Living in the Tension

The books on my bookshelf are divided into 10 categories:  Political Theory, Current Politics, Biography, Development Theory, Classics, Contemporary Fiction, Christian Fiction, Relationships/Self Help, Christian Living, and Baby Names. I have still more shelves for cookbooks, travel books, Favorite Books, and current devotional books. I find it unsettling when a book doesn't fit obviously into one of my established categories.

I'd like to be able to sort feelings, states of beings, and people the same way. Good feelings on the top shelf; bad feelings hidden behind the Obama-Biden 2008 poster propped on the bottom shelf. This person goes with the other No Good people, while you over here can be filed away with the People Who Are Awesome.

This journey through pregnancy loss has challenged my categories (anybody else find that far too many episodes of the Bachelor/Bachelorette franchise have forever ruined the word "journey?" We may need a better metaphor). I cannot file my emotions into a convenient category. I feel all at once despair and hope and sorrow and joy and doubt and faith and fear and peace. When people ask how I am, "fine" seems the only reasonable answer because how do you describe feeling abandoned and loved at the same time? If there is a word for this state of being - a full life in the emptiest of places - I do not know it.

But here I remain. Both angry and grateful. Both hopeful and despairing. Both-and.

I am having the same trouble lately categorizing people. I'd rather be able to neatly place you into your proper space: Conservative, Liberal, Right, Wrong, Good, Bad, Friends, Enemies, Worthy, Unworthy.

Todd likes to use the phrase "living in the tension" - when we sit in the discomfort of two conflicting thoughts or feelings and refuse to try to rationalize one away or reconcile them dishonestly. Loving people involves living in the tension. Sometimes it's the tension of loving people who don't love each other when it'd be more comfortable to choose sides. Sometimes it's the tension of loving people who make me angry when it'd be easier to walk away. Sometimes it's the tension of loving people who I'm certain are wrong about The Important Things when it'd be more convenient to label them heretical or hopeless. It's even sometimes the tension of loving people who don't love me back.

There is a lot of pressure to create simple black-and-white boxes in which to keep people. Our political and media systems give people a label and expect that one word is enough for us to draw all of our conclusions about their character and ability to lead. You are "Liberal" so you must hate God and America and want to kill babies. You are "Conservative" so you must hate Muslims and progress and want women to sit down and shut up. Unhealthy Christianity does this too - teaching us that we can only love with "conditions and contingencies."

This isn't true.

I can adore both my friend who proudly wears his NRA hat and my friend who writes a blog that calls Mitt Romney an unkind word.

I can love both my recently outed gay friend and our mutual friends who have been cold to him.

I can think that the actions of a friend of mine are pretty heinous and completely opposed to the things I value and can still think that she is sweet, caring, and dear to me.

I get the privilege of loving all of these people, even when it's hard, even when I'm angry, even when it's awkward. My friend tweeted it to me this way: I feel like I have a true license to love. Anyone, anywhere, anytime.

I remember the first time I realized the both-and of relationships. Todd and I had been married for a few months and were in the middle of some over-the-top melodrama that seemed so desperately important at the time and probably wouldn't cause either of us to blink now. I was so angry I could have kicked him in the shins and so, rather wisely for my 22-year-old self, retreated to the bedroom to fold laundry instead. Epiphanies while doing laundry may be rare but it stopped me hard: I could both claw that man's eyes out and I am folding his underwear. This is love. Both-and.

I'm not going to make assumptions about where other people find the strength for both-and love. Here's where I'm finding it right now: in a deep (and new) sense of my own belovedness. I read recently that brokenness is sacred. This feels true. It seems to me that when we are brokenhearted, it's just that much easier for the divine, the holy, the love to get in through the cracks. Rich Mullins wrote a song that says it like this:

Joy and sorrow are this ocean

And in their every ebb and flow

Now the Lord a door has opened

That all hell could never close

Here I'm tested and made worthy

Tossed about but lifted up

In the reckless raging fury

That they call the Love of God

I'm not finding the Love of God to be sentimental or mushy. It feels fierce. It feels (here it is again) both like it might shred me to pieces and is carrying me with enormous tenderness. This incredible sense of divine love for me despite the weight of my imperfections and faithlessness and cowardice is making it that much harder to label people - with their imperfections and faithlessness and cowardice - Unworthy of Love. I think it's time to throw out the categories.

A Lot of Words About Being Quiet

I have never met a personality test that I didn't take and then try to persuade everyone I know to take. It may be deep, unbridled narcissism, or a healthy interest in people, or a gift from my hyperinquisitive mother, but I find pop psychoanalysis fascinating. My long-suffering grad school friends can tell you of nights at The Tombs where we sat at the bar and I illuminated to them one-by-one their personality types and subsequent issues. This weekend I actually emailed someone the words "A 9 with a 1 wing and an SX variant? That is SO you."  (I know. I'm just crying out for a "My name is Kim and I'm a personality test addict" moment.) 

The result of every personality test I take underscores a basic truth about me: I like to talk. The Myers-Briggs says "ENFJs have definite values and opinions which they're able to express clearly and succinctly (maybe not so much the latter). They enjoy being the center of attention." The Enneagram describes Twos as "demonstrative and people-pleasing" with a motivation to "express their feelings for others." The Gary Smalley Personality Inventory characterizes Lions as "demanding, loud, and extroverted." The APEST model explains that the Teacher Shepherd "believes that communicating wisdom and understanding is a way of deeply caring for others."

This weekend was odd for this Type 2-ENFJ-Lion-Teacher Shepherd: I was alone. My hubby, BFF, and mom were all out of town on various adventures and, with the exception of two coffee dates and a trip to church, I spent the weekend alone. (I just know all of the introverts reading this are thinking, you had two coffee dates and went to church over the course of three days and you consider that alone!?) The time alone was a gift, not just for the time to do laundry, and watch movies, and eat the mushrooms and sweet potatoes and blue cheese my husband would never eat, but just to be quiet. To think thoughts and not immediately speak them to someone (I did break down and post a few to Facebook).  I kind of enjoyed sitting with thoughts and quotes and words from other people and not feeling the need to add my two cents or explain what I thought about them. To just let the words be in my head and do what they will there.

The point of this post was merely to share some of the words I'm sitting with and I've now expounded for three paragraphs (I told you).  Regardless, here they are if you'd like to sit with them too.

"It is our job as ministers to 'first acknowledge the presence of God not with those who’ve been healed but with those who are suffering. To be healed in this world is to be abnormal. …Healing is wonderful, but weird; it is to be celebrated but not glorified… To suffer, however, is to be embraced by the crucified God; to hear no answer to your pleas for help is to find community with One crucified. …[W]hen someone suffers without healing, their perceived Godforsakenness is the very thing that assures us that they are with God and God is for them.' And when we hear word of a congregant healed, while giving thanks to God for the healing, our very next thought must be for those whose loved one was not healed." -Andrew Root via Scot McKnight

"You are God of our impossibilities...you have and will preside over those parts of our lives that we imagine to be closed. And we are grateful. At the outset of this day, we place our lives in your strong hands. Before the end of this day, do newness among us in the very places where we are tired in fear, we are exhausted in guilt, we are spent in anxiety. Make all things new, we pray in the new-making name of Jesus." - Walter Brueggemann

"Sometimes I wonder if I had been exposed to those laments earlier in my life, it wouldn’t have hurt so bad when I found myself vomiting up doubt as a twenty-year-old. What if someone had promised me that anger and disappointment and insecurity have always been part of pursuing God?"  - Micha Boyett 

"Nothing could surely convince me of God's unending mercy than the continued existence on earth of the church." - Annie Dillard, Holy the Firm (oh, come on, that's just funny).  

"The Reformation was a time when men when blind, staggering drunk because they had discovered, in the dusty basement of late medievalism, a whole cellarful of fifteen-hundred-year old, two hundred-proof grace - of bottle after bottle of pure distillate of Scripture, one sip of which would convince anyone that God saves us single-handedly. The word of the Gospel - after all those centuries of trying to lift yourself into heaven by worrying about the perfection of your bootstraps - suddenly turned out to be a flat announcement that the saved were home before they started...Grace has to be drunk straight: no water, no ice, and certainly no ginger ale; neither goodness, nor badness, nor the flowers that bloom in the spring of super spirituality could be allowed to enter the case." Brennan Manning, The Ragamuffin Gospel

The Holiest Thing

My friends Lisa, Will, and I are talking about writing a book about what not to say to people experiencing hardship of whatever kind. Chapters include Cancer, Miscarriage/Infertility, Divorce. I want to call the book STFU...Please, but Will and Lisa are holier people than I so I'm sure it will have a nicer title. As a little preview, here are some of my favorite examples of what not to say to a person dealing with pregnancy loss:

There was probably something wrong with the baby; this is nature's way of taking care of things; it's better to have a miscarriage than a disabled child:  Yes, the nurse at my doctor's office honestly said the last one to me. First of all, I know many parents of children with disabilities who would be tempted to punch you in the face for something like that. And second, like my friend Betty said to me just last night, "what about my life or my character has indicated to you that I will only accept perfection in my children?"

Now you have a guardian angel baby (or three): This one gets my friend Beth all worked up because the Bible does not say that people (or fetuses) become angels when they die. I'm less annoyed by the bad theology as I am by the thought that my babies are guarding me. That was my job at which I feel like a miserable failure. Don't remind me please that I couldn't protect my baby. Also, "angel babies," really? Are you trying to kill me with cheese?

There is a reason for everything; this is part of God's plan: I love a good debate about theology, so someday, when I don't feel like curling up on the floor clutching a bottle of Sauv Blanc every moment of the day, let's have a healthy discussion about predestination, free will, God's relation to time and space. It'll be entertaining and educational. Right now, however, it just makes me want to say things like "God's plan sucks," which tends to make nice people uncomfortable.

I miss the old Kim: Someone said this to me five days after I found out I was going to lose this last baby. I realize that grief-stricken Kim is far less entertaining/pleasant/accommodating than regular Kim, but seriously. I don't even have to explain why this is awful. You all know it's awful. Right?

I had ten miscarriages before I had my children: Um, awesome? Look, sharing our stories is so important and has been in so many ways my saving grace through all of this. Women who have been there and are now on the other side holding their children are my heroes and my hope. But I just had my third and sometimes I've felt like it might very well kill me. Seven more times? Are you freaking kidding me?

Let me know if I can help: I'm probably the only person in the world bothered by this. I say it to people all the time. Really, I said it to someone last night. And then to someone else two days before that. I meant it with the sincerest intentions. I really would love to help! Here's the thing. No one has ever taken me up on that offer. There are maybe only four people in the world I'd feel comfortable honestly responding to this kind statement and three of them are related to me. Asking for help is incredibly hard and requires tremendous courage for most of us. Putting the burden on the grieving person to summon the courage to ask seems strange. It's even stranger to show up to someone's house to wash their dishes or whatever, so I don't have the answer except to pray for courage and creativity when I want to help and when I need help.

So now that I've scared you and you're all making vows to never speak to me or any grieving person ever again, I'm going to drop the hard part. The worst, most hurtful thing any one has ever said to me in my grief?

Nothing.


There is nothing more hurtful than saying nothing. These other things that people say, 99.99 percent of the time I roll my eyes or chuckle and file it away for my chapters of our book. Because even if people say the wrong thing, it takes courage to speak. It takes courage and kindness to offer words in the face of grief, even if they are the wrong words. If you've offered me one of these platitudes or found yourself with your foot in your mouth to someone in grief, here's your absolution: you said something. Thank you.

I know how scary it can be to say something. None of us wants to say the wrong thing. After my first miscarriage when I finally learned how hurtful saying nothing is, I was devastated by the memories of all the times I had said nothing. Good friends of mine lost their very nearly full term baby several years ago. I went to the funeral, I sent a card, I cared deeply. But a year later we were sitting with them at a Red Robin and I so badly wanted to ask how they were and I chickened out. I didn't say anything. I let my friends think that I had forgotten their baby. My friend has since offered me gracious forgiveness because the truth is? I didn't know. I didn't know then that asking how they were wasn't going to remind them that their baby was gone. Another friend of mine lost her mom recently. She had people who were hesitant to wish her a happy mother's day (she is a mother herself) because they were afraid they'd remind her that her mom wasn't here. I promise. She remembered.

I read just last week that holiest thing you can say to someone hurting is I am so very sorry. 


May we all learn the courage to speak, the wisdom to speak only the healing things, and the grace to laugh at ourselves and each other when we speak the wrong things.

In Case You Were Wondering

I've attempted to be honest in this space over the last few weeks. I've cleaned up the language a bit (not enough for some of you, I know!) and said some things a little more nicely than I meant them, but otherwise, I've tried to bring the good and the bad into the light here. I don't believe healing often happens in the dark. But it's been bouncing around in the back of my head that this may be the most I've spoken of my faith to some of you and maybe I should explain where I'm coming from here.

Confessing yourself a Christian has different implications, I think, depending on where you sit. My friends who don't consider themselves Christians are mostly tolerant, liberal (in the non-political sense), postmodern people who have friends of all races, religions, creeds, and orientations and, while they may harbor secret concerns about my mental health and pity me for missing Sunday brunch, they have never made me feel shamed or outcast for my beliefs. I've never faced persecution of any kind for my faith. (Soapbox Alert: I'm sorry, but I do not believe many Christians in the United States in the 21st century regularly experience persecution for their faith. Someone saying "Happy Holidays" to you does not count. If you have been persecuted, God says you are blessed, so thank Him and forgive me, please.) The closest I've come to any sort of persecution is when a relative told me a few months ago that I was too smart to buy into this Jesus as God stuff. I think he meant it as a compliment, so thank you?

There are a lot of assumptions people make when you claim to be a Christian. I often feel the need to say I'm a Christian* and then footnote all of the things that does not mean. From Rachel Held Evans' recent record-breaking blog post: 

When asked by The Barna Group what words or phrases best describe Christianity, the top response among Americans ages 16-29 was "antihomosexual." For a staggering 91 percent of non-Christians, this was the first word that came to their mind when asked about the Christian faith. The same was true for 80 percent of young churchgoers. (The next most common negative images?: "judgmental," "hypocritical," and "too involved in politics.")

That statistic horrifies me in the deepest places of my soul. I do not want to wade into the debate about the Christian response to homosexuality here. I only want to say (okay, there is a lot I want to say. I only will say) that I'm sorry and this is not what I mean when I say that I believe the Jesus story.

David Foster Wallace gave the commencement speech at my graduation from Kenyon College in 2005 (read the whole thing here or better yet, spend $5 and buy it on iTunes - it's fantastic.)  In it he said:

Everybody worships. The only choice we get is what to worship. And an outstanding reason for choosing some sort of God or spiritual-type thing to worship - be it J.C. or Allah, be it Yahweh or the Wiccan mother goddess or the Four Noble Truths or some infrangible set of ethical principles - is that pretty much anything else you worship will eat you alive. If you worship money and things - if they are where you tap real meaning in life - then you will never have enough. Never feel you have enough. It's the truth. Worship your own body and beauty and sexual allure and you will always feel ugly, and when time and age start showing, you will die a million deaths before they finally plant you. On one level, we all know this stuff already - it's been codified as myths, proverbs, cliches, bromides, epigrams, parables: the skeleton of every great story. The trick is keeping the truth upfront in daily consciousness. Worship power - you will feel weak and afraid, and you will need ever more power over others to keep the fear at bay. Worship intellect, being seen as smart - you will end up feeling stupid, a fraud, always on the verge of being found out. And so on.

Wallace is right, as I see it. We all worship something. I've chosen to worship Jesus. I was gifted as a child with parts of the Jesus story, and the more I dig in, the more true it seems to me. I cannot prove that Jesus is God or was resurrected from the dead. I am uninterested in apologetics or attempting to defend my faith to you (if you're interested however, there are hundreds of books that try this). I can only tell you my story. I can only tell you that this story, the story of God becoming one of us, of God experiencing humiliation and defeat in a radical act of love for humanity, this story has captivated me.

I believe because it has been my experience that because of Jesus God answers the question we ask in our agony: "where are you?" with the answer: "right here."

I believe because I find it compelling "how at the cross God can gather up all of humanity’s violence and abusive power and even gather up Peter’s own denial of Jesus into God’s own self and then respond with nothing but love and forgiveness" (Nadia Bolz-Weber).

I believe because I offer my dysfunction and deep sense of unworthiness and certainty that I am the center of the universe and am made new by the promise of a love that never fails.

I believe because this God washes my filthy feet and then asks me to wash yours, acts of giving and receiving that are appalling, scandalous, humiliating, and grace.

I believe because I'm crazy in love with the community of loving and imperfect people I find here (when they aren't just plain making me crazy).

I believe that this world is enchanted and find the sparks of love, hope, beauty, and truth that filter through the violence and fear and monotony to be divine.

"I believe because Christ's compassion is addictive" (Micha Boyett).

I believe because Jesus said his command was to "love each other as I have loved you" and that sounds like the truest and loveliest way to live.

I believe because I long for Jesus' declaration of the good news of the kingdom of God to be true: blessed are the poor in spirit. We who are lonely, we who are broken, we drunks, we who abstain piously and judgmentally, we abusers, we who are abused, we power-hungry, we weak, those of us so damaged and desperate we sell ourselves to the highest bidder, we who damage, we liars, we fakes, we hypocrites, we who enslave, we who are enslaved, those of us who are greedy and selfish and comfortable and too apathetic to care about our neighbors: God is for us.

I believe all of this is True.

In case you were wondering, this is what I mean when I call myself a Christian. A special thanks today to those of you who read this blog and consider all of this Jesus talk absolute nonsense and love me so well anyway.

Of Tribes and Faith and Promises

I went to a wedding this weekend. My friends Katie and Dave invited their family and friends - their tribe, if you will - to witness the two of them make some promises to each other. After the sweet ceremony and fabulous party, Becca (best roadtrip buddy ever) and I were discussing a sense I always get at weddings: Katie and Dave weren't the only ones making promises. It seems to me that we, their tribe, were making promises, too. As witnesses to their vows, I think we were promising Katie and Dave that we would remember their words, that we would do whatever we could to help them keep their promise, that we would honor and support their marriage as best we know how.

In the car on the way home yesterday, I was thinking about my own tribe. The first couple years of my marriage were hard and when I forgot what I had promised to Todd and was tempted to throw in the towel, I had people who very lovingly said to me, "Kim, stop being an idiot." By the purest grace of God, Todd and I have been in a wonderful season of marriage for many years now (seriously, have you met Todd Waggoner?! Jackpot.) but it's not impossible to imagine that one or both of us could be tempted to give up again. I don't think we can do this alone. We need people who will hold our hands and walk with us through whatever future hard times await. When I went through my first miscarriage and Todd and I were suddenly trying to love each other through grief for the very first time (not easy, it turns out), a beautiful friend of ours whose marriage had been through unimaginable grief gave Todd some advice that saved us. We cannot (and fortunately, do not) do this alone.  (A quick aside: I feel very strongly about divorce care, but that's a post for another day. But here's the gist: if people in your tribe do choose divorce, love them. Both. Period.)

All this thinking about needing people to walk with us when marriage is hard got me thinking about what we need when faith is hard. Frankly, if it took faith to make my car go, I'd be running on fumes right now.

Some of you will think me naive or foolish for this (that's ok), but I believe I worship a God of impossible things. I have no trouble believing that God could speak a word and my womb would be full of babies (or better yet, my arms would be full of babies). My faith is not shaky when it comes to whether God can give me children - that seems like a fairly easy thing for God to do. I believe God can do impossible things, but I also know that sometimes He doesn't. Sometimes beloved pastors die from ALS. Sometimes the cancer returns. Sometimes families are not healed. Sometimes babies die. I believe that God can, but I know that sometimes He does not. This is where my faith falters. My faith that God will give Todd and me children is thread-bare today. But here is where all of this talk of tribes comes in.

In Mark 2, the writer tells us the story of a paralyzed man who had four friends willing to carry him on a stretcher to Jesus. When this group arrived at the house where Jesus was, it was so crowded they couldn't get near him. So the friends somehow managed to haul their paralyzed friend up to the top of the house, cut a hole in the roof, and lower their friend directly in front of Jesus (cutting to the front of the line, I suppose). Mark 2:4 tells us what happened next: "When Jesus saw their faith, he said to the paralytic: Son, your sins are forgiven" (and then he healed him and the guy got up and walked). Jesus doesn't address the faith of the man in need of healing (maybe the man thought his friends were nuts.) Mark tells us that Jesus was moved to heal by the faith of the man's friends.

Brian McLaren in Naked Spirituality (read this book) puts it this way: "The doctrine of the priesthood of all believers...[is] a call for people of faith to bear to God those without faith and simultaneously to bear God to them."

There will be times (now is one) when it will be hard for me to believe. When my faith will be weak or non-existent. Praise God that I have a tribe that includes many priests, who will believe for me, bearing me to God even if they have to drag me up the side of a house. I know there are people who are doing this for Todd and me right now. Thank you. Please don't stop.

There is a story of three young men who were sentenced to death in a fire for refusing to worship the Babylonian gods. They addressed King Nebuchadnezzar and said, "If we are thrown into the blazing furnace, the God we serve is able to deliver us from it, and He will deliver us from Your Majesty's hand. But even if He does not, we will not serve your gods or worship the image of gold you have set up." (Daniel 3:17-18). They believed that He could and would save them, but they promised that even if He did not, they were going to worship Him anyway.

During my most recent pregnancy, I really did believe that God could answer my prayer and give me a healthy child. But I repeatedly promised that I would praise Him even if He didn't. Despite the trembling and fragility with which I prayed, I did pray, over and over, "I will praise You no matter what. I will praise You no matter what." The day I found out that our baby no longer had a heartbeat, a sweet friend called to cry with me. I shared my prayer with her and admitted that I couldn't do it. I couldn't praise Him. I had no words to declare the goodness of God at that moment. She said one of the most beautiful things I've ever heard: I will praise Him for you. (I'm ugly crying over here right now. So much grace.)

I will praise Him for you. I will believe for you. I will drag your paralyzed body across town in a stretcher, dig a hole in a roof, and somehow, using rope or strips of cloth from my own coat, figure out how to lower you to the ground at Jesus' feet because I know that He will heal you. Thank you, sweet members of my tribe who are bearing me to God and bearing God to me right now.

Updated to include this song my friend Ben just posted in the comments. Exactly:

My Irritating Self

"My heart was broken and my head was just barely inhabitable." (Anne Lamott, Traveling Mercies).  

Yes. This. My head feels barely inhabitable. I find my thoughts and impulses and self to be especially irritating and obnoxious at the moment. An example of my irritating self:

I was driving to work this morning, praying along with Aaron Niequist's latest liturgy (do yourself a favor and discover him). I had no sooner gotten the line confessing the "pride, hypocrisy, and impatience of my life" out of my mouth before I was flashing my lights and grumbling at the driver in front of me who kept braking for indiscernible reasons. Lord, have mercy indeed.

Last night I was feeling especially irreverent. So I turned to my old friend Anne Lamott, who, while being wildly irreverent herself, ends up pointing me back to Jesus (and whose words don't irritate me as much as my own). She writes:

“But you can’t get to any of these truths by sitting in a field smiling beatifically, avoiding your anger and damage and grief. Your anger and damage and grief are the way to the truth. We don’t have much truth to express unless we have gone into those rooms and closets and woods and abysses that we were told not go in to. When we have gone in and looked around for a long while, just breathing and finally taking it in – then we will be able to speak in our own voice and to stay in the present moment. And that moment is home.” 

She also writes, "Hope is not about proving anything. It's about choosing to believe this one thing, that love is bigger than any grim, bleak shit anyone can throw at us."

And, "I felt like my heart had been so thoroughly and irreparably broken that there could be no real joy again, that at best there might eventually be a little contentment. Everyone wanted me to get help and rejoin life, pick up the pieces and move on, and I tried to, I wanted to, but I just had to lie in the mud with my arms wrapped around myself, eyes closed, grieving, until I didn’t have to anymore."

"Sometimes this human stuff is slimy and pathetic...but better to feel it and talk about it and walk through it than to spend a lifetime being silently poisoned."

Anger, damage, and grief. Grim, bleak shit. Slimy, pathetic mud. Yep. I told you I was irritating.

But there's one more:


"You were loved because God loves, period. God loved you, and everyone, not because you believed in certain things, but because you were a mess, and lonely, and His or Her child. God loved you no matter how crazy you felt on the inside, no matter what a fake you were; always, even in your current condition, even before coffee. God loves you crazily...like a slightly overweight auntie, who sees only your marvelousness and need."


Amen.

Sacred Space

"The desire to say nothing, to create sacred space, opens up the most beautiful type of language available - the language of parables, prose and poetry. This is why the mystics would write so extensively about how nothing can be written and would preach beautiful sermons about the futility of words. Without such well-honed words we may begin to think that we have something to say instead of viewing our life as the space out of which God speaks. When we speak into the void, we create lifeless idols; when God speaks into the void, the void teems with life."
-Peter Rollins, How (Not) to Speak to God 

I want my life to be a space out of which God speaks, so, for right now anyway, it feels necessary to just be quiet.

More Than Enough

On my way to church yesterday, in the spirit of asking God for my daily bread, I asked Him for just enough to get through the day. My emotions on Mother's Day were even more raw than I expected and so I prayed for just enough strength, just enough grace, to make it through. Two hours later, I felt Him impress upon my heart: I don't do just enough. It seems to me that I serve a God of abundance, a God of more than enough. And I had so much more than enough this weekend.

Todd and I spent my birthday in a hazy, romantic-comedy montage, enjoying each other and the city and lots and lots of food (seriously, all we were missing was a tandem bike ride - it was that perfect.)

I was overwhelmed with calls and cards and gifts and messages from family and friends, which, whatever their intent, made me feel loved and grateful for my "tribe."

My mom and sister arrived on Saturday with the express purpose of just loving me through an emotional weekend. As my mom kept saying, "there is something sacred in the bonds of women, isn't there?"

I was at church for a brief two hours yesterday morning, and in that time, I was showered with birthday presents from sweet friends, hugs and words of reassurance from people who suspected that the day might be hard for me, a great discussion with my sweet college class students, and understanding when I ducked out before the baby dedications began.

More than enough.

I do not want to be defined by what I don't have. When I'm tempted to let the label "infertile woman" seep into my soul and become my identity, I'll find a way to refuse that garbage. It's more true that I am a woman who is deeply loved. I think that identity fits a little better anyway.

Some pictures of the weekend (mostly food, naturally):
(if you click the little text box on the lower left, the captions appear)
(clicking on the pictures makes them larger too)

To Mothers

I'm hesitant to write anything at all today. It's Mother's Day, and there is much to be celebrated: my mother, my mother-in-law, my stepmother, women who have mothered me, and so many friends with sweet children who add joy to my life. I don't want to take anything away from the celebration today or show up to the party with a dark cloud hanging over my head, totally killing the buzz. Today, like most days, is not about me and I do not intend to make it so.

But I think I'd be remiss if I didn't stop, for just a moment, and acknowledge that today is not an easy day. For me and so many women who long to join the ranks of mothers - to have some precious, sticky kid hand us a card made of construction paper, Elmer's glue, and macaroni noodles. I hold in my heart so many stories of loss and denial, most of them given to me in just the last week or so, by dear women who want children. Today reminds us of what we lack and for just a few seconds, I'd like to say to us: it's okay. It's okay if today hurts.

Community

One by one
every woman I know
approaches me
carrying words

it happened to me
my mother
my sister
my best friend

four times in a row
before the baby came
once, before
I even knew

three times
over six years
and then children
healthy and perfect

just keep breathing
in and out
around the stone
you’ve swallowed

I’ve been there
I am holding you
you won’t feel this way
always

— Rachel Barenblat

Thank you, mothers, for a moment to remember and grieve, even as we celebrate you. And I'll start by taking my sweet mother, who got on a plane yesterday just to squeeze me today, to brunch for a champagne toast to mothers.

God Has Been Faithful - He Will Be Again

Today is my 29th birthday (yay!). It's been a hard year in a lot of ways. But as I've reflected over this year I've realized one important thing this week: I am more certain of God's faithfulness than I was a year ago. I could not be more grateful.

Now if you'll excuse me, I've got a man I'm crazy about, a day off from work, a handful of restaurant reservations, a fancy hotel room, and plans to pick my mother and sister up from the airport tomorrow afternoon - all to celebrate...me. :)

For Wyatt

Yesterday at 3:52 pm, one of my oldest and dearest friends gave birth to her first child, Wyatt Alexander.

My birthday week buddy!  

Wyatt's birth yesterday brought to mind this quote that I posted on Facebook a month or so ago: 

"People with a scarcity mentality tend to see everything in terms of win-lose. There is only so much; and if someone else has it, that means there will be less for me. The more principle-centered we become, the more we develop an abundance mentality, the more we are genuinely happy for the successes, well-being, achievements, recognition, and good fortune of other people. We believe their success adds to rather than detracts from our lives." 

                                                 - Stephen Covey

I have been praying for an abundance mentality since I read this quote, and yesterday God provided. I woke up yesterday morning with the purest sense of anticipation and joy for my friend on the day she was scheduled to meet her son. No envy, no resentment, no "I care, but please don't send me baby photos" attitudes. Let me assure you: this is only because God answered my prayer.

Despite my attempts to deny it at times, I'm human. I can be petty, jealous, vindictive, and mean. I can (and sometimes do) think horrible thoughts about cute pregnant women and their stupid cute babies. Frankly, if you were having a baby shower tomorrow and invited me, I'd probably pretend to be sick. But the miracle of an abundance mentality allows us to rejoice in the happiness of other people, acknowledging that their joy makes our world more joyful. Wyatt's birth, and his parents' good fortune, adds to my life - it doesn't take anything from me. (Besides - I'm fairly certain that there isn't a heavenly baby factory that is in danger of running out of stock any time soon.)

So the day already felt miraculous enough and then something beautiful happened. My friend posted on my Facebook wall that she was required to fast for the 8 hours leading up to her C-section, and she was calling this time the Kim fast. When she was tempted to complain about being hungry or thirsty, she was going to pray for me instead. I'm honestly not sure what to say about that sort of kindness. My friend, who had every reason to be preoccupied with her own joy, chose to share in my sorrow by remembering me as she fasted. This is grace.

As I was verbally processing this whole story with a friend yesterday, I was reminded of Paul's charge in Romans 12:15 to "rejoice with those who rejoice, and mourn with those who mourn." By the grace of God, my friend and I experienced that yesterday: she, mourning for me, and I, rejoicing for her. Like I said, something beautiful happened.

So welcome to the world, Wyatt Alexander. You have already made it a more beautiful place and we rejoice in your life and the future that awaits you.

My Girl Martha

It wasn't 12 hours after I published my post on denial that I found myself neck deep in anger, the next stage of grief. I'm working off the theory that it was writing about denial that got me through denial, so for the sake of the people who live in the line of fire, I'm going to get this post written stat.

In grief theory, anger is the stage where we ask that oh-so-human question: why me? Other common thoughts during the anger phase: This isn't fair. What did I do to deserve this? Who is to blame? How could you possibly chew so damn loud!?  (They don't include that last one in the grief literature but I'm sure it's legit.)

Anger is a tricky emotion for me. I'm afraid of it. I'm afraid of it in other people. It feels unfeminine. I'd prefer my grieving self to sit in a chair in the corner, draped in a black shawl, weeping quiet, dainty tears into a properly-ironed handkerchief. Instead my grieving self looks like a crazy red-faced woman, yelling obscenities at old ladies who DARE to drive 55 mph in the far left lane of 267. Anger is a flattering emotion, isn't it?

Anger also feels ungodly. It's tempting to think (and to assume others are thinking of me):  If you were a good Christian woman, who actually believed what she professed, you would never admit that it feels like God has failed you. If you were grateful for the abundance of blessings you have and aware of the suffering of others, you wouldn't dare to protest "it isn't fair!" Being angry means you don't believe or trust God's plan for your life. What a disgusting pit of lies.

As people in the Bible go, I am particularly fond of Martha, the sister of Mary and Lazarus and friend of Jesus. Mary gets all the credit for being so serene and devoted, but Martha was getting it done! I understand the impulse, my type A sister. (See Luke 10:38-42.)  When their brother Lazarus got sick, Mary and Martha sent word to their friend Jesus, assuming he'd come to heal their brother as he had so many other people. But Jesus delays and doesn't come until Lazarus has been dead four days. Lazarus dies while Jesus takes his sweet time. The Bible doesn't tell us what Martha was feeling when she went out to meet Jesus when he finally showed up. But I can guess. She comes to Jesus and says: "Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died." If you had been here. That's an accusation if I've ever heard one. I think it's probably safe to assume she was angry and hurt and confused. She knew Jesus both loved her brother and had the power to heal him. So where the freak had he been!? But then Martha says something else. She adds, "But I know that even now God will give you whatever you ask." Ahh...there it is. Accusation and faith. Confusion and belief. If you had been here and even now.  "God, you let me down" and "God, you are faithful." Welcome to the paradox of faith, Kimberly.

So let's reject pretense yet again and just go ahead and admit that there are some things that absolutely enrage us. I'll start. Here's what I'm angry about today:

• I'm angry at the existence of all of the cars who join me on my commute home from work - especially the drivers from Maryland (sorry) who wait until the last possible minute to get into the exit lane on the GW parkway and slow down the rest of us.
• I'm angry that life is getting back to normal when I still feel anything but normal. I'm angry at expectations that I'll get more over it as every day passes. I'm angry that grief doesn't work like that and that a week since learning about this loss, I feel more devastated than ever.  
• I'm angry at people I thought I had forgiven and who suddenly I just want to kick in the shins for past and current hurts. Hard.
• I'm angry that my husband lacks the ability to read my mind. I'm angry at myself for expecting him to and then being heinous to him when he doesn't. I'm angry at this anger that makes me mean and unkind and demanding to this man who is just trying to love the crazy person he married.
• I'm angry at my body for failing my babies.
• I'm angry at God. I'm angry that having life literally torn from my body hurts so effing bad, as if my heart feeling shattered isn't enough. I'm angry that child molesters get babies. I'm angry that Todd and I haven't yet, when our babies would be so well-loved (and extremely well-named).
• I'm angry that I feel so guilty for feeling angry.

Is the earth still spinning!? See, that wasn't so scary - we survived! I wish I had words to wrap up this post with something witty and reassuring. I can't find them. I'm angry and I believe. I'm trusting that's good enough for now.

Held by Natalie Grant

 It's 6am, I'm at work, in a lot of physical pain, and thinking "such awful thoughts that I cannot even say them out loud because they would make Jesus want to drink gin straight out of the cat dish." (Thanks, Brooke, for reminding me of this perfectly appropriate quote from St. Anne (Bird by Bird)).  So rather than horrifying you with these awful thoughts, let's just sit here, I'll drink my Diet Coke, we'll cry along with Natalie Grant, and save the words for another day, okay?

I Make No Claims to Emotional Health

There's a popular theory on how people grieve, known as the Kübler-Ross model or the Five Stages of Grief.  The five stages are denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance.   I can feel myself slowly easing into the anger stage, which is appearing so far as irrational irritation at everything that moves, but I think it's fair to say I've been camped out at denial this week. Is it weird to have a favorite stage of grief? Probably, but mine might be denial.  It's just so much less angsty than the other stages.

Denial is the stage where we insist that we're fine or refuse to believe the loss is happening to us.  I freely admit I'm not fine and I am very aware that I have, in fact, lost another pregnancy, but I do still feel a considerable degree of shock and a desire to numb the pain.  Maybe because I've experienced this grief before and know what's coming, I find myself trying frantically to hold back the tidal wave of sadness and anger that I know will sweep over me eventually.  Denial has been manifesting itself in my life this week in two main ways.

• Grief-Eating:  Todd and I are foodies, I admit it. During pregnancy, however, I'm usually a) sick and b) obsessive about not doing anything that might be dangerous to the tiny embryo.  Which means no caffeine, no lunch meat, no hot baths, no sushi or undercooked meat, no standing in front of the microwave (my mother, who gave birth to her children before the age of helicopter parenting even in the womb, thinks this list is crazy and assures me that I turned out fine even though she took hot baths every day and ate tuna salad (the horror!)).  So I confess that to cope with the loss I indulge in small condolences like Diet Coke for breakfast, dinner out every single day, and a glass of wine whenever I feel like it (remember, "hot tea").   This time, however, I'm giving myself a time limit for grief-eating.  My birthday "week" ends this coming Sunday, so that's my deadline.  A friend who is a health coach has offered to work with me to improve my health (and hopefully my fertility) nutritionally, so I better enjoy the toxic chemicals in Diet Coke while I can.  Grief-eat vicariously with me:

Margarita: Habanero-infused tequila,
strawberry, and lime

Goat nachos

Asparagus tacos with beet salsa

Burmese food is a new favorite.  This is Todd's lamb curry.

• Grief-Nesting:  Is this a thing?  The obsessive need to clean and organize my home as a defense against grief is a new one for me (the obsessive need to clean and organize my home at all is a new one for me).  I just had to clean the bathroom almost as soon as I stopped crying Tuesday night. This weekend my beloved husband humored me when I insisted that we clean out the pantry and refrigerator, wash almost all of the clothes we own, and buy a new kitchen rug.  I can't decide if it's the busyness that's helpful to me or the sense of control over something in my life or a driving force to create some sense of beauty and order in my life or just me finally losing my mind.  Either way, this is surely a form of denial, right?  In what feels somewhat healthier, a friend gave me a beautiful hydrangea plant and told me that at this time in my life, it's important to plant something.  Taking her at her word, I spent some time this weekend transforming my little balcony into my own tiny Mediterranean oasis.  I planted some flowers and the best smelling herbs I could find, bought a lemon tree, and found a little blue ceramic bird that spoke to Todd and me the minute we saw it. I'm hopeful that I've created a space to grieve and heal and reflect.  Here's my handiwork (by the way, I know absolutely nothing about gardening.  If I've done this all wrong, please let me maintain my illusions that these plants are actually going to survive).

Basil, rosemary, and dill

My beautiful hydrangeas - thanks, Betty!

My precious little lemon tree

Blue bird

Doesn't that just look like a good spot to heal?

I'm trying something new this time.  I'm not going to feel guilty about how I feel.  For me, at least, miscarriage comes with a heaping pile of stinkin' guilt, shame, and feelings of being defective and broken.  I rebuke that nonsense!  And I rebuke any notions that there's a "right" way to grieve.  I'm going to try to be honest and let the feelings come as they will, but I'm not going to feel guilty if I need to be cleaning the bathtub instead of crying in my bed.  Grief is a process and I'm sure there will be time for both.

Oh, Walter

One of the treasures I've unearthed over the last year is the value of written prayer.  In my darker moments, I struggle to pray anything more articulate than help, why?, seriously?!, or please, please, please. Which is fine, of course.  I believe God hears honest prayers - even when the prayers are just sobs or moans or fists slammed into the steering wheel over and over.  But written prayer allows me to move beyond myself, gives me words I couldn't find, and challenges me to be more honest than is my tendency.  When I can't think of anything much to say to God, reading and praying words other people have written and prayed allows to me connect with the divine in a new way.

I have been praying the Daily Offices and trying to maintain a consistent habit of regular prayer, which challenges me to praise when I feel only like bemoaning my sad affairs.  The Daily Offices are good stuff, but I am really in love with the prayers of Walter Brueggemann (check out Awed to Heaven, Rooted in Earth or Prayers for a Privileged People).  Sometimes I feel like I'm reading something I shouldn't - his prayers are that honest and raw.  I posted this one on Facebook earlier this week, with some trepidation that I'd be called out for blasphemy.  Who am I - a woman living in the wealthiest county in the United States, married to the world's kindest and most wonderful man, surrounded by so much love and privilege - to admit that sometimes I feel like God is holding out on me, short-changing me?  It may be wrong to feel this way, but it doesn't make it less true, and I'm fairly sure God's not fooled by my pretense anyway.

 The Psalms are another collection of someone else's prayers, given, I think, in part, to show us how to pray.  It seems to me from my reading of those texts that there are times for confessing God's goodness whether we feel it or not, for offering our gratitude as best we can, for asking God for tongues to praise Him even when we doubt.  But I also think there are times to admit our secret doubts, to dare to bring them to the light, and to see what happens next.

But Now You Know

You are the one from whom no secret can be hid,

who sees behind all our piety, pretense, and cover-up...
and we are the ones with many secrets,
some shameful, some shocking, some risky...
all of them precious to us.
We begin this day with that acknowledgement before you,
you seeing and knowing us, a perfect match for our hiddenness.
Those secrets - conventionally - are about
having done that which we ought not to have done,
having not done that which we ought to have done.
And there is enough of that for the day.

Just behind that - other secrets more telling and risky
and surely more scandalous:
that behind our ready faith comes impatience with you,
that behind our eager vocation lurks cynicism,
because nothing changes,
that behind our gratitude toward you
is our sense that you are stingy with us,
that behind our much prayer is our sureness about your
absence, indifference, and detachment.
All of that - our deep disappointment in you - is signed
by our fidelity unappreciated,
by alienation all around not swamped by your love,
by loneliness not visited in gestures of communion,
by all the intractable issues of poverty, homelessness, and violence that we take to be your proper business.
We will keep praying - but now you know.
We will keep praying, but wondering, daring to doubt.
We pray in all our Friday candor. Amen.

-Walter Brueggemann

Community and Casseroles

Blogging is weird. It feels a bit like that dream where you show up to high school completely naked.  But an unexpected thing happened after I published my first post yesterday.  My inbox flooded with emails from friends from all over the country, some I haven't spoken with in a decade, sharing their own painful stories about motherhood denied or lost.  One friend wrote that in the handful of women to whom she's told her story, she's "found the warmest community of support and compassion."

This has been my experience as well.  It's a club no one wants to join.  But sometimes when you share your story, you may discover that there are others who have been here before.

I'm reminded (as I often am about pretty much anything) of The West Wing (since it's my blog, I'm going to just go ahead and declare this the best show in the history of the world).  Leo tells Josh this story:

"This guy's walking down the street when he falls in a hole. The walls are so steep he can't get out.  A doctor passes by and the guy shouts up, 'Hey you. Can you help me out?' The doctor writes a prescription, throws it down in the hole and moves on.  Then a priest comes along and the guy shouts up, 'Father, I'm down in this hole can you help me out?' The priest writes out a prayer, throws it down in the hole and moves on. Then a friend walks by, 'Hey, Joe, it's me can you help me out?' And the friend jumps in the hole. Our guy says, 'Are you stupid? Now we're both down here.' The friend says, 'Yeah, but I've been down here before and I know the way out.'"

However you've come to join this community -  infertility, miscarriage, stillbirth, interrupted adoption, or other form of desire unfulfilled - may I offer you a very sorrowful welcome?  What I'd really like to do is come over to your house, wrap you up in the coziest blanket you own, pour you an inappropriately large glass of wine (if wine isn't your thing, please have mercy on us both and substitute "hot tea" wherever I mention it), and just sit.  We could cry, we could laugh at morbid jokes, we could throw mini marshmallows at any cute baby commercials on TV, we could grief-eat Cheez-its and gummy bears by the handful while escaping the pain with apocalyptic movies (2012 works best for me) or soapy British dramas (Downton Abbey, anyone?).  One of my dearest friends in the world did almost exactly all of this for me this week.  How is it possible to feel simultaneously like you are drowning in grief and blessings?

If you have been spared membership in this painful club, but you love someone who has not, may I gently suggest that you consider showing up with a casserole and without cliches?  One of my favorite pastors delivered a sermon last week that she titled "A Sermon on Snacking and the Stupid Things People Say."  Her point as I see it:  Christianity is not some sort of transcendental spirituality that has nothing to do with life.  It's material.  It involves bread and wine and nails and water and blood and cups of coffee and tears and maybe even gummy bears and movies with John Cusack.  (She says it much more eloquently than this though - you should stop reading this and go read it instead.)

Grief feels especially cruel when we have to endure it alone.  Todd and I have been so blessed this week by our community who made their presence known to us through phone calls, and emails, and text messages, and flowers, and plants, and gift certificates, and meals, and wine and cheese, and trips to Target for frivolous beauty products, and the comments on this blog that all say "you are not alone and we won't let you grieve alone."  I hope life spares the people I love grief, but if it doesn't, I pray I've learned through all of this to love the way I've been loved: by showing up at your door with a casserole and a bad end-of-the-world movie.

In Which I Use the Word "Suck" A Lot

There are some things about life that just plain suck:  cancer, traffic in the DC metro area, child abuse, war, election season campaign ads, lack of healthy sanitation in the developing world, burning your tongue on hot food, break ups, people who picket military funerals with "God hates fags" signs, craving Chick-fil-a on Sunday.  These are of unequal weights, sure, but I think we can all agree that they pretty much suck.  Todd and I have been walking through our own sucky experience recently:  three miscarriages in 14 months.  For those of you who can't imagine, let me assure you:  it sucks.

But here's the thing.  For reasons as yet unknown, miscarriage is part of our story.  It doesn't define us, but it is shaping us.   We hope that God is using these miscarriages (and no more!!) to shape us into more compassionate, more whole individuals and ultimately parents, but regardless, this is our story and it's time to own it.

Miscarriage is an awkward topic to bring up with friends at happy hour (ask my friends, it's awkward).  The silence surrounding this issue is strange to me given how common an experience miscarriage actually is.  According to the Cleveland Clinic, one out of every five recognized pregnancies ends in miscarriage.  Twenty percent!  Which means there is a substantial population of women (and their partners) walking around with this crushing pain - and mostly not talking about it. 

I'm no writer, and Todd is the phenomenally gifted public speaker in our family, but I feel compelled to tell this story.  God is doing something here.  And I'd like to be a faithful witness to His work in our lives.  Most people reading this are probably already aware of what's been going on, because I'm not a particularly private person (that's a polite way of saying I lack boundaries) and I'm not all that inhibited about taboo subjects (my master's thesis contained the word "diarrhea" - a lot). But in case you aren't, here's how it's happened:

March 2011:  First miscarriage at 11 weeks
October 2011:  Second miscarriage at 6.5 weeks
May 2012:  Third miscarriage at 9 weeks

So far, we have no medical answers for why this keeps happening.  The doctor's response this week: "sometimes lightning strikes three times" (to which I call b.s.  Does that really happen?  Meteorology nerds weigh in).  We have no answers, but we do have some truths - many that we are more sure of than we were a year ago.  I hope to use this space to wrestle with those truths, discover more, share what we're learning, and grieve well.  It seems clear to me that we learn our best and truest lessons in pain - and I really don't want to miss any.