Woman of Valor

I put the book down and cried. I had spent a delightful amount of a long weekend, cuddled up in my oversized yellow chair, wrapped in a quilt, devouring Rachel Held Evans' A Year of Biblical Womanhood. I read most of the book laughing or rushing to post quotes to Facebook, so I was a bit surprised by the tears leaking out as I finished it. I think they were tears of gratitude. I tweeted the author my thanks.

She gave me the gift of a new understanding of Proverbs 31. Entire women's ministries have been built around this one chapter of the Bible. It's a poem about a superwoman. She rises early and works through the night. She manages her home, runs several businesses, volunteers with charities, and is praised by her husband and children. She annoys me. Somehow she's become a standard for women, a measure by which we always fall short. And yet in modern Orthodox Judaism, it is men who memorize this chapter not women. They memorize it so they can sing it to their wives. It's not a standard by which women are to judge themselves. It's an anthem by which men are to praise their wives. The "wife of noble character" depicted here is more accurately translated "woman of valor" (eshet chayil in Hebrew). Valor - a military term, meaning boldness, courage, strength, intestinal fortitude, heart, backbone, moxie, guts.

I haven't felt like a woman of valor lately.

Though he didn't say the words exactly, I heard someone say to me, "you can't be intelligent on matters of faith and theology - you're a woman." And the persistent drumbeat in my head began: you are too much. Quiet down. 

In a moment this week that could have been a chance for graciousness and praise, I came face-to-face instead with the real contents of my heart: a lack of mercy and the ugly, rotting stench of unforgiveness. And the beat goes on: you are not enough. Not merciful enough. Not good enough. Not strong enough.

The depth of my desire for kids has been reduced to groaned prayers as eloquent as "babies. please babies."  And yet every month when the news that I'm not pregnant arrives, a piece of my heart exhales with relief. One more month to delay the consuming panic that accompanies every twinge and pang. One more month before another test of my faith and my stamina and my intestinal fortitude. One more month before I have to face the question: do I have what it takes? Am I enough this time? And then the guilt, oh, that ever and always present companion of women everywhere. Too much and not enough.

I am having trouble praying lately. Too antsy to sit still long enough. Too full to know where to begin. Too quick to assume that God is annoyed with me anyway. My sweet patron saint Anne put it like this on Facebook last week:

God isn't stalking around bitterly, muttering about how I've stepped away from the

heart cave where I can be with/feel/share with/hear from God. S/He isn't grousing, "Boy, I'm tired of that stupid narcissistic Annie Lamott. She makes me 

sick." I think He or She is thinking, "Poor Princess Tushy. Coming to be with me ONLY in between games of mental pinball: Amazon sales figures, candy corn, obsessively reading about Karl, Grover, and Peggy Noonan...." I think God gently rolls God's eyes, like I do when my grandson is fixated on a broken mini-transformer and how his life is ruined, and why he can't have gummy bears when he wants, plus why he SERIOUSLY will not take a nap, and is, as he says, "Soooo mod. I just sooo mod at you, Nana. No nap!"

That's me, I guess. Fixated on all the broken mini-transformers and certain my life is ruined when I probably just need a nap.

So what to do about it?

I'm having a sort of love affair with the Eucharist these days. Jonathan Martin tweeted a few weeks ago that while a time of worship and a sermon are good and have their place, it is the bread and the cup that compel us to come. It's the body broken and the blood poured out that transform. Communion has been a sweet time for me lately, usually a time for introspection and gratitude. This past Sunday, I couldn't muster the courage for introspection. I didn't feel a lot of gratitude. All I felt was desperation. So I stumbled fast out of my row, grabbed the elements, and just consumed. It didn't feel particularly holy. It may have been wrong. But it was honest-to-God desperation for what truly sustains and satisfies. If I thought it would have helped, I would have buried my face in the tray of crackers and poured the tiny cups of grape juice over my head.

And I stood in the shower yesterday. Home alone and desperate still. Not nearly serene enough for silent, contemplative prayers. So I just started talking. I'm not enough. I don't have what it takes. I'm too much. I don't have anything to give. Help me, help me, help me.

My phone chirped. I finally forced myself out of the stream of hot water, unsatisfied with the time of prayer, if you can even call it that. And on my phone, a response tweet from Rachel, the author of the book:

"Eshet Chayil!"

Woman of valor.

Neither too much nor not enough. Woman of valor.

What to do about it? Let's start with changing the drumbeats.

I am working to provide money for my family: woman of valor.

I chopped vegetables for a salad for my lunch today when I wanted to just go to bed: woman of valor.

I offered a friend an hour and a glass of wine when I didn't feel I had anything to give and left feeling like I had gained everything: woman of valor.

I spoke the truth a little too vehemently and shaking all the while, but I spoke it anyway: woman of valor.

I keep trying for a baby, daring to hope, risking my heart again: woman of valor.

I will keep praying when the sky feels like lead and I will keep desperately consuming the body and blood of my Savior because where else would I go: woman of valor.

Valor: boldness, courage, strength, intestinal fortitude, heart, backbone, moxie, guts. 

Eshet Chayil!