Expedition

I started a new journal this week.  I finished one and needed another one.  I found one I have been wanting to write in but the journal is a bit intimidating.  Thick handmade paper, no lines.  It feels important.  I want to let the day be important when I write in it.

Part of me still wanted to change journals this morning.  After all the first day I wrote only two sentences (it was that kind of day).  But I felt like maybe this was the time.  This was the time for an expedition year.  A year where God continues to renew me and we begin a expedition together. 

I've never written in a journal with no lines.  I tend to slant when I write.  I don't remember ever journaling on paper like this either.  I am sensory oriented though and I like the feel of the leather, the feel of opening it and touching the textured paper.  I like the scratch feel of the ink pen on paper. 

I am starting to feel again. So perhaps it is hope that makes me ready to take a plunge into this journal.  The expedition of my heart and soul. 

Pay attention to what makes you cry.  I have heard this before from multiple sources. Podcast. Book.  Maybe somewhere else too. 

I haven't been able to cry for almost three years.  (Except that one time I came off my meds completely and couldn't stop crying.  The dam of emotions that had been block became a flood I couldn't control or stop.)  So I didn't know what to pay attention to.  I only knew that I was flat.  Dull.  Depressed (still).  Anxious (still).  And I still wanted to numb myself. 

Since the changes.  My eyes have begun to sting with tears more often.  I am moved to tears by:
touch of paper and pen
music
words written
words spoken
my son cuddled against me
my daughter's bravery
my sins and failures
the nearness of God
God's love for me
my husband's love and kindness
silence

I find myself surprised by my emotions that have been coming.  I am thankful for each of these. Thankful for the depth I find I still have in me.  Thankful for God's nearness that I just couldn't sense. 

I kissed Matthew goodbye today and he laughed and said, "Whatever you are doing, your seeds or whatever, keep doing it."

I laughed and felt joy spill over. 

I am so thankful. Incredibly thankful. 

Nouris(HER)- Doula

I haven't cried a lot in the last few years.  I don't know if it is because I am on anti-depressants or because I can't dare slow down because then I'll feel everything and collapse. 

Either way.  I can't cry.  I can barely feel grief and sadness in the way that I know is true.  It is part of why I can't write.  Why I can't focus on a book, unless it is an audio book and I can listen to it while I do something.  It is hard for me to be still and focus on one thing without wanting to jump around and do something else. 

I've been given the gift of Rachel.  The Nourisher.  She helps nourish mama's after their babies are born.  I am her first adoptive mama client. 

Last week she made a meal and I sat in my room and did needle work.  I drank tea and listened to an audio book.  (Multi-tasking, I know...but still it felt quieter.)  My room was messy but I had those moments and someone else was making a warm meal, and being there to love my kiddos while I had a few moments.  And it happened.  I felt the sting of tears behind my eyes.  The quiet space.  The nourishment of someone caring for me.  Tea, needle and thread, and written words spoken over me.  I didn't cry but I felt that part of me open up a tiny fraction.

It happened again today.  Rachel came today and we talked, we cooked, and I shared and she helped me make my house ready for Sabbath.  Then when it was time for her to go my heart did that funny fraction cracking.  Again, tears stung the back of my eyes.  Not crying.  Not yet.  But the fraction cracking.

And so I wanted to write this down.  Part of the healing I have been praying for and working toward? 

This space of care that Rachel is bringing.  I didn't know what to expect.  It is so hard to ask for help but I knew I would need it even if I didn't want to ask for it.  So I asked for this help before Eden came home.  Knowing I would still be struggling three months in.  (I am.)  I didn't expect to begin to feel space for tears.  Space for sadness.  Space to feel what I don't have time to feel.  I don't even know what I feel or what the sting of tears is for.  But I have space now.  Whatever it is feels important.  But not like a mountain is important but like the lichen covering a rock is important. 

Is it the space that gives a place for the tears and ache I haven't felt?  Or haven't been able to invest in.  Truly, I think it started when my grandfather died.  I couldn't grieve so far away in South Korea, alone from family.  I tried to grieve better when Aunt Teresa died.  But I didn't know about how when I was still far from family.  Then my student Marissa died.  I couldn't grieve in front of my students, I had to be strong.  Then later Caitlin died, and how could I grieve that when I had to teach.  Then later Emma came home and there was surgery.  Heart failure.  More surgery.  I couldn't cry or be weak I had to gain information from the doctors to keep abreast to the best care for Emma.  I just can't cry.  I am a mama and I don't know how to do that and care for my kids.  Is that why the space for me gives me that? 

I don't know but I am thankful.  Thankful for Rachel and her nourishing care. 

Finding My Writing Voice

I have loved writing since I can remember.  My first story was "The Flower Who Had No Friends."  I laugh now to think of it, realizing that my melancholy was expressed through my writing.

Later I would use writing to express my dark sadness at a sophomore in high school.  A way to express myself and yet express it in a safe place.

Recently I have wanted to write.  I have so much to process but I don't have time or space.  So I want to try and create space for  myself.  I need this outlet.  Even if no one reads it I need this space.

I want to find my writing voice.  Whatever form it takes.  I miss writing.  I use writing as  way to process what is happening.  And I desperately feel like I need to process.  Because I am drowning in the space I am in. Desperate to rid myself of all that pressed me down. And I am also parched.  Desperate for more.

So I am trying to write again.  It is a process. 

I've started writing during my time with God in the morning.  It isn't as much as I used to write in the mornings but it is something.  After the kids are in bed I write my blessings.  Happy things from the day and print one or two little pictures from the day. 

These are my tiny writings.  I found poetry/prose prompts but my creativity is dead so I haven't tried one yet.  Maybe after I have been writing a little in the morning and a little at night I will reopen my heart and mind and pen to the release of writing that it brings. 

For now, I will also try to use this space.  Trying to write and trying to remember that writing is good for my heart and soul.

Ministry

Ministry--in its various forms is a very vulnerable thing.  It is a personal offering of yourself and your talents.

A friend was telling me about how in ministry people are allowed to trample over you and hurt you, and in a way, you cannot have any friends, or love anyone because you are just opened up to pain and hurt. One never knows when the person you are ministering to will turn against you for something. Listening to my friend as she cried over the pain of ministry broke my heart.  And it made me angry.

Why is it that people feel they can bully others around to get what they want.  Or they can be willfully ignorant and no one else could possibly be correct except themselves.  As people give and minister to others (schools, teachers, churches, pastors, etc.) they are offering themselves to serve.  Often that service is crushed by the weight of the meanness of those who are being ministered to.

I had another conversation with someone else who was on a committee in a different state, and the things that were said to tear down the leadership were upsetting to many who attended.

As a teacher, I hate when I see bullying in the classroom.  But at least I can do something about it.  How do I change it in these situations?  I love my world-wide church.  But I do not like what I am seeing show up in the inner-workings of our schools and churches.  It is heartbreaking.

Are there any ideas on how to stop adult bullying in our schools and churches--especially for those in ministry?

I am tired, tired, tired of it.  For myself and others.





**Sorry for the unfinished post the other day.  It didn't save it as a draft like I had meant it to.

Warning: Before You Become a Christian

Matthew and I have been reading through a book my Aunt Shari gave us fro Christmas, have a little faith by Mitch Albom. We read together at night usually and last night there was this part in the story.

“As a general rule, Judaism does not seek converts. In fact, the tradition is to first discourage them, emphasizing the difficulties and suffering the religion has endured.”

I stopped Matthew and commented that I thought it was interesting that they did that. I said how that’s kind of what Jesus did when He would tell people “the Son of Man has no where to lay His head” when people asked if they could follow Him. We only paused for less than a minute but some thoughts had begun to germinate.

Then today I was reading from Velvet Elvis by Rob Bell and he mentioned this, “He [Jesus] is constantly trying to find out who really wants it. And so he keeps pushing and prodding and questioning and putting it out there until some leave and the diehards stay. We never find him chasing after someone, trying to convince them that he really wasn’t that serious, that it was just a figure of speech. He didn’t really mean sell your possessions and give to the poor.”

I have never felt that when I was young and being a Christian was talked about that something challenging but rather it was as if we were being begged to join.

There is something thrilling about Christianity, the call of Jesus, that would say, “Hey, this is amazing, and incredible, but it’s serious too. It’s going to break your heart and mold it stronger. It’s going to shatter your view of yourself, the world, and everything there is, and heal the depths of your soul. The call of Jesus to follow Him is not to be taken lightly, but it’s worth every second.”

That makes my heart beat a little faster and I want to stand with those who ready to follow Jesus, even though it will cost everything--because the risk is worth the reward.

“...we are reclaiming the simple fact that Jesus said the way is narrow...The call of Jesus goes the other direction: It’s about making our lives more difficult. It is going out of our way to be generous and disciplined and loving and free. It is refusing to escape and become numb to and check out of this broken fractured world.

And so we are embracing the high demands of Jesus’ call to be one of his disciples. We are honest about it. We want our friends to know up front that the costs are high, which is what is so appealing about Jesus--his vision for life take everything we have....

This is what we are all dying for--something that demands we step up and become better, more focused people. Something that calls out the greatness that we hope is somewhere inside of us.”

Rag Quilt

A quilt. Something I’ve always wanted to do but after my tablecloth semi-failure, I didn’t think I’d ever try. But then friends on mine on facebook said that they were going to try and make one. So I asked if I could join them, and graciously they said yes!

So they sent me links and I found a website and I went to buy fabric and batting.

First I cut it into 6” squares. This was after trying to figure out how to get the most squares for the amount of material I had by mathematical calculations. (You know, a yard is 36” and 6 x 6 is 36...so...)

Then I cut the batting

...but I miscalculated that and cut too much batting, but that was okay.

Then I put the batting in between the cloth.

And then I put it in a box because I felt that I had no idea how to do whatever came next.

Thankful, I have an awesome friend, Nicole, who does know what she is doing so I went over to her house. She showed me how to x my squares and I was able to finish all my green squares at her house. She also helped save my tablecloth! (Although I still need to finish what she showed me to do, it was at least a start!)

I felt really great about those beautiful green squares and was determined to do the yellow ones on my machine at home.

My sewing machine was my Great-Grandma Curtis’ and probably from the 1940 or 1950s. I am not a seamstress and it just confuses me. However, I had made the tablecloth so I knew sort of how to work it. So I sat down to do it! The thread tension was off. I tried to read the manual. I called my dad and figured out some of the problems (yes, the foot has to be put down to sew). I called my mom and she said to ask for help from someone in the area who could come over. So I did. I seriously thank God for friends. I sent Nicole a message and she said she had time to drop by and help me. So she did. She battled my machine and helped me to understand it.

And so I was off to do they yellow squares!

I was happy to actually, sort of, understand my sewing machine and make it work! I can sew a straight line and in a zig-zag pattern.

Bear-Lee and my finished squares!

Next I put the squares down to figure out how big, and what shape to make it. I did a simple pattern because I didn't want to overwhelm myself with the first quilt.

Then I stacked each row so I could sew the rows.

I started to sew the rows but then I ran out of thread.

After I bought more thread I finished my rows. I wanted to take a picture of them, and saw Mei Mei (one of my basset hounds) shivering near by and decided to let her be decorated with them.

She didn't seem too upset but I wanted to begin piecing them together.

The hardest part was just moving it through the machine once it got longer and bigger. My squares didn't match up perfectly, but I was okay because this was for fun, not stress.

And...tada! The sewing part is done! This is is the front where the rag/frayed part will be.

This is the back/smooth side. Again, the squares are perfectly all the same size and right by each other, but it's close enough!

Then came the clipping. This caused my right hand pain. I didn't have the right scissors so I used what I had and learned that next time I will be buying better scissors. Either way, I finally finished clipping all the pieces.

Since Mei Mei had a picture taken with the quilt, I thought Nani should have a photo with it.

Now it was time to wash it. So (after being told to put it in a pillow case to protect my washer) I washed it.

Then I shook it out to get rid of the little pieces of string and got it all over my fleece pants. It was brilliant, I know, to wear fleece and shake out the quilt...

Finally I dried it and it was finished!! I didn't want Hana to feel left out so I included her in the final product picture.

So here is my first quilt and I am so excited and happy about it that I'm about ready to try another one!

When I'm all grown up...

The day Matthew and I went to the airport to fly away on our honeymoon I felt distinctly that I was running away from home. I felt childlike clutching my travel bag. It was just the two of us and I knew that in a few months it would just be the two of us all the way around the world. I didn’t feel like an adult. I felt like teenager running away.

In Korea, I felt as I did in college. I could be silly and ridiculous because I was a foreginer and since they thought I was strange anyways I might as well be free to have fun. I remember laughing loudly with the other foreign teachers as we walked down the street on a way to a restaurant. The locals looked and eyes and quietly moved passed and there was freedom and youth as we moved on.

Coming back to America felt, unreal. Matthew had a real job. We adopted a cat, bought a house, and then adopted two basset hounds. Life was busy! We painted the house, fixed up little projects, but still I felt a longing for my college friends. Everyone in out new town had children (many of whom Matthew was teaching) and they had their own group of friends and what did I have, that they had, that was in common? I was lonely that first year. Not a child but certainly not an adult. I was “so young” to everyone and I felt young. But when I would visit my college I felt out of place too, it was a weird limbo.

Last year I became the K-2 teacher and I remember when a parent asked me for advice on how to help their child in a particular area I thought to myself, “What? I don’t know! I wasn’t taught that!!” I still didn’t feel like I was an adult. Sure I drove a car, paid bills, and taught children but I felt like a child in my own eyes and other peoples. And when I got those letters...and saw how I was viewed as a professional and teacher...and person I felt even less like an adult as I wept at home.



This year there have been a few times where I have thought, “Wow. I feel like an adult now. And I think I like it.” The times I have thought it is when I am on my way to be with friends or when I am with friends, here in this new town that I think is finally beginning to be a little bit of a home. I don’t know what a real adult is or looks like exactly but I feel like I’ve been accepted into being an adult. I want to step into this..whatever this is, with God’s grace and help.



Most days I feel like me, and I’m not sure who that is yet, but sometimes I feel like I’m an adult now. Sort of.