at the dawn//walter brueggemann

Our first glimpse of reality this day--everyday--is your fidelity.
We are dazzled by the ways you remain constant among us,
                          in season, out of season,
                          for better, for worse,
                          in sickness and in health.
You are there in watchfulness as we fall asleep;
You are there in alertness when we awaken...and we are glad.
             Before the day ends, we will have occasion
                          to flag your absence in indifference...
                          but not now, not at the dawn.
             Before the day ends, we will think more than once
                          that we need a better deal from you...
                          but not now, not at the dawn.
             Before the day ends, we will look away from you and
                          relish our own fidelity and our virtue in mercy...
                          but not now, not at the dawn.
Now, at the dawn, our eyes are fixed on you in gladness.
             We ask only that your faithfulness
                          permeate every troubled place we are able to name,
                          that your mercy
                          move against the hurts to make new,
                          that your steadfastness
                          hold firmly what is too fragile on its own.
And we begin the day in joy, in hope, and in deep gladness. Amen.

the art of loving

My New Best Friend (also known as the woman who is professionally trained and paid to listen and sort through my emotional junk every Wednesday evening) has assigned me some homework in the form of literature. It's my favorite type: part head, part heart. She's limiting me to one chapter a week (the worst kind of torture), but so far, my response to this book is: yes. My New Best Friend assigned it for a reason and I intend to get as much out of it as is physically possible for me in this time. I intend to learn, to grow and to share. Maybe you can glean some wisdom, too.

From The Art of Loving, by Erich Fromm:

"Love is an art, just as living is an art; if we want to learn how to love we must proceed in the same way we have to proceed if we want to learn any other art, say music, painting, carpentry, or the art of medicine or engineering.

What are the necessary steps in learning any art?

The process of learning an art can be divided conveniently into two parts: one, the mastery of the theory; the other, the mastery of the practice. If I want to learn the art of medicine, I must first know the facts about the human body, and about various diseases. When I have all this theoretical knowledge, I am by no means competent in the art of medicine. I shall become a master in this art only after a great deal of practice, until eventually the results of my theoretical knowledge and the results of my practice are blended into one-my intuition, the essence of the mastery of any art. But aside from learning the theory and practice, there is a third factor necessary to becoming a master in any art--the mastery of the art must be a matter of ultimate concern; there must be nothing else in the world more important than the art. This holds true for music, for medicine, for carpentry--and for love. And maybe, here lies the answer to the question of why people in our culture try so rarely to learn this art, in spite of their obvious failures: in spite of the deep-seated craving for love, almost everything else is considered to be more important than love: success, prestige, money, power--almost all our energy is used for the learning of how to achieve these aims, and almost none to learn the art of loving."

13 for 13

i'm not typically one for new year's resolutions. mostly because i've constantly resolved myself to do/learn/be something better and i don't usually wait for january to make my list. it seems fitting, though, that in this time of stripping away and reevaluating and reforming, i would let myself dream. so these are the dreams of my heart for 2013 and they speak perfectly to the incredible lessons i've been learning and the freedom that i'm chasing. 

1. climb half dome

2. read at least one book each month

3. go to the san diego zoo

4. visit my family, just because

5. make my home a place of refuge (with a fireplace)

6. be generous, not just to the poor

7. play the piano

8. know Jesus better

9. remember the things that i grew up loving

10. run another half marathon

11. go camping on a lake

12. learn spanish (no, seriously this time)

13. tell anxiety to be quiet

leaving oceanside

The hardest part about leaving Oceanside was leaving Oceanside.  I cried every day of my last week and a double portion on my last day. I would not miss 10 hour days and 2 hour commutes and sharing a schedule with the sun; I would not miss complete and utter exhaustion and I would be happy to enjoy things like rest and the energy to call a friend and time for play. But oh, I would miss Oceanside.

My biggest fear in leaving Oceanside was the inevitable distance between the richness of that time and place, and the life I would surely settle into 30 miles away. Richness seems like such a strange word to use when considering how my time there was spent: addressing symptoms of poverty and hearing stories of struggle and pushing back against so much heartache. And yet, hardly twenty-four hours goes by without me remembering the richness of conversations in my classroom, of the honor of being trusted, the gospel preached to me in such a peculiar way, and by such foreign priests.

Father Greg, one of my heroes, says of his time in Bolivia:

"I can't explain how the poor in Bolivia evangelized me during that year of 1984-85, but they turned me inside out, and from that moment forward I only wanted to walk with them. I knew that the poor had some privileged delivery system for giving me access to the gospel.  Naturally, I wanted to be around this."

I guess Oceanside was my Bolivia. Giving me access to Jesus in a way that is out of reach when I settle into my busy life and avoid the streets where He would've walked. Something truly rich is added to my faith when I get the privilege of learning Jesus and His heart for justice, and (maybe possibly even) being opened up to see the world (and a few beautiful souls) with the Mind of Christ.
Still, I only want to walk with them.

more perfect weekends, please

I went to work this morning still feeling the joy, and the jetlag, of the rush of forty-eight hours. It was the perfect weekend, in so many ways. These weekends are rare; I guess that's what makes them so special when they come. It was a completely out-of-the-ordinary set of days, half a world away, in the kind of place that I dream about when I close my eyes and let only my heart speak. Brick buildings and horse pastures and summer thunder storms with liquid sunshine. We honored a love story and danced in the rain; I ate pancakes bigger than my head and slept in fluffy white sheets at a fancy-shmancy hotel where shoes are always required. I took it all in. It was the most beautiful sight you ever did see.

travel socks

a dream

high school weddings

Now, I'm searching for more perfect weekends. Saving for red-eye flights across the country, stealing moments with the dreams that California can't offer. 

On my list: 

Chicago, Boston (kicking myself for canceling last year's weekend get-away), Nashville, New Orleans, Charleston, and more.

america the beautiful

whole.

"In this life, traces of [separation from God] are still with us. We are inseparably linked to our unredeemed flesh. Our bodies are mortal. Not just the bones and muscles, glands and senses, but mind and emotion as well. That vast, unbelievably intricate, electronic, chemical complex which is culturally, genetically, diabolically (at times), geographically, and pathologically-influenced mortality."                                          --James Bryan Smith//The Good and Beautiful God

via

Probably the most important lesson that I continue to learn with anxiety is that there is a distinction between wholeness and healing. It is subtle, yes, but hugely important: the difference between an attitude of thanksgiving versus resentment, understanding versus confusion, freedom versus shame. I willed healing for my anxiety by the mantra: "God is a healer, thus God wants me healed." I started with scripture about God's ability to heal things crazy enough as demon possession and blindness and even raising life from the dead, then added my own deductions about God's vision of restoration and his love for me personally only to find myself with a sense of entitlement for God's healing and a shame that it had not yet happened. Then, the tension of evaluating what healing really means for us now.

My first understanding of healing was created in utero. Before I was even born, I was the granddaughter-great granddaughter-niece-cousin-second cousin-third cousin of a doctor. A very intelligent man or woman trained to fix our broken bodies. Any sickness, an antibiotic. Anything broken, reset. We never stayed sick because we always had the resources, the intelligence and the sense of self-worth to fix our broken selves. With my anxiety, resources, intelligence and self-worth were called into question--God was the only solution.

Is it just me or do we have a tendency to approach God as if He is the man in a white coat with prescription pad waiting? Whatever works, I'll take it. 14 days, twice a day until--ta da!--you're healed, good as new. When my anxiety hit, my first response was to pray to this highly trained doctor-God. Pray that God would take it away, pray that God would heal my mind and adjust my neural pathways, giving me new chemicals and new brain cells. I was asking and hoping for a miracle. At times, it was so severe that I would sleep with my bible under my pillow, to rest my head on scripture, hoping that healing would come through osmosis. It was a theologically incorrect act of desperation, as many of us will take when living in pain, shame or isolation due to illness.

The theology of healing is complex, but when we see God as only the keeper of the means for physical healing, we miss a beautiful opportunity to expand our definition of "healer" and see a bigger picture for our lives. 

"He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds."     -Psalms 147:3

Anybody who has dealt with any kind of chronic illness--physical or mental--longs to know God as a healer. Tangible healing. But sometimes, God chooses not to use your body for a miracle. Sometimes, you are not the woman whose bleeding is stopped or the man whose sight is restored. Sometimes, your body continues its natural progression toward death. When our desired definition of healing doesn't come, we have to ask--"What does healing mean?" It just might be a question of semantics for our scientific world.

Enter: wholeness versus healing.

Heal: the act or process of becoming well; the state of your physical body

Whole: unbroken, not damaged; an indicator of your identity in Christ

Biblically speaking, healing always carries with it the idea of "wholeness." That is to say, wholeness is a crucial part of healing. When Jesus heals, He always restores. With every healing act, we are given a tangible sign of eternity. He reverses the pull of death for just a moment and we see fullness of life restored. Souls feel their worth and lives are brought back into relationship, brought out of isolation.

• The Woman with the Flow of Blood (Mark 5)
• Blind Man Receives His Sight (Mark 10)
• A Woman Has Seven Demons Cast Out (Mark 16)

via

But, healing is not a crucial part of wholeness. Our bodies are in a state of decay--it's undeniable. We were never promised to live with these bones forever. And yet, one can be made whole even as bodies decay, even with a chemical imbalance or bodily malfunction. One can still be restored in the eyes of God and community without being physically healed. More often than not in our world, this is the case. Illness of any kind can leave us with a sense of being broken, ashamed, isolated--little thieves of abundant lives. But Jesus came for abundant life and wholeness is a byproduct of knowing Him. His life reverses the death in us. Wholeness from Him tells us who we are, binds up our broken hearts, removes shame and graces us with relationship with Him. 

That is the gift of wholeness that physical healing alone cannot give. I take great comfort in that as I recognize that anxiety may be a forever-ailment. To live out of my wholeness in the midst of anxiety, knowing that there will come a day when anxiety is put to rest, when my flesh is redeemed. Until then...

I am not healed, but I am whole.

semantics (work + justice + change)

There is nothing predictable about the job that I do. Every single day, a new story is graciously revealed to me so that I can begin the slow work of piecing together all that encompasses the body before me. It is an honor because I love these kids, so stinkin' much. Every day, I see the scars left by a tragic childhood and I see, in some, resilience and hope rising. I see moments of success, effort and struggle, and for some, defeat. Some days are more difficult than others--some stories follow me home. There are lessons in them, teachable moments, every experience a metaphor or an arrow to some greater reality. In everything, joy and sorrow stand in opposition.

Some weeks are more unpredictable than others. On a very unique (and hopefully rare) Monday, the news waiting in my inbox was this: a potentially gang-related homicide in the neighborhood, the very same block, that my students live. They heard the gun shots and saw the blood on the pavement. He, the 17 year old victim, was their friend--their homie. Whatever they discover about the potential gang ties in this case, he was the kid that sold ice cream on the block, a valuable member of their community, a friend and brother to many. My students came to school with burdened hearts, the weight more than they were ever meant to carry. There are not enough words to do the devastation justice and, not ironically, justice is what is needed.

It is not the first time we've broached the topic of justice. It always comes up when we talk about truth in some capacity--true strength, true peace, right responses to suffering felt. Justice, mercy, retaliation, revenge, remorse, forgiveness, anger. The words are all wrapped up together. Justice is what we want, even when our experiences have warped its meaning. I know it as well as anybody. Our human nature says "grace for me, justice for them" and we respond accordingly. We are blind to our own errors, our own hatred, the hardness in our own hearts, but we see the faults of others with crystal-like clarity. Unforgiveness builds itself a home in our hearts, devastating what is left of our common humanity. Unforgiveness--anti-grace and its fruits (acts of violence, relational aggression, resentment, angry hearts)--is risky for all of us, but the material risk is elevated and the pull much greater in low-income, gang neighborhoods where the rules of the street trump all and where retaliation is to be expected.

These are the days that I bring home with me. These are the days that leave me frustrated, heartbroken, sometimes hopeless. It's a battle that cannot be fought with words (reason rarely works) and should not be fought with violence (violence begets violence). How do we change? How do we come to know what justice is, how grace works, and the power of forgiveness? How does a heart soften enough to be transformed? How do gang neighborhoods become places of peace? What of my own heart--can it be a place of peace?

If only we'd all been taught grace from the beginning and each of us was fueled by humility and reconciliation. If only we had the eyes to see cycles of violence for the messengers of suffering and devastation that they are. If only we'd all been taught that cycles don't end unless you have the strength and integrity to step outside of it and write your own story. If only we'd learned that justice does not mean one-for-one and strength is not equivalent to the hardness showing across your face, but in your capacity to understand, to grieve, to walk away and change.

I think about this concept often: the difficulty of "change"--it tempts us and draws us in, offering us hope of a life or a character or a story that we don't have. But it can be so illusive. A favorite voice of mine, Father Greg Boyle, lends comfort in this slow work:

"There is nothing 'once and for all' in any decision to change. Each day brings a new embarking. It's always a recalibration and a reassessing of attitude and the old, tired ways of proceeding, which are hard to shake for any of us." 

Every opportunity to move in the direction of change (and there are infinitely many, especially in my classroom, especially with Jesus) is countered by a pull back into our old selves--our previous failures, our destructive habits. Into the families we were born into and the ways of thinking that have guided us this far. Not just gang kids. All of us. For some, an innate distrust of the people around us. For others, the allure of following a few hardened men into retaliation. Instead of grace, a skewed version of justice, meted out inconsistently and, ironically, unjustly.

It's all just semantics until you decide for yourself. Justice. Grace. Truth. Forgiveness. Resilience. Reconciliation. Just words until you decide that you want them defined and active in your own life, part of your own story. The decision brings with it hard work--we are promised that. Forgiveness is always harder than hardening your heart or painting hardness across your face. Grace is always harder than anger. Humility is always harder than pride. But it's the way to stop cycles of violence and undo the work of tragic childhoods. It's the way of justice and peace, and it's what we need for our hearts to survive.

thank you, mr. president

This week, I was given a very wonderful gift by the State of California.

President's Week.

President's Week is a beautiful gift that the state gives to exacerbated teachers and mentors everywhere when they just happen to run out of money. While I would usually protest budget cuts for public schools and have a mouthful to say about the priorities of the state, this week I'm keeping my mouth shut. 

Because it's President's Week.

So, in honor of the 44 of them, I have taken a week for myself. 

Now it's time to say "thank you."

Mr. President(s): Thank you for allowing me to sleep in, five days in a row, no questions asked. Thank you for not judging me when I stay in bed reading for the better part of the morning. I appreciate you creating space in my schedule for yoga. And nutrition. I'll give you the credit for the time I was able to spend reconnecting with friends and old coworkers. Thank you for the space to sit outside and enjoy the perfect San Diego weather, to consider a million different things, to hold babies, to be lazy, to play way too many games of Scramble with Friends, to do what I wanted to do, to slow down and just be.

I've never been more thankful for democracy. 

found here

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found here