The Battle

“You intended to harm me, but God intended it for good to accomplish what is now being done, the saving of many lives.” --Genesis 50:20

Sometimes the battle between good and evil feels so strong it is almost incapaci-
tating. Is that the goal of evil--
to incapacitate?

There is so much to consider in each seemingly small verse like the one above. I understand that the brothers (the "you") intended to harm Joseph in this story. They are human. But where I get hung up is God’s place in the whole scene. Did God “intend” for Joseph to suffer all those years so that many could be saved? The thought of imposed suffering for the good of others leaves me cold. It is a topic I have been wrestling with of late.

My last week was filled with an array of emotions and powerful experiences. I watched transformation of souls occur before my very eyes. I experienced it for myself. I felt the power of God in nature and witnessed it in the rain, wind and hail. I saw eagles soar and light shine on trees like something in a painting. Miracles were all around. And, I could sense a battle to stop this good from happening.

Does the heat get turned up when God’s work is being done? Who turns up the heat? God? Satan? The Universe? Me? Many questions bounce through my mind for which I have no answers. I feel like I could try to ignore them and hope they go away or I could become absorbed with them and thus paralyzed from moving forward.

The balance for me is in being aware and willing to wrestle with the thoughts. Even making a small start and putting a few words on paper brings me hope. Not that I will necessarily come up with the answers, but that I will continue to move, to choose life, to reach for the light rather than become absorbed by darkness.

I choose to wrestle. How about you? What does your wrestling look like today?

photo by bill

Connected...Yes? No? Maybe?

“What she is dismantling is the woman who was once asleep in her relationships, her religion, her career, and her inner life, the woman who never questioned any of it but blindly followed prevailing ideas and dictates. She is the woman severed from her own true instinct and creativity.” from Dance of the Dissident Daughter by Sue Monk Kidd

Whenever I feel the pull of two seemingly unrelated things, I must begin to wonder how and if they are connected. The predominant pull for me lately has been toward a greater understanding of what it means to be a woman and more specifically a woman of God. I have been reading Sue Monk Kidd’s, The Dance of the Dissident Daughter which is her own personal journey from a traditional Christian background toward the Sacred Feminine.

The second topic that keeps popping up for me is that of grief and maybe more accurately “unresolved grief.” Mind Sieve had a provocative post talking about shielding grief for a child and how it moves with us into adulthood. Yesterday at a counseling session, my therapist asked me, “How much have you really grieved?” I wanted to say, “Lots” which is probably accurate, but then I must follow with “Is that enough?” “Enough” does not seem like the appropriate response, because it feels like however I grieve today will be different rather than just more of the same.

And then this morning, Christine’s post spoke of “a fear of darkness in our culture – a denial of death and a resistance to the work of grief.” So as I pondered that post, the thought of unresolved grief and my new awareness of the sacred feminine collided. At first glance I would call the two unrelated. Given a moment to think, however, my answer seems different.

For a few years now I have grieved for a little girl (me) who felt silenced throughout her life. Consequently, I have begun to connect with the woman (me again) who feels alive and vibrant in her own skin. As journeys go, however, the path must continue forward. And thus today, I believe I am being called to consider more deeply the missing pieces. It may include a visit into the darker sides of life, but it feels like light will greet me along the way like sunrays filtering through the heavy forest.

What path are you being called to follow during this changing of the seasons?

photo by lucy

I Choose Life

Words from my journal--June, 2005:

I would love to spend another night out here and I realize/I KNOW that it would not be the same without the day. We need both--the bitter and the sweet (the dark and the light). When we have gone to hell and seen it, felt it, lived it--life is much sweeter just as the night's cool and calm contrasts to the heat and chaos of the day. Both/And. The whole package.

They will come in gradations but we need both. The fears will keep me running and reaching for life, lest I ever take life for granted. The bitter and the sweet. The swing of the pendulum. I may never know how far it needs to go to the dark side and often I don't have a choice especially where circumstances are out of my control. But, I can choose for myself how and where I go.

Will I covet and grovel in the pain and fear and anger and self-pity, etc. as I did yesterday? Or will I patiently wait and trust that the cool of the night will come? The heat is turning up as the sun is rising. How will I choose to stay cool?

I Choose Life!

Mystery and Mastery

A question is mulling around in my mind. It is a question of movement and waiting—of mystery and mastery. I ponder; can there be movement in waiting? A sigh. A breath. A tear. The rise and fall of the chest. The twinkle in an eye. For I believe waiting does not mean ceasing to live. It is, in my reality, living more deeply and intentionally.

“Wait here,” a mother says to her child. The child can either hold his breath and try to remain perfectly still, living in fear. Or he can begin to examine the world around him--the ant on the ground, a bee tasting sweet nectar or the wind rustling through the trees. In this waiting, this examination of mystery, is he not living more fully and mastering life?

Waiting for the birth of a child, the coming of a Savior, the easing of a pain. Waiting does not mean becoming frozen or comatose. It can be just the opposite. A heightening of awareness. Feeling the very structure of your being—the beams and concrete of your soul; the bare branches of your nakedness; the child inside the mother’s womb.

This living into the mystery is the mastery of life. It is appreciating each moment instead of worrying or analyzing what it will mean later, or like the compliant child, waiting and holding his breath until the very life goes out of him.

So breathe, feel your heart, listen to the rhythm of the earth. The axis has shifted slightly and the light will grow stronger day by day. Remember that without the dark of night, a star cannot shine. So wait. Wait intentionally; not for mastery but for the sake of mystery and all it has to offer.

We cannot see the wind except when it blows through the trees. From where does the rain begin? Was the earth created in seven 24-hour days or billions of years? Mystery. We can move toward mastery, but it is in the movement that life happens. It is the dash on our tombstone—what happens between the day we burst forth from the womb and our final earthly breath. It is movement as subtle as listening to your own heart beat or watching an ant crawl on the ground. And, it is movement as great as facing your deepest fears or having the courage to wait patiently in the darkness.

photo by bill hughlett

Belly of the Whale

Inside the belly of the whale, it is dark. Today is the winter solstice, the shortest day of the year in the Northern Hemisphere. For a season, this season, I am being called to let the tears wash over me, to wail, to cry out and let the pain envelope and comfort me. Happiness will not suffice for now. Joy seems so distant, so far away. Sorrow—its mirror image—hangs closely round my heart and soul.

I must learn a new way to comfort myself, and the way does not involve putting on a smile and taking care of everyone around me. How can I suffer—exist—live in the dark night of the soul when all around me are hollow words of "Merry Christmas" and "Happy Holidays"? “Cheer up,” well-meaning friends say. “Get over it,” I tell myself. Easy to say, but I don’t even know what “it” is. I see fear in the eyes of my loved ones. They worry that I am not happy. “You’re not yourself these days,” they say. “I hope you come back soon.” But, I have not gone anywhere. This is me—all I am able to offer—right here and right now. Maybe it is not all of me for it is more of the sorrowful side—some would say the dark side. And, just as I have been known to burst with joy, for now I am bursting with sorrow. I am learning that both are essential for the fullness I desire.

Give your burdens to the earth—the strength of the mountains—the vastness of the sea—God—only these can carry the weight of my burdens. I am called to lay face down on the ground as the Muslims do, connecting my head with the earth. Feeling the solidity beneath me. It is holy ground.

Belly of the whale. It is dark inside here and even as I release myself to the darkness, I begin to feel lighter. A twinkling light. There must be great darkness for the tiniest light to shine. Wait. Just wait. It is the reminder I have heard throughout this advent season. Wait.

“When you are in the belly of the whale, let go, detach yourself, let the pain carry you where it needs to take you, don’t resist, rather weep, wail, cry and put your mouth to the dust, and wait.” Ron Rolheiser