The Table

Jon and I got, yet another, piece of scrap wood to test out stains for our kitchen table. We've been to three different hardware stores and bought several cans of varying shades. There's no real method to the madness, I just keep slopping on the colors, waiting for magic. Our garage is beginning to look like Jackson Polluck's barn.

It's been a month since we finished the table...we built it as a gift to each other for our twenty-first wedding anniversary. I did most of the designing. For weeks, I poured over magazines and blogs, researching color and style and shape. Jon listened earnestly to every detail. On date nights, we walked through furniture stores and ran our fingers atop tables and chairs.

We have the same taste mostly. Simple, Shaker-like, warm. I wanted an honest table. He wanted a strong table. We wanted a table that would last, that would one day host son-in-laws eating gumbo and grand-babies slurping up rice cereal.

Jon can build anything. Years ago I brought home some old cupboard doors that Mayli had torn out of her kitchen and Jon made me a bench that we still use to this day. He built a cradle for Summer, a toddler bed for May, and two sets of bunk beds.

He even built a kitchen table once before. Oh, how I cried the day he brought it home. I had asked for a small knotty-pine breakfast nook, back then it was just the two of us and baby May. He brought home what mildly resembled a pool table and could quite comfortably seat at least ten people, had we had room for that many chairs. We had to take the windows off the side of the house just to get it indoors.

But this time, we planned better...

We decided on the length, and the depth and the height, every angle. We measured it to where his elbows would rest and where my feet would land.

We chose the lumber, piece by piece. Jon shuffled through the heavy stacks, and I pointed and nodded, or pointed and grimaced. "This is a nice one," he'd say, and I'd agree.

Jon built the table in just 2 days, eight feet long, with matching benches on both sides. The wood is worn and imperfect and scarred in some places.

It may be the most beautiful piece of furniture on the planet.

As I stood this morning in my Polluck-garage, head cocked and squinting at the drying colors on the scrap board, my neighbor hollered over, "Watching paint dry again, Tami?"

I nodded and smiled.

I'm just so afraid to stain it wrong, ruin it's unfinished beauty...

I need Jon. I'll have to wait until he gets home from work. I'll have him look at the color and remind me of what I am going for...remind me of our original vision. The process gets fuzzy for me. I can see where I want to go but I don't always know how to get there...but Jon is a natural builder, sees the finished project.


Well, now it's been nearly a year... We're just about to celebrate twenty-two and I never finished the post, because we never finished the table.

One of the benches still has various stains slopped on an end...but all of them just ended up looking Faux. And I hate Faux. Our original vision was that nouveau-barn look that keeps popping up in Restoration hardware and model homes. We looked into the reclaimed wood thing, but it was super expensive. It would have been about five grand for the amount we needed. I think we spent less than two hundred dollars on our wood at Home Depot, and that's including the nails.

So I think I've finally made a decision...I think I'll rub it with some wax...go with the grain...across the top and on the edges. I'll fill a mason jar with Tuberose and light some candles... and I'll let it just...be. It'll host Nana's casserole and warm bowls of soup and coffee on bright mornings...and there will be laughter there...and surely some tears. It will be a homework spot and a bill paying spot, a spot to tell stories and to listen.

It is still unfinished, time will change it on it's own. It will get worn and it will be loved...just the way it is...imperfect...but honest and strong.

I Cussed Out the Orphans...

I cussed out the orphans. I was sorry for it even as the words left my lips, but still like vomit they came spewing out.

I was having a moment.

In my defense I had held strong for days, even as I left her at the airport, I bit my lip, held back my tears, and saluted to my little soldier for the Lord. But as the days and nights stretched long and quiet, her absence ran icy through my blood. Even the yellow bell peppers at the grocery store made my belly turn. Summer eats them like apples, has since she was a little girl.

The real problem is, I am animal. And all of my lofty ideas about God and purpose and servant hood can not override the mama bear inside of me. And I roared, I stood tall on my hind legs and snarled my teeth wide and clawed at the bare air in front of me.

With great regret, my still-home cubs were in ear shot, and they whimpered and scurried to their corners of the cave.

I emptied the dishwasher, crashing and slamming the cupboard doors, sobbing in a swirl of anger and fear.

My fault, really. I had read the news. You should never read the news when one of your cubs is in a third world country, hours outside of a city, with no internet, no phone. There are wars and rumors of wars, and floods and famine, disease and death. Pick any night of the week, always a tragic story, the kind where you shake your head in disbelief and wonder how this world could be so ugly.

And I know that's why she went. I get it. I know that love is worth dying for. But tell that to my heart, tell that to my adrenal glands.

One, two, three, four...five. Five days left until her blonde ponytail will come bouncing out of the terminal. I know her face will be all aglow and she'll chatter endlessly on the car ride home about how the Lord moved and how the orphans smiled. I know she'll seem taller...and wiser. And I know she'll leave a part of her heart in Haiti forever...I'm just really ready for the rest of her to come home.

Quiet Here...

I can feel the doom lurking in the corners. The hot August air swirls dust bunnies and cobwebs on the living room floor. A soft splash echoes from Jasmine who lays stretched long in the bath, reading. At nearly thirteen she is lovely and soon to be taller than me. But the bedrooms are quiet. The refrigerator hosts only a few necessities for feeding just three and the pantry is nearly bare. Yeah, I know, they'll be back, but for how long? May a month, Summer a year...and then like feathers soft in the wind...their gone again. By this time next year, I'll have two in college and a freshman in high school. Up, up, up and away.

It's not that I would have it any other way. When May took her first steps, we hooted and hollered, squeezed her tight and said, "You did it Baby, you walked!" She threw back her head and giggled long and deep, so proud. Each step we've celebrated. And always following me...lingering in the shadows...I knew. I knew we were teaching them how to live without us.

And oh, goodness, they are so glorious...they are smart and funny and courageous and accomplished. They have great big giant hearts, and this old world is lucky to have them. They will fly and they will thrive and they will give back. No mama could be more proud.

But I don't quite know what to do with myself and this looming empty nest.

I am Mama, it's what I love, it's what I know...it's who I am. I know...I know, that's not fashionable anymore. And in these parts, you don't find many traditionally run homes. Both parents work, they have to, they say. But Jon and I have found that there are several creative ways to run a household on one income, and the trade off being the one who was able to be here all these years, for every first step, every scraped knee, every tear, every belly laugh, every everything, is a choice I'll never regret.

But when they are gone, who will I be? Sure, I have hobbies and Jon and I still want to travel someday. And Lord knows, I'll have to do something to help with that college tuition. And I even have some buried aspirations and hibernating dreams. I was so young when being Mama overtook my every waking, and every sleeping moment. There are for sure some things left undone.

And I want to grow. I want to become something new. I want this new phase to be a birth and not so much of a death. And I want my kids to be proud of me. I don't want to muddle around in this house waiting for them to visit, guilting them into visiting. I want to fly too. I'm not really sure what that will look like, maybe it won't look like much to the outside world. But I know it's coming...and I'm getting ready, feels like I'm about to jump off a cliff, and I really hope the parachute opens.

Jesus Gave Me Yoga

...for julie

I became a Christian at Calvary Chapel. I was swooned in by the music. My heart softened by the dim lights and the melodic repetition ... He who began a good work in you…He who… began a good work in youuuuu…he’ll be faithful to complete it, he ’ll be faithful to complete it…He who started the work...will be faithful to complete it in you… I know you are humming it now. I can see my friend Lynn up on that stage, her wide teeth-showing smile, the light in her eyes, pointing her long pink fingernail right at my heart and singing …in you!

 I’d plant my bare feet to the floor, wiggle my toes on the carpet, close my eyes and raise my hands, fingers wide, high to the Heavens… Lord, I lift your name on high...Lord, I love to sing your praises… I’m so glad you’re in my life, I’m so glad you came to save us, You came from heaven to earth to show the Way, from the earth to the cross, my debt to pay, from the cross to the grave, from the grave to the sky, Lord I lift your name on high…

Unified with my community of worshipers, the declaration of celebration would begin…

Our God is an awesome God, He reigns from Heaven above, with wisdom, power and love, Our God Is an awesome God!!!

We sing glory, honor…the battle belongs to the Lord…

And I’d drop to my knees, bow my head… No one but you Lord, can satisfy the longing in my heart, nothing I do Lord, can take the place of drawing near to you….cause only you can fill my deepest longing, only you can breathe in me new life, only you can fill my heart with laughter, only you can answer my heart’s cry…and the tears would stream, just as they are now, bathing my soul.

And as my heart rate slowed and I began to breathe deep and calm, my voice lifted from my belly…

In the morning when I rise…in the morning when I rise…in the morning, when I rise…Give me Jesus…Give me Jesus..give me Jesus…you can have all this world…you can have all this world…but give me… Je..eee…sus…

Back then I went to church on Sundays and Wednesdays.  And by Saturday and Tuesday my chest would start to ache for worship. I’d drive to church with joyful and desperate anticipation, knowing God would meet me there and my heart would find rest as the music began. The stark newness of spending time in the healing presence of God was food to my young starved heart.

Give ear to my words, oh Lord… consider my meditation…hearken unto the voice of my cry… my King, and my God… for unto thee will I pray…my voice shalt thou hear in the morning,  oh Lord… in the morning, will I direct my prayer unto thee… and will look up...

I would look up, and the Lord heard my cries and my prayers as I meditated on Him in the morning and in the evening. I would sing… and I would release… and I would hold on to hope with my words, my breath, my mind, my body and my spirit.

And after… I was clean… my heart washed, my mind clear, the ache in my chest replaced by the calming balm of the Holy Spirit…like magic.  

And with that I was able to face another day, tackling the battles of my mind… and winning.

But now that I’m wrinkly… My eyes are dry, my faith is old, my heart is hard, my prayers are cold… And I know how I ought to be…  Alive to you and dead to me… But what can be done for an old heart like mine? Soften it up with oil and wine… the oil is you, your spirit of love… please wash me anew…with the wine of your blood…

But the charismatic faith of my youth has wavered and often I find myself jaded and self- conscious. But life still kicks my ass… and I’m still just, if not more, as desperate for peace and rest and sweet release.

I told this to the Lord recently.

He replied, “Namaste”…well, not audibly, but in that God-leading-me sort of way. 

In yoga practice, communally we start the flow, standing at the top of our mats, we spread our toes wide and ground our bare feet to the earth, the music is soft, the lights are low…I am swooned in. We shut our eyes, hold our hands to our heart’s center in prayer… and we breathe. Inhale deep through the nose, audible exhale out the mouth… and let it go. The air there is 110 degrees and as the beads of sweat drop and pool to the floor, the cleansing begins.

The instructor says in a soft voice, “Set your intention for the class, maybe a word, a focus that is thankful and restorative.”

And I hear, “meditate on whatsoever is lovely and true.” (Philippians 4:8)

Arms overhead, fingers fan wide and a gentle back bend… look up… and open the heart…

…then forward fold, half way lift, crouch and curl, head bows and fingers touch the floor…and my whole body worships.

…Oh come let us worship and bow down; let us kneel before the Lord, our God,our Maker…

Half way lift and rise, biceps to ears for mountain pose…heart to sky, fingers wide… and repeat gentle back bend…

Then she says, “Cast off that which is no longer serving you.”

And I hear, “Forget the former things, do not dwell on the past.” (Isaiah 43:18)

Forward fold, half way lift, crouch and curl, fingers to the earth, bow head…

Breathe here for a moment, in through the nose, out through the nose… and rest.

Rise again, flat back strong, arms wide in a reverse swan dive, lift with your legs and belly engaged, relax the shoulders, arms reach to the sky…mountain pose!

My breath is an ocean, my feet root down to the earth, my hands stretch to the heavens… my muscles are alive… and my body rejoices…and in this moment, I have victory.

Balancing Eagle Pose...

“Remember,” she says, “you are not your pose, listen to your body, honor and bless the body that you are in today.”

My body is God’s temple where the Holy Spirit dwells. (1 Corinthians 3:16)

Left arm under the right for eagle arms, left leg wraps around right to balance…find your Drishti, your still, focal point… so you won’t fall...and squeeze…

You’re here for 3…2…1…now same thing, other side.

“Beautiful job Yogi’s, now shake it off and let it go.”

Down dog, lunge through, rainbow it out, Warrior Two, bend your knee deep into your warrior pose, fierce and strong,  feel the stretch… reverse the warrior, lift your gaze, stand firm…

They will be as a mighty warrior.  (Zechariah 10:5)

Be watchful, stand firm in your faith, be courageous, be strong.  (1Corinthians 16:13)

…I’ll stand with arms high and heart abandoned, in awe of the one who gave it all, I'll stand my soul Lord to you surrendered…all I am is yours…

I’ve exercised before, I know the serotonin rush that comes with a good sweat, but setting your intention for that hour to be honoring to God, to be in His presence, to immerse your whole body ,mind and spirit in a practice that is centering and cleansing and forgiving and excepting… is truly magical.

Jon gets this. He mountain bikes through the hills near our house and he comes home drenched and dirty, with pink cheeks and looking like a boy. He says out there he hears God. When he reaches the top of a long, steep hill, he climbs down from his bike, bends his knees in the dirt and raises his hands to the sky. As he pants for breath and rest, he praises God and His great creation.
 

Now a warning does need to be said. For sure, yoga can deviate into darker places masquerading as light. And I am in no way saying that yoga itself should be worshiped.

You shall have no other God’s before me. (Exodus 20:3)

My friend Julie brings a tiny gold cross and places it at the top of her mat for focus and protection.

And trust me, I have more history with occult activity then I care to recall and after eight hours of deliverance prayer, I am in no position to play with fire. But I do believe Jesus gave me yoga.

I was stuck…stuck between an aging and tired faith and my desperate need for daily renewal. And as only sweet Jesus can do, he gave me a way out.   (1Corinthians 10:13)

…when my heart runs dry, and there’s no song to sing, no holy melody, no words of love within, I recall the height from which, this fragile heart has slipped…And I’ll remember you…I will turn back and do the things I used to do….

My bare feet ground down to the earth…my hands stretch to the sky… gentle back bend and my heart lifts and opens…hands to prayer and I crouch and curl, fingers to the earth, I breathe, I bow my head… and I surrender… I release…

…for the love of Youuuuu…

 Jesus Christ is the same yesterday, today and forever. (Hebrews 13:8)

At the end of class we lay on our backs, arms to our side, palms open and we close our eyes… and in quiet and stillness… we rest.

And then the instructor says, “The highest light in me honors and respects the highest light in you.”

And I hear, “Love one another, for love is of God.” (1 John 1:4)

Namaste, Amen.

 

Jesus Wept

When my baby girl died in my belly, I wept, like hard rain. Christmas came soon after and the babies at church were dressed in red velvet dresses and white tights.

My chest ached heavy.

One of our pastors at the time came up to Jon and said, “Your wife is not exhibiting the joy of the Lord and that’s a sin.” He said that I was not being a good witness for Jesus. I felt ashamed.

Six weeks had passed since I had labored long hours and our tiny Kala Maria had slipped lifelessly from my womb.

Jesus wept.

I got an email the other day from a young missionary girl in Cambodia who sheepishly confessed that she was feeling sad. She said that she knew God had given her a gift of joy but that lately she had been reflecting  on specific times in her life that had been super hard and confusing and painful. She said the Lord had been showing her, that throughout her childhood, she had been taught that no matter what is going on inside, that she should dress it up and make it look beautiful on the outside, so that no one knows. She had been taught there was shame in pain too.

A broken spirit and a contrite heart, these the Lord does not despise. I turn this up loud when Fernando belts it out on my stereo.

“There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens,  a time to be born and a time to die, a time to plant and a time to uproot, a time to kill and a time to heal,  a time to tear down and a time to build, a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance, a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them, a time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing, a time to search and a time to give up, a time to keep and a time to throw away, a time to tear and a time to mend, a time to be silent and a time to speak, a time to love and a time to hate, a time for war and a time for peace.”

Sometimes it’s time to weep. Surely Jesus thought so.

Even though he had the power and intention to restore Lazarus life, he was sad about death and He was sad because his friends were sad.

Strange that I’m thinking about all this now, because I have actually been feeling really happy lately. But I am so acutely aware of the process God has taken to bring me to this hilltop season, the long and grueling battle where clinging to the mane of Aslan was my only hope for survival.  In God’s timing Joy has returned, but not because I chose it…but because it chose me. And it could not be rushed or conjured up.

God decides the time for birth, death, planting, uprooting, killing, healing, tearing down, building, weeping, laughing, mourning, dancing, scattering, gathering, embracing, refraining, searching, giving up, keeping, throwing away, tearing, mending, silence, speaking, loving, hating, war and peace.  God decides.

And experiencing shame, from the roller coaster of emotions that come with these seasons, is from our enemy.

There’s this scene from the movie, The Odd Life of Timothy Green, where Jennifer Garner, and some guy who plays her husband, take their little boy to school for the first time. They’re all nervous and overbearing and checking twice to make sure he has his lunch and then the dad says, “Have a good day son!” Jennifer flashes her golden smile and then says to her husband, “Oh no Honey, don’t say that, it’s too much pressure.” So then the dad yells out quickly, “Have the day you have, son.”

So have the day you have… Jesus’ name will still be The Great I Am.

 

This morning a man called Jasmine a f***ing idiot. He said it twice. "You f***ing idiot!" he said, flapping his arms above his head. "What the hell is wrong with you? You f***ing idiot."

She looked up at me with her big blue eyes as she pulled at the loose skin on her neck.

It was meant for me, but he had looked straight at her.

I was making a right hand turn through a crosswalk, just as he stepped off the curb to cross the street. I had seen him on the corner, but which direction he intended to cross was not clear. And with the morning sun in my eyes, and a steady stream of frantic traffic behind me, I went.

As soon as I saw him, I stopped mid-turn, and waving my hand, mouthed the words,"Oh, sorry." That's when he peered straight at my little girl and said what he said.

I think the most troubling part about it was that he didn't look like a crazy person. He was out for his morning jog, fifty-ish, greying, in an expensive sweatsuit and running shoes.

Maybe I made a bad call, maybe I was just flat out wrong, maybe I even deserved a ticket...

But Jasmine really didn't need that this morning...minding her own business, just hoping she gets a top locker.

"Jasmine, I am so sorry that happened," I said. What a way to start the day, huh?"

"Yeah, and on my second day of Jr. high too!" And then she scrunched up her face and tugged at her neck some more.

How do you explain to an eleven year old that some people are just assholes?

I'm trying to have grace for the guy, clearly he was afraid for his very life, but I'm also kinda hoping I see him again when Jazi isn't with me, so I can simply inform him of his errant ways.

We continued on down the road and listened to Cat Stevens sing out, "Oooh, baby,baby, it's a wild world..."

And then even more people were crazy mean out there, speeding around, cutting each other off, honking their horns...as if 911 never happened.

I remember for months after the planes crashed into the buildings that people seemed to be kinder to each other, at the post office, in the grocery store, even on the roads. I think it was enough for people just to see other people alive.

"It's a harsh world," I told Jaz. "People shouldn't speak to each other that way."

Jazi looked up at me and said, "Mama, you know what I do when something like that happens?"

"What sweetie?" I asked.

"I pray," she says to me. "I pray for myself, that I can forget about it and that I will feel better."

And then she put on her best, almost-twelve, brave face.

But I don't feel better. I hurt that this world can be so ugly.

Ya know those signs that they have in all the home stores lately? The ones that say things like, "Live, love, laugh" or "Be creative?" I kinda hate them. They feel bossy.

But after this morning...I think I might have to paint one up. I'll write something simple like, "Don't scream the F word at children."

And then I'll hang it up on that street corner.

...Sad day that a grown man has to be told this.

Goodbye

When we said good bye to May-May in the corridor of her dorm, she had a belly ache, and a brush fire raged on the mountainside just above the school. She smirked and said, "So Mom, you're just gonna leave me here with a tummy ache in a disaster zone?"

My family finds great amusement in my hyper-vigilant fears.

She squeezed me tight and I watched her blonde ponytail bounce away...down the hall.

Jon and Summer and Jazi and I sat in the parking lot for half and hour and watched the dark plumes of smoke rise from the mountain. Jon searched his smart phone for news on the fire while I breathed in and breathed out.

I fiddled with the purple hospital band on my wrist that read New Student Orientation, a meager safety measure for the flood of people milling about the campus.

Eighteen years ago it had read Cottage Hospital-Hughes-Baby Girl. And my body had churned and cramped and opened and released.

And now as the smoke filled the sky, again my body churned and cramped. And again...I opened... and again...I released.

Even my body knew she was leaving.

Labor had surprised me by how it knew it's way, that the waves of contractions knew when to rise and when to fall, when to press in and when to relieve, as if my body was on auto-pilot and I was merely a passenger.  And that even at the moment of transition, as my mind failed me, my body fought onward, and all that pressure, all that pain...had such holy purpose.

For months I have found myself doubled over in pain, as we've packed up her room...threw out her toys. My heart has ached and my mind has gone mad as I have grieved the child she once was... oh, that funny smile and the curls on her little round head...

And again, I am surprised by holy purpose...the birth of this miraculous young woman... healthy and smart and lovely and strong and funny...oh goodness...she is so funny... and I know this world is a better place because she is in it.

So, where I have been bracing myself for what I thought would feel like death, where the pain seemed violent and pointless, there is now wonder and awe and celebration...and sweet...sweet...new life.