The Ache

Stumbling through the winter woods at dusk
Is the perfect grounds for a spiritual meeting.
Dusk is the in-between of day and night and this weather--
The constant shifting of lukewarm to cold to lukewarm again.
And so I find myself here, too, always shifting--
Oscillating between celebration and lament and despair and hope and 
All states in-between as I feel
The vastness of the world around me and my own experience. 

And I open myself to truly feel what I have been suppressing and 
Hiding away in little compartments within me that allow me to convince myself that
Everything is going super well and I am doing super well and everything is super well
When in actuality I feel an aching so intense it is steeped into my bones and pores and 
I don't know how to get it out. 

An ache.

An ache to be intimately seen. To be intimately known. To be intimately understood.

Is this the ache of loneliness? Or is this just an ache that's reflective of all of humanity? An ache that's reflective of a creation groaning, awaiting that which will satisfy the deepest longings. An ache that awaits the Messiah's return where all of creation will be rejoined in intimate communion with the Creator. 

I am a creation groaning. 

I am a creation groaning.

My breath a fragile prayer as I walk the crisp path--
Stumbling, searching, aching.
Aching.
Aching.
And I cry out "My God!" because it's all I know how to do 
When the ache is all too much and I find myself 
Nearing the end
Or at the end
It's all the same when you're there
In a state of embodied desperation
Ache.

It's sound tickled my ears before I could see it, and
My head jolted up from the path, trying to locate the sound.
Something about this sound was touching the deep ache--
The ache of loneliness, of not feeling known.
It was a steady stream of soprano, and I yearned to see it.

I know not why you speak to me in the water, only that you do.
And this time was no different as I stared at the small trickle of water
And my heart breaks and I begin to weep and sob 
Because in the trickle I know that  
You see me and that you know me and that you understand me
And that you know the cadence of my heartbeat
More intimately than anyone
And always will.

A sweet phrase through the tears said aloud, "You're my friend."
A phrase so simple and yet so profound.
A knowing that you care.
That you see.
That you know.

*  *  *

I am a creation groaning,
But you always give manna to sustain.

Kaleidoscope

What is life if not an unfolding?
A kaleidoscope that molds and shifts in its turning
Seasons in an ebb and flow
The great and slow unfolding. 

*  *  *

You ask me what I want and I say healing.

Recognize pain in yourself, and step towards the healing.

In our naked souls lies the possibility of restoration or destruction.

Trust is the lynchpin that holds the possibility in tandem.

*  *  *

I crafted a song for us. For the ten girls in front of me sitting cross legged on my living room carpet.

For myself.

"You are beautiful. You are beautiful. You are radiant like the stars."

I sing to them intently as I strum the guitar, each word a prayer that they would always know their intrinsic value and the stamp of God on each of them.  A prayer of intercession that anything or anyone that would lead them to believe that their value comes outside of themselves would be eliminated.

Together we sing.

"I am beautiful. I am beautiful. I am radiant like the stars."

I see their faces shy, each maybe claiming their beauty for the first time. We grow up in a world where the beauty of a woman and girl is a value perceived to be given rather than claimed.

"We are beautiful. We are beautiful. We are radiant like the stars."

In singing we remind one another of this--of our beauty. We stand strong and firm together, walking boldly into tomorrow.

I do not know what the girls see as they look at me, but I know that in singing I sing not only to them, but to me. 

I sing to my healing process 13 years in the making, since I first began to question "Am I beautiful?"

(I was really asking, "Am I valuable?")


*  *  *

I sit across from the sisters in the convent, slowly eating my bowl of soup
These in-between spaces are fascinating to me
Psych wards, convents--it's all the same
I am but dust and to dust I will return
There is beauty in the cycles of life
Healing comes in the awakening
Prayer the recentering, the recalibrating
The space where you whisper "I AM WHO I AM."
And in response I fall back in a sweet surrender of awe.

Abba.
Sweet love. 
Thank you.

Sometimes

Sometimes
I feel like the women in the early church
Asking questions with repetition
Not out of a desire to interrupt the flow of the gathering
But because they wanted to learn
About this Rabbi
About this Teacher
About this Good News

And I feel often that in spaces I am
Asking questions with repetition
Not out of a desire to interrupt the flow of the gathering
But because I want to learn
About this Rabbi
About this Teacher
About this Good News
About this Truth which sets the oppressed free
About this Truth which heals

And I want to learn
And I want to grow
And I hunger and thirst from the depths of my being
To know this Truth in the most intimate of ways
To know this Truth as the fire in my bones
To know this Truth as a lover knows lover

And for years I have had the questions in my bones
But believed that the questions were not mine for the asking
And so I supressed them and chose silence
Because silence was comfortable
But now the questions are boiling out of my bones
And I cannot be silent any longer

And my questions are a worship
And my unabashed laughter a love song
To my Rabbi who looked up from washing my feet into my teary eyes
As I finally understood that this Teacher would wash my feet, too
That I was a disciple, too
That I had gifts to offer to the Church, too
And as I looked into this Teacher's healing eyes
I asked for the washing of not only my feet but my hands and my face and my breasts
And I wept because for the first time I knew that I was free
And I wept because for the first time I knew that I was free
And I wept because for the first time I knew that I was free
Because for the first time I knew that this Teacher chose
Not only men but Me
 
I am the women in the early church
Asking questions with repetition
Not out of a desire to interrupt the flow of the gathering
But because they wanted to learn
About this Rabbi
About this Teacher
About this Good News
As they responded to this "Come, follow me."

The Late Night Gift of the Mediterranean Market

I feel compelled to share this story. 

This evening I opened up space to go with the flow and simply be with God in whatever way that manifested itself. I found myself aimlessly driving through Cuyahoga Valley National Park, the hills and vast expanses of sky serenading and recalibrating my spirit. 

As I began meandering back to Akron, I was open to whatever was to be. I felt that there was a sweet gift I was to receive, and I opened my eyes to look around me anticipating that when I saw it, I would know. Much time passed, but soon I saw it and knew it was the gift. I pulled into the parking lot and laughed boisterously in delight, so excited for the continuation of this sweet time with God. 

I was in the parking lot of a Mediterranean grocery store in the Falls. Arabic lined the windows in big bold script, and an OPEN sign flashed next to the door. I found myself laughing in delight once again--this was such a gift. I have a deep deep value for culture, and value being intentional in surrounding myself not with my culture of origin. I value spaces like these, these little cultural enclave grocery stores, markets, and restaurants. I value these spaces because I want Akron to be a safe space for all. I value these spaces because I want Akron to be a space of flourishing and celebration of all. I value these spaces because my life is enriched by them as I enter in a posture of humility and learning--I learn much about the world and myself from entering these spaces and relationships. 

God knows this about me, and speaks to me in cross-cultural situations, spaces, places, and relationships. It made sense that the way we would end the evening would be here. 

I walked up to the mart in the plaza, and opened the door, my aura peaceful and rested. I am always cautious when I am entering spaces where I am not familiar with the culture. I want to communicate respect, honor, and celebration in these sacred spaces. I began walking through the aisles, looking at the spices--cardamom being the only one I can remember. Soon I was looking at olives, cans of hummus, the Arabic script rich and bold and beautiful. I wondered about Arabic, and if that was a language or a language group, and where Farsi fit into that. I thought of my friend Phoebe who taught me much about the Middle East, and who was the first to introduce me to Mediterranean cuisine. I thought about how much she would love this space. 

I share this entire story to share about one moment. I was rounding the corner from the coffee and teas when I looked up and suddenly she was looking right into my eyes and I into hers. I felt bashful at the moment, like she saw right through me and knew that I didn't really know a lot about what was around me. What struck me, though, was how she was looking at me. Usually when I'm in these spaces I get questioning looks, whether I'm in the Asian market, the Mexican grocery store, the Korean restaurant, or the hole in the wall Asia mart on Brown St. I expect the questioning looks--people want to know why I'm there. This look was different, though. She was looking at me incredibly caught off guard, a deer in headlight look.

I broke into a smile and a small giggle at her, fascinated by her. All at once I saw the tension leave her shoulders in a sigh and she smiled bashfully back at me. 

"Hi," we both said, smiling. We walked by one another and the moment was over, but I found myself being bothered by our initial meeting. I rounded the corner and we were once again in the same aisle. I didn't understand why, but I felt the need to connect with her on a commonality. I felt the need to communicate to her that I wasn't afraid of her, but instead found her to be radiant. A car alarm went off outside and I shyly said "Oops...car alarms." She looked at me and smiled as the alarm suddenly stopped and said, "They got the door."

It was a simple interaction, but I felt at peace about it and saw that she saw in my intentionality to connect. Soon I was alone in the aisle and she was at the counter, talking and laughing with the employees in a beautiful mixture of what I assumed was Arabic and snippets of English. I marveled at the sounds that were newer to my ears, and found myself aching for this woman I just met. 

Why did I feel the need to communicate to her that I wasn't afraid of her? I recognized that I was responding to that initial deer in headlight look from her where it became clear that she was waiting on me to respond to her presence. All at once I became aware of the situation on a social level. I, a white woman, may have felt fearful of her presence as a Muslim woman. The hijab, a part of religious devotion, may have been interpreted by me through a lens of fear. I never once felt afraid of this woman, but I saw her brace herself for me to essentially reject her presence in fear and hate. 

I don't keep up much with current events, but I know there has been sheer hate and irrational fear directed towards Muslims, and I know that Islamophobia is a real evil (here's what it looks like in action). I know it is evil, because I saw it's ramifications in the eyes of my new friend as she set her eyes on me, a white person. I saw her shut down to cope. I wonder about the interactions she has to work through on a day to day basis in Akron. I have nothing but assumptions but I wonder if she deals with stares and fear from strangers on a daily basis. I think about how draining that would be to have to be on guard everywhere you go, to feel threatened and afraid. I finish up my time in the Mediterranean food mart, laughing with the store clerks and learning more about the store. Between the clerks and the others in the store, there is a deep sense of family and community and safety. They are sweet to me. I am grateful.

I hear us as a nation saying we're the land of the free, but I hardly believe that we are the land of the free. If all in this nation were truly free to be their full and true selves, our nation would look entirely different. It would look different in that my Muslim sister would never have felt that she was threatened by my presence because to her I look like fear and hate (because maybe people who look like me interact with her in fear and hate). It would look different in that the statement #blacklivesmatter would never need to be proclaimed, because it's a truth that we embody as a nation interpersonally, collectively, and communally. It would look different in that each and every individual would know that this nation not only is a cultural safe space, but a space of cultural flourishing--a space where the image of God is acknowledged in everyone's personhood. I yearn for that in our nation. I yearn for us to indeed be the land of the free and flourishing because I believe that is how Jesus would lead a kingdom or nation.

Although I don't see how the United States is home of the free, I must admit that God has invited me to see through time and teachings--through the stories of and relationships with people of color, immigrants, refugees, Muslims--that this is indeed the home of the brave. 


Edit: As I read over this post, I'm concerned I became too wordy and in that process am not communicating what I felt compelled to share in the first place which is that this evening I saw first hand Islamophobia's psychological effects on real people. Islamophobia is not love, and it's evil is harming an entire population of people. If you're reading this and you know you experience fear (or even hate) in the presence of Muslims (or anyone that you perceive in that "other" category), why do you feel/think that is? What do you believe love looks like in the face of fear/hate? If you desire to be a person of love, how can you step towards this? How can we humanize, not demonize?

A Day in the Life

“Do you have a rice cooker you could bring over?” I’m on the phone with my 15-year-old neighbor Julie as I walk through the aisles of the grocery store looking for curry powder.

“Yeah we do. I’ll check with my mom and see if it’s okay!” she replies.

I grab the curry powder. It’s $4.99—unexpectedly high.

“Sweet. If not it’s totally cool it would just be a huge help tonight. I’ll be home in 15 minutes; come on over then!”

We hang up and I fumble through the remaining aisles finding the ingredients that I couldn’t get in the grocery store in our Summit Lake neighborhood. Standing in line, I’m hit with a wave of fatigue—what a day to be battling a sinus infection. The rest of the day I had been taking it easy, but it seems like now I’d have to kick the adrenaline up a notch. Our South Street Ministries AfterSchool volunteer celebration dinner is less than two hours away and I’m hosting at the Long Street house. This is no time to be consumed by fatigue.

I’m finally pulling into my driveway and Julie is coming around the porch with a rice cooker nestled in her arm. Though I’m tired, I find myself genuinely smiling at her. I’m excited to spend time cooking together. We walk in and find a handful of kids hanging around the common spaces—they needed help with their homework and didn’t realize AfterSchool was over for the holidays so they came to our house. I giggle as I haul the grocery bags to the kitchen; something about that strikes me as beautiful. I can’t quite name it in the moment.

Julie and I look at the recipes to get started for the AfterSchool volunteer celebration dinner. She asks me what is on the menu, and I just laugh—the menu was a typical Amber moment. In my stubbornness to constantly immerse myself (and others) into new cultural experiences, we ended up with a Fijian/Hawaiian/Chinese/Southern/potentially Indian infused cuisine experience. I didn’t realize until all the ingredients were on the table that the menu in all ways looked and felt entirely ridiculous and random. We were in for an eclectic and delightful meal celebration. 

“This is how you tell if you have enough water for the rice without using the cup.” Julie shows me how to measure with my finger, and I nod and take note. As I’m listening to her the kids are filling the common spaces with drums and percussion instruments, pianos and laughter. I giggle and my heart is full. I am in my home, cooking a feast alongside my neighbor and friend, and kids are doing homework and playing the drums, and my heart is full.

Soon Zeze comes into the kitchen and wants to help. I look at her face, so curious and eager to learn. I set her up in helping create the salad by cutting lettuce, celery, carrots. Young Shawn wants to help, too, so we set him up in peeling carrots. They both go to AfterSchool, and deep inside I find beauty in how they’re helping make the meal that will be served to volunteers who have extended their time to serve them. They’re so excited to be of help, Shawn asking if he’s shredding the carrots right and Zeze chopping lettuce confident and sure on the counter top.

Ava’s head pops into the kitchen: “Can I help in any way?” I glance at the clock and see that we’ve got five minutes until the event starts and soon set her up with dicing cilantro and scallions. I had been adamant that AfterSchool volunteers not help but only receive during this celebration, but with five minutes to go I throw that rule out of the window and welcome any help. Many hands enter during this time—volunteers, kids, staff—as everyone pulls together the final preparations for the meal.

We’re standing in a circle, kids, staff members, and volunteers alike, and we pray to open the feast of celebration and thanksgiving. Upon hearing the “Amen,” I raise my eyes to the small group. “So…we’ve got quite the meal ahead of us. We’ve got edamame with Thai sweet chili sauce as an appetizer, or pupu. There’s gifted bread from Panera, and a light Chinese salad with rice noodles. We’ve got rice as a base, and glazed chicken curry and Fijian beef stew as main courses. Betsy has gifted a cheesecake dessert. We’ve got sparkling white and red grape juices to drink, and water with sliced oranges. Eat up, friends. Let’s celebrate.”

*  *  *

An hour later, I find myself standing in the corner at the end of the night, taking it all in. I find myself thinking about our eclectic, culturally sporadic meal, and how it didn’t make much sense together, but it was good. Looking around at the laughing faces and conversation, I come to a realization that this was the perfect kind meal for this group—a group that is sporadic, coming from many different places, but comes together and it is good.

“Happy Birthday to you

Happy Birthday to you

Happy Birthday dear Bob

Happy Birthday to you.”

We’re laughing because the ceiling fan blew out the candles but Bob is rolling with the punches and is laughing, red in the face and caught so off guard. We’re celebrating one another, we’re celebrating Bob, we’re celebrating the kids, we’re celebrating a semester of AfterSchool—we’re just celebrating. After a semester of AfterSchool that during some days was difficult, to celebrate together was a gift.

Sometimes I’m struck with the richness of life. Today was one of those days. On the outside it was so simple—a cooked meal, a shared meal. But on the inside it was a day full of rich moments, of borrowed rice cookers and little hands helping, of hospitality and thanks, of an improv birthday cake and a jacket gifted. On days like these I experience the lines and edges blurring with the reality of the life I’ve chosen, where neighbor is friend, where volunteers become companions, where kids are helpers and leaders, where housemates and co-workers are family—we are all in active community with one another. We really are a rag tag bunch of unlikely partners—volunteers and kids, neighbors and staff—but we are partners in community nevertheless.

As I’m involved in work where I’m actively stepping towards pain, lament, and brokenness, Advent is the longing in my soul that aches for the becoming of a world such as this—a world of wholeness, of healing, of harmony. It is in days like these where I taste the Messiah, Jesus, who knows the pain of all intimately, and in compassion and incredible power makes all things Well—both in our individual lives and on a collective, societal scale.

Sangiam stopped in at the end of the night and in excitement brought up the idea of a house gift exchange between her family and ours at Long Street.

A gift exchange, neighbor to neighbor. The thought was so delightful that joy escaped me in a boisterous laugh.

The celebration continues.  

Ducks and Geese

I sat quietly on a bench outside of the hospital, my feet dangling in the air beneath. The pond was a soothing presence in front of me, right past the arch and pillars of the emergency room. My eyes glazed over as I stared at the waters, the emotional shut down allowing my system to do some much needed recovery. 
  
I felt my lungs expand and contract, breath coming in and out, not sure how things had gotten this bad but only convinced that this raw space was never one I wanted to be in again. With one touch I felt as if I would be shattered; the instability was that real. 

Maybe I sat there for minutes, maybe hours--I was there for a while, waiting for a call from my father to assure me that if I admitted myself into the psychiatric hospital that our insurance would pay for it.

My lungs were expanding and contracting. In and out. 

My lungs. 
Expanding. 
Expanding. 
My lungs.

The water was nice. Soothing. Steady. Unchanging. 

My lungs.  
My lungs. 

My chest hurts.

I heard a quack to my right and my eyes were drawn a grassy hill in front of the hospital where geese and ducks were together. I observed them as if through a haze, my eyes opening and closing slowly. I observed the duck feathers, the brown hues with indigo highlights, the orange bill that shines like the glassy black eyes one inch behind, the webbed feet and the plump body and all the beauty that is. The ducks and geese are peaceful on the grassy hill.

My eyes open, close.
My lungs expanding.

All at once a white goose scoops a duck's neck up in its bill and clamps down and the duck is squawking and

My chest hurts

and the goose is pinning the squawking duck into the grass as it bites at its neck and 

My chest hurts and my breathing becomes panicked

and the duck is hurting and the goose is not listening and somehow

My chest hurts and my breathing becomes panicked and tears are running down my face and why are no other geese or ducks stopping the violence and pain right front of them

and the duck is flapping its wings and the goose is relentless but finally after much flapping relents and the two birds walk away from each other and 

My chest hurts and I'm weeping and I just ache and want it all to be better.

I just ache and want to be better.

I just ache.  

*  *  *

The tears are still steady, but my breathing has slowed. Eyes are glazed once again, overlooking the steady pond and the quite lap of the water against the grassy edge. A car pulls up to the ER, and two men walk out--one going inside, and the other stepping in front of my bench.

"Do you mind if I sit here, miss?" I look up at the man, the sun behind his face making it hard to read his facial gestures. I nod and scoot to my right, putting my small bag of possessions on the ground next to me. He sits, and lets out a sigh. I sniffle beside him, the ducks and geese still heavy on my mind. 

We sit in silence for a few seconds, each lost in their own thoughts.

"You don't look okay," he said, commenting on my tear-stained face. 

I let out a laugh, "Yeah."

"You here to get help?" he asked.  I see the concern etched in his face.

"You could say that," I replied, nodding.

"Me too. My son brought me here. My name is Shawn."

I smile, introducing myself in reply. We sit in silence a bit longer.

"I'm a struggling alcoholic. I was going good, real good, and then the depression...it just crushed me. I want to stop, I just can't. I want to stop, I just can't. I want to stop. The depression...I don't know. My son brought me here, it's really hard on my son. It's really hard."

My struggle is different, but I know struggle, too. There's a sense of togetherness between us.

We look out onto the pond, the quiet pond, the pond with little waves lapping at the edges. 

I find myself thinking of ducks and geese, and how sometimes we're ducks whose necks are being strangled and sometimes we're geese doing the strangling, but we're always birds. 

And I find myself thinking of the moment of violence over something unknown between two birds and the moment of connection over shared pain between two humans and something about it connects deeply within me as something beautifully paradoxical.
  
And I find myself thinking of how Shawn and I are both so raw and fragile, and choosing the strength of surrender. Soon we will enter the hospital behind us to be reminded of the breadth and expanse of our indigo-hued wings until we remember ourselves.

My lungs expand, and my lungs contract.

My feathers are ruffled; I am ready.

 

Integration

I remember the hours that went by when I didn’t feel anything

I was only existing

And each hour was a choice to continue going on

Trusting that although I couldn’t see how anything would resolve

That it would

And I was cynical, so cynical, every hour

And the hours turned into days and the days into weeks

And the weeks into months of eating and sleeping and doing

But not being present in the moment

Not being present in passion

Not being present in hope

Only making it by and hiding within myself for protection

And I remember how you sustained me with manna

And you gifted me little sparks of what was to come

And I didn’t believe you because the numbness had become

So normal that there was no other way of being

And celebration could never exist in pain

And the end was never in sight

But you gifted me glimpses of affirmations

And companions who held my tears and walked with me

Hour by hour and day by day

And they listened as I processed the deep pain of living

And the deep pain that had become entrenched within me over the years

And the lies that had become my ways of existing

They held with me as the lies were brought to light

And I was so raw that it was clear that I was walking around naked

For months on end

And it was so uncomfortable

But it was okay because you kept gifting me glimpses

You kept saying “Trust, love.”

And some days I did and most days I didn’t and

I cried and it was hard and I kept going

And then one day I realized that I didn’t want to kill myself anymore

And I realized that I still didn’t have a purpose in life and

I still didn’t know how everything would resolved but

I remember that moment in October of 2012 when I first realized that

Maybe, just maybe, I was healing.

And I just want to say

Thank you Lord for all you’ve done for me.