could have had? Probably. But I think it is rare that any of us leave the planet without a few loose ends. Ours is the task of leaving as few as possible.

My oldest brother, Peter, died suddenly on January 14th. I wasn’t ready for him to go and was grateful that he didn’t have to linger. He would have hated that. Again, no regrets. To say that he and I sat on opposite ends of the political spectrum would be an understatement, and we had more than our share of animated conversations over the years. To decompress I attempt to meditate. Pete would listen to Rush Limbaugh. He had a heart that was as deep as his political convictions, and would move heaven and earth to help someone in need. On the night of January 6th, after all hell broke loose at the capitol, he called me. “You kind of want to talk to the people you love on a night like this, don’t you?” I said. “That’s why I’m calling you.” he replied in his deep, gravely, cowboy voice. The day had deeply saddened both of us, and we found ourselves standing together on the holy ground of our shared hopes for what this country could be. Should be. It was our last phone call. A few more loose ends tied up.

Every morning, no matter what the weather, Tom and I sit outside in the early morning darkness with our first cup of coffee. Gracie-the-chocolate-labradoodle at our feet, we start our day together on the porch, sitting in old rocking chairs with red cushions on the seat and red and black plaid Woolrich blankets on our laps. One morning not long ago, Gracie and I were out there waiting for him to join us. Out of the corner of my eye I saw his rocking chair. Empty. The red cushion and plaid blanket waiting for him. One of us will go on without the other someday.

We are always just hanging on by a thread. If we think it is otherwise, we are simply fooling ourselves. However, it is that thread that weaves our life together, one breath, one choice, and one moment at a time. And, when all is said and done, ours will be a tapestry of each and every one of those stitched together moments.

Ours is the task of leaving as few loose ends as possible.

Photo by Suzy Hazelwood from Pexels

Becoming Better

My good friend and colleague, David Berry is the V.P. of People & Culture at Municipal. David hosts the podcast, Becoming Better Men, which is about exactly what the name suggests.

Recently my husband and I listened in on David’s conversation with another good friend and colleague of mine, educator and spiritual director, Dane Anthony. Their conversation, There’s Another Way to Be Myself, was rich, insightful, and one of my favorites to date.

At the end of every conversation David asks his guest the same five questions. One in particular grabbed my attention.

What is a quality you wish you had less of?

We decided to answer that same question for ourselves.

My answer was clear and immediate.

Zero doubt about it, the quality I would like less of is defensiveness. For the record, other people in my life probably wish I had less of it too.

It’s been with me for as long as I can remember. Perhaps it grew out of being raised by a patriarchal father who wasn’t a fan of strong women, which is tough when that is what you are. It might have been a necessary coping mechanism back in the day, but not any more. It is a protective reaction, based on fear, and it isn’t pretty. Especially when you are married to a guy who absolutely is a fan of strong women, and which is in fact, one of the reasons he wanted to share life with you.

Like any longtime habit, my defensive pattern runs deep, and it doesn’t take much to set it off. However, I am discovering that there is a sliver of time in which to make a different choice. A tiny wafer of moments that creates enough room to take a breath, which creates enough space to take another one, and then another one. Those breaths allow me enough time to step away from that old reactive quality, and begin to step into a new one. One that is based on curiosity, not fear, and favors connection over protection. Sometimes my better angels don’t win, and I blast right past that tiny sliver of time. But now I know it is there, and as Dane Anthony reminds me in our monthly conversations, we can’t ever un-know what we’ve learned along our way.

I hope you will listen in on David’s conversation with Dane on Becoming Better Men. And when it’s over, maybe you will want to answer that same question for yourself.

What is a quality you wish you had less of?

If you are like me, your answer will come fairly quickly, and lead to plenty of opportunities to practice a new way of being yourself. And while practice may never make perfect, it will always make better.

(Be sure to check out Municipal for some great sports utility gear.)

Stone Soup

A Stone Soup party is one in which you invite people over for dinner, each guest bringing something to throw into the pot to make a soup that everyone will share. I never was a big fan. You never knew who was going to bring what, and risked everyone bringing the same ingredient. Like turnips. I imagined a watery soup that tasted like a turnip, with little to no nourishment.

Lots of people love these parties though, and say it is the hodgepodge of ingredients that creates the magic. Somehow the guests always show up with a variety of vegetables, spices, and whatnot to create a soup that is both delicious and nourishing. Any one of the ingredients on its own, like turnips, doesn’t have what it takes to create a hearty soup. But simmered all together it becomes something rich and life-giving.

Life feels like a Stone Soup party right now.

Events and emotions show up on our doorstep every day, inviting us throw them into the pot and make something that is both delicious and nourishing. Like my dreaded turnip, there are things I’d rather not add to the pot. Things that left on their own would result in a bitter broth indeed. But simmered all together, they become something rich and life giving. It is the hodgepodge of ingredients of our daily lives that creates the magic.

Photo by Magda Ehlers from Pexels