There's an ache in this chest, someone is pushing a dull spear into this chest. And my head keeps asking why, why does it hurt. And the legs want to run from the spear. The head asks why and the legs start moving. And the dulled point keeps pushing. And the stomach twists. The head asks why, legs keep twitching, the point is pushing, and stomach is twisting. Eyes blur. The head asks why, legs are twitching, the point still pushing, stomach twisting, and eyes blurring. The skin that covers the body prickles, itchy-almost. My head keeps Asking, my legs still Twitching, point is Pushing, stomach is Twisting, eyes are Blurring, and skin is Itching.
Why is the point pushing, why is the stomach twisting, why are the eyes blurring, why is the skin itching. And where is the comfort of distancing. Of my questioning.
I chose to love. I choose to leave. This is not the feeling of abandonment.
But love. I chose to love. I'm choosing to leave. Leaving whom I love. I am not missing out.
I am loved. I chose to love. I'm choosing to leave. They chose to love me, and they will not leave me.
This is why it hurts. Why my legs crave to run. Why it feels like a spear in my chest. Why my stomach twists. Why my eyes blur and my skin prickles.
This is not abandonment. This is love.
"...And from now on, wherever you go, or wherever I go, all the ground between us will be holy ground". -Henri Nouwen's friend, Reaching Out
Saturday, May 19, 2012
Sunday, May 13, 2012
Matt Chandler & the Priest
Yesterday I ran Head for the Cure 5k, honoring and remembering those who have fought/are fighting brain cancer.
As I ran, I scanned the crowd, secretly looking for Sunny from Biggest Loser a season ago. Instead, I saw Matt Chandler, a local pastor of the well known church The Village and brain cancer survivor. His eyes met mine as we passed and at of pure idiocy (and compassion) I yelled, "YEAH MATT!!" He had no clue who I was but nonetheless smiled and waved.
At the time of my mom's diagnosis, I found out about Matt Chandler's cancer. I watched his blog posts, tv interviews, and listened to a sermon or two looking for hope and wisdom.
But... I couldn't fully listen to anything he'd say about his battle. The way he handled his disease and the way we were handling my mom's was so...different.
He survived. And so did my mom. And today when I saw him, our informal greeting was pregnant with providence. I was full of compassion when I saw him and his scarred head. Here was someone I disagreed with, someone whose words made my stomach churn and my insides hurt. But he was alive. And I yelped for joy...without really ever thinking twice about it.
Today we were humans, in solidarity. He was merely human. With merely human thoughts and a very human scar. His life and passion are finding truth and teaching others. Is mine not the same? My family and I battled with mom's cancer. He and his family had done the same. Mine is still reeling from the damage and picking up the pieces to our "new" normal. But so is his.
He has his thoughts, his biases, his opinions, but he just wants life, love, and truth.
The fullness of that moment on the running course created this new space in my soul...this space in which I can see another-just like me-and begin to support, love, and find connection with...regardless of theories, doctrine, interpretation, or intellect. It's no longer a matter of "tolerating" others so unlike me, but beginning to love them as they are in front of me.
Another interesting moment happened to me this weekend. I sat at mass listening to my favorite priest talk about a rather unsettling political discussion. He did a great job of handling the topic with sincere care and love. But I totally disagreed with him. And it hurt me to know we differed.
I was ready to give up and walk out on his homily, ready to throw in the towel at yet another church, but instead I paced the narthex a bit and took my sit again, letting my anxiety sit and move in me. I'm not sure why I have such a hard time when others see things so differently, especially people I like. But I stayed with the congregation.
And Matt came back to my mind. Our exchange at the race. And I felt a small space open in me. For the priest. For the congregation. For the church.
However, as mass continued, I began seeing the church as a person, a human...someone capable of being hurt and capable of hurting others-intentional or not. And that space in me began to fill with compassion. Another wounded person.
I want to apologize at failing to describe the beauty and heaviness of these two situations...sadly my cast is still inhibiting me to type freely. I've asked of you before...to love the one you're with. But I am learning this myself, and it is not an easy task.
As I ran, I scanned the crowd, secretly looking for Sunny from Biggest Loser a season ago. Instead, I saw Matt Chandler, a local pastor of the well known church The Village and brain cancer survivor. His eyes met mine as we passed and at of pure idiocy (and compassion) I yelled, "YEAH MATT!!" He had no clue who I was but nonetheless smiled and waved.
At the time of my mom's diagnosis, I found out about Matt Chandler's cancer. I watched his blog posts, tv interviews, and listened to a sermon or two looking for hope and wisdom.
But... I couldn't fully listen to anything he'd say about his battle. The way he handled his disease and the way we were handling my mom's was so...different.
He survived. And so did my mom. And today when I saw him, our informal greeting was pregnant with providence. I was full of compassion when I saw him and his scarred head. Here was someone I disagreed with, someone whose words made my stomach churn and my insides hurt. But he was alive. And I yelped for joy...without really ever thinking twice about it.
Today we were humans, in solidarity. He was merely human. With merely human thoughts and a very human scar. His life and passion are finding truth and teaching others. Is mine not the same? My family and I battled with mom's cancer. He and his family had done the same. Mine is still reeling from the damage and picking up the pieces to our "new" normal. But so is his.
He has his thoughts, his biases, his opinions, but he just wants life, love, and truth.
The fullness of that moment on the running course created this new space in my soul...this space in which I can see another-just like me-and begin to support, love, and find connection with...regardless of theories, doctrine, interpretation, or intellect. It's no longer a matter of "tolerating" others so unlike me, but beginning to love them as they are in front of me.
Another interesting moment happened to me this weekend. I sat at mass listening to my favorite priest talk about a rather unsettling political discussion. He did a great job of handling the topic with sincere care and love. But I totally disagreed with him. And it hurt me to know we differed.
I was ready to give up and walk out on his homily, ready to throw in the towel at yet another church, but instead I paced the narthex a bit and took my sit again, letting my anxiety sit and move in me. I'm not sure why I have such a hard time when others see things so differently, especially people I like. But I stayed with the congregation.
And Matt came back to my mind. Our exchange at the race. And I felt a small space open in me. For the priest. For the congregation. For the church.
However, as mass continued, I began seeing the church as a person, a human...someone capable of being hurt and capable of hurting others-intentional or not. And that space in me began to fill with compassion. Another wounded person.
I want to apologize at failing to describe the beauty and heaviness of these two situations...sadly my cast is still inhibiting me to type freely. I've asked of you before...to love the one you're with. But I am learning this myself, and it is not an easy task.
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
One Wild Ride: fr ac ture d
Sitting in a coffee place thinking of the things I'm grateful for from this era of life as I begin to transition into a new one. And found myself in a curious question
Grateful for the shoes I own
My fractured wrist bc it should've been worse
Nurturing my newly discovered yet always had intuition
my imagination
my nana's stories
my nana
days that end with me being tired bc the ones when i'm not suck
my humor
the Texas spring season
that i can struggle
that i don't live in the prison of perfect
that i still carry chains that remind me i'm human and they keep me grounded
that there are things not fixed inside of me
...can I love and accept this part of me?
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