Jesus, Fix the Daffodil

Today as Glenn removed the last of our furnishings from the rail car in Port Royal, that despite its immobility, carried the weight of our entrepreneurial dreams, I retreated to Bluffton with Espy. I packed a picnic for us, and we enjoyed several hours at the park before I texted Glenn to verify that the task had been completed. The caboose was cleared, and our furnishings/literacy materials were tucked away within our tool shed. Over dinner, Glenn commented on the paradox of time, and specifically the alarming contrast of time invested in building something versus the swiftness of its disassembly. 

This afternoon, as Espy and I gradually made our way back towards the Broad River, we took a detour to pick daffodils at a local farm. While in most instances, I am far too indecisive for claiming favorites, I can say without any reticence that daffodils are my favorite flower. I appreciate their sweet fragrance and sunlit hue, but these attributes are incidental to my appreciation for the bright perennial. I am drawn to daffodils for their unspoken promise of impending spring. Without fail, their blooms burst forth in colorful opposition to even the most wearisome of winters. 

Today, Espy and I picked dozens of daffodils, and I tried in vain to teach my earnest helper to pluck stems from the ground, rather than directly beneath the bloom. 

Once Espy declared that we had enough daffodils in our bucket, a kind gentleman helped to bag the stemmed daffodils in water, while making a separate water-free bag for the stemless blooms that Espy had plucked. We paid for our respective bouquets and returned to the car.

While driving home, Espy entertained herself with the yellow stemless blooms in her bag. Caught within my own thoughts, I registered that Espy was playing in the backseat, but I did not pay attention to the content of her imagined dialogue between Super Kitty figurines and the daffodils.

As I approached a stoplight, Espy cried out, "Oh no! It's broken!"

I glanced at the backseat, and she held the dismembered petals of one of the blooms.

"That's ok," I assured her, "We have lots of other flowers."

"Dear Jesus, Please fix my broken daffodil!" Espy pleaded.

She earnestly repeated the prayer several times, to no avail. The flower did not repair itself.

I struggled with how to respond because:

1. She's two and talks to Jesus without prompting or pretense? This was not the first time that she has issued a seemingly spontaneous supplication before Jesus; a couple weeks ago, I overheard her praying to Jesus while on the potty. She was asking him to return her pacifiers... And while I would love to take credit for modeling this sort of "ordinary" presentation of requests to Jesus, our prayers are typically issued at dedicated meal times, and we do not incite her to participate other than to name something she is grateful for that day.
2. How do you tell a two-year-old that not all prayers are answered in the way we intend? How do I tell her that sometimes Jesus allows things to be broken? 

As I mulled over what to say, Espy grew quiet. I looked in my rearview mirror, and she was rolling up each of the individual flower pedals into little yellow "burritos" for her Super Kitties. She took a dab of the pollen from the stamen and created a yellow spot on her finger and then nose. She giggled to herself. 

Espy quickly moved past the unrequited request for miraculous restoration and took up the task of repurposing the broken flower for her own investigation and entertainment.

It struck me how intuitively Espy accepted the flower's brokenness as she sought a new way to engage and restore a sense of purpose to the small pieces of organic refuse.

As so many systems that I value have been or are being actively dismantled, a two-year-old provided an explicit model of how to respond to the brokenness. 

It is tempting to stop at prayer or for those of us more prone to emotion than religious persuasion, to stop at anger and enumerating grievances... but ultimately, both responses fail to redress the dismembered promise. We must engage in the act of restoring. Redemption was and has always depended upon the actions of the individual.

It's the act of touching the leper

It's the voice crying out in dissent

It's the choice to heal on the Sabbath

It's the breaking of bread with known enemies

It's the sacrifice of love on the cross

It's the empty tomb despite the Roman guard

It's a little girl re-purposing a broken daffodil.

May we all take on our role in the act of restoration.

James 2:17

Ballots and Stones

Typically, I remain relatively quiet about politics, and even now as I type these words, I question their purpose. Our society has been ineffectively divided into a shouting match between two echo chambers, and for my part, I prefer to ignore the hatefully frivolous cacophony. When it comes to politics, I know my beliefs, but I also know that I am ignorant about the experiences of many others, so it is not my place to dispute lived truths.

Yet, here I am… burdened in a way that compels my preferred catharsis— the written word.

“In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.” John 1:1

I hold fast to a single truth that I have come to know as existing beyond any experience or circumstance. And that truth is the Word. And it is the reason for this attempt at lexical reprieve.

The Word has been misinterpreted, manipulated, and weaponized within both political echo chambers, and I can no longer abide the resonant truths that are so blatantly disregarded:

• The Word is not an entity that can be owned, purchased, or employed to advance the fallible schemes (or agendas) of man. To compare the Word to a candidate or to defend a platform with decontextualized Scripture completely denigrates the purpose, power, and message. I try to harness my judgment, but I am overwhelmed with an urge to turn over tables in the vainglorious temples of social media when I see posts that (at best) reduce the Word to a political platform… at worst, the Word is used to ostracize, alienate, and “other” those with whom Jesus would share His grace and His table. 

• The Word is not a stone. The Word itself is a seed (Mark 4:31). While many of us are drawn to the apparent strength of a boulder, a seed is more powerful in ways that we cannot fathom (also Mark 4). A boulder may be attractive in its large size and potential impact on the landscape, but a seed produces life and generates more seeds to continue a cycle of change that will always outlast the cracked earth. Many of us desire a legalism etched in stone, or affixed to classroom walls, but that is not how the Word was written or intended to be preserved (e.g., Hebrews 8:10; 2 Corinthians 3:1-6). The Word lives and breathes in the hearts of those who love Him. Attempts at legalism are a return to the systems that Christ died to deconstruct. 

• The Word does not use fear to gain favor. “Fire and brimstone” may be real concepts, but they are not and cannot be an impetus to faith. An invitation to faith is through love—a humble, selfless love that is attentive but never anxious (Matthew 25:1-13). When fear is employed to gain favor, whether it's fear of an adversary or fear of the future, those of us who have accepted the invitation to faith should know better. We have examples of those who were elected by fear throughout the Old Testament, and yet, we fall for the same fear-mongering tactics over and over again. Fear is a silent invitation to the “othering” that can quickly devolve into a covert hatred— which is antithetical to the Word, which leads me to my final truth…

• The Word does not cast stones. One of my favorite vignettes from the life of Jesus lives in John 8. Jesus is the only one qualified to cast stones at a woman caught in the act of adultery, yet He refrains. It is the only instance in the Scripture when the writer tells us that Jesus writes, and I long to know what word(s) He traced in the sand as He undoubtedly drew the attention of the crowd away from the woman in her moment of shame. He met her at eye-level in the dust, and, perhaps, traced her name in the sand, as He extended grace instead of punishment. The Word is still the only one qualified to condemn (though many have eagerly taken on that role), yet, to all of us, His hands remain open. I wonder if that is why we filled his palms with nails and blood— because we wanted the judgement, the closed fists, the stones that He refused to cast. If the current political landscape is any indication, we (inclusive of both political parties and many, maybe most, westernized churches) would crucify Him again.

With these truths in mind, I beseech those still reading this cathartic litany, to cast votes, not stones as we approach this impending presidential election.

An end note... I love our church family very much because of the love that is so generously shared within the congregation. My hope is that this message does not inspire further dissent, but instead, urges those of us who love the Word to consider our civic responsibilities in light of these truths... and to pause before posting or adding to the cacophony of our chosen echo chambers.

The Eve of Two

 Dear Esperanza Grace, 

On the eve of your second birthday, the sisters of Joy and Grief once more hold hands. Grief reminds me that the sands of time are constantly and quickly slipping through my pinched fingers at the center of this hour glass. Joy reminds me of the precious grains that I have yet to know in my grasp. 

I grieve and rejoice because your love for me will change in ways that I cannot control or predict. I suppose it's the inevitability of Adam and Eve's eviction from Eden. You, too, someday will make a choice that is "not me." It may be choosing to consume something that I consider "unhealthy;" it may be choosing to spend time with a partner or friend, rather than me; it could be neglecting to do something I asked you to do. The story of Adam has become all the more heartbreaking in light of my love for you because I know that I will never stop wanting you to choose me. I will never stop loving you. Yet, our love is not sincere unless you get that choice again and again and again. And therein resides the Gospel.

We live in a society that frequently confuses love with comfort, but comfort is predicated upon condition and circumstance.  Love is neither conditional nor circumstantial. It is the tension of equal and opposing forces held in equal esteem. Comfort can role play as Joy, but Joy is only known when held alongside Grief. Love bears these sisters in equal measure.

This evening, Grief said "good night" to one-year-old Espy for the last time. In the morning, Joy will hug two-year-old Espy for the first time. 

And love holds all of these precious grains of sand in gratitude.

I love you, Espy Grace.

Always,

Momma

Week 1

Week 81

It Brought Me To You

I lost count of the pregnancy tests when the count exceeded my age... that was around the time that the anxious anticipation which buoyed my first years of hoping turned into desperation and masochism. I knew the outcome, but a plastic stick offered irrefutable evidence. 

Infertility is divisive. Infertility poisoned the relationship between my mind and body. The feeling of distrust still lingers at times. While my womb seems unwilling to hold a baby, poisonous lies seem to eagerly occupy the emptiness. 

Infertility is lonely. "...She just doesn't get it because she's not a mom. How old are your little ones?" I was babysitting, and I took the kids to Chick-fil-a when a friendly young mom struck up a conversation with me in the indoor play place. While my honest response made us both uncomfortable, I much preferred these unintentional provocations to the intentional isolation I experienced from a few individuals I considered friends. As time wore on, and my womb remained empty, I was sympathetically excluded from a handful of baby showers. While I know that the intentions were pure, the poisonous lies became all the more voracious as I bought baby gifts to be given without any occasion for exchange-- she knows you are just one pair of delicately wrapped baby booties away from falling apart. She knows you are nothing more than this grief, and the world is capable of greater joy when no one has to tiptoe around you and your sterile egg shells.

Infertility is humiliating. It's fluorescent lights, prescription hormones, and a thousand indignities sheathed by an ill-fitting hospital gown. It is frightening how quickly indecencies are normalized when longing becomes desperation... yet, I paid for it over and over again. Thousands of dollars paid to defile what I once held as sacred. Any romanticized notions of life's conception were shed with the undergarments that I neatly folded and hid beneath my purse. I paid to be medically violated by nearly a dozen doctors and physician's assistants on a routine basis, but hiding my undergarments felt important every single time. During one appointment, the doctor walked into the room as I was still undressing. As soon as he politely excused himself, I cried in my humiliation. It feels silly and shameful admitting how much I grieved the loss of that final sense of dignity. I suppose when I couldn't hold my dreams, my grasp on other things, including my sense of dignity, tightened.

Infertility is deceptive. You are required to control everything while in reality lacking control of what matters most. It's carefully planning every detail from diet to weekly appointments, daily prescriptions, and controlled cycles. It's being told that you must wait on hold for the next available operator, but you cannot engage in any other endeavors while you are on hold because the operator could pick up at any moment, and if you're not ready with paper and pen, you will have to enter the queue, yet again. Inevitably, you get disconnected a half dozen times. You can't jump the line, and you may or may not actually connect with a live person eventually. It could be days, months, years, or never, but if it's never, you get to call in six more times for a reduced rate.

And Yet, as impossible as it felt, infertility is where I found my faith again.

Jesus is restorative. He is working to heal the broken trust between my body and mind because He knows me intimately, and He sees what I cannot fathom-- that I am fearfully and wonderfully made (Psalm 139:14).

Jesus is near. He does not find my grief burdensome. He meets me and stays by my side even when I elect to cover myself in darkness (Psalm 139:11-12). 

Jesus is restorative. He dignifies me through grace. He lost His dignity to buy back mine. He knows what it is to be humiliated, and yet He endured so that His grasp on me could become secure and eternal.

Jesus is faithful. He used infertility and grief to create a way to fulfill His promise through adoption. He knew where the journey was leading. He saw our daughter, and He formed her with us in mind. He knew every detail and delivered her in His perfect timing (Psalm 139:16). 

I am grateful for my infertility because it brought me to you.

The Loveliest Language

The first time I heard you coo, I was sitting at the counter in my mama's kitchen. Your grandfather sent a video of your first feeding. Despite our expectations, we could not be present in the hospital room when you entered the world. I cried as I watched that video over and over again. I wanted to memorize your voice. 

It has become my sole purpose each day-- to learn you... to know you better than I have known anything or anyone, to anticipate your needs, to translate each sound and gesture, to be the loving response. You and I are composing a new kind of poetry, and each day, in each moment, I am learning your syntax and the semantics of us.

I finally understand why I've struggled to put into words my relationship and feelings towards my own mother-- because Webster did not compose our lexicon. We did. My mama studied me before words confined our language. Before punctuation denoted each of my emotions, my mama knew... and she still does.

I am privileged to come from a lineage of extraordinary mothers. I witnessed the love of my Mamaw for my mama. She packaged it in jars of strawberry preserves at midnight. She expressed it in the smell of my mom's favorite gravy cooking long before dawn announced the coming day. She tenderly squeezed it into the palm of my mama's hand when dementia stole her words. Even then, their language remained. 

My mama passed this language on to me... in shared tears, warm embraces, long walks, and comfort foods prepared for any and every occasion. It's in the standing invitation to climb into her bed with no explanation or excuse needed. Sometimes you just need proximity to the only one who speaks the silent language of your soul.

My mama learned my language, as I am learning yours, Sweet Esperanza. 

Yours is an ethereal language that resurrects a joy that I thought had died inside me. 

Yours is the loveliest language of all, and to me, it always will be.

Gratitude and Gift Wrap

Apparently I am a hoarder of gift wrap. I am convinced that everyone has a bag filled with gift bags and wrapping paper, but as I bravely ventured into Espy's closet last night to conquer the avalanche of items that have cluttered the small, precious storage space, I realized that I have a problem. I found cards from my wedding shower, gift bags from my years teaching preschool, and this beautiful ode to my hot plate written by my co-teacher in celebration of my move into my own apartment eleven years ago (a studio in the Richmond fan district with a refrigerator, sink, and hot plate as the only kitchen appliances). 

Espy slumbered on the tummy time mat beside me as I dove into a series of glittery, ribboned time capsules. 

Gratitude has been the inevitable destination of my recent digressions down memory lane. Words are like these preserved scraps of wrapping paper-- they cannot encapsulate the fullness of my appreciation. I am left creating a patchwork quilt of mismatched words. The ill-assorted wrapping contrasts with the beauty of the enclosed gift. 

Fourteen months ago, in an act of faith, we moved away from a community that we loved. On the drive from Virginia to South Carolina, I received a text message from my "predecessor" at the school where I would be teaching in Beaufort. Without knowing our story, she texted that she was thinking of me and praying that "our family would grow in beautiful ways as a result of our move." She had no idea the weight that her words carried. She did not know our story, nor our reasons for relocating... and yet, somehow, she knew how to pray for us.

Twelve months ago, this same teaching "predecessor," Amy, invited me to join her small group. I drove out to Bluffton on a Wednesday evening and met my first friends in Beaufort. In November, Amy's small group became the first safe place for my admission that I was struggling, and in the dark and terrifying months that followed, two of the women from my small group shared their own stories of mental health with me. They made me feel less alone when I spent most days convinced that I was a worthless burden. They invited me to try new methods for mindfulness, including therapy, acupuncture, and yoga. They provided a safe place to share the shadows that threatened to consume me... and suddenly, the shadows felt less threatening.

Ten months ago, we visited a church on a Saturday evening. In truthfulness, we visited the church because we thought that an evening service would be more convenient for our schedules, but the pastor welcomed us and taught with the humble authority of Christ. Both Glenn and I left knowing that we had found our church home. In the months that followed, Glenn's gifts were elicited to speak to the congregation regarding the historical context for the recent events in Ukraine, and I received the opportunity to worship alongside one of the dearest friends that I have made since our move. Upon sharing a bit of our story, we were embraced by prayer. In her own words, the worship leader and my dear friend, Lauren, indicated that she "broke through the gates of heaven" with her prayers. It must have worked... Since Espy's arrival in our home, our Church of the Palms family has showered us with generous gifts. Each day, Espy and I get excited for the "mail fairy" to arrive because it truly feels magical. While we were still strangers, we were ushered into a church family that has loved us so generously.

I could fill a thousand walk-in closets with the wrapping paper scraps of God's provision over the past year and beyond. Our school communities here (in Beaufort) and back in Goochland have continued to overwhelm us with love, acceptance, prayer, and celebration. I could write pages about the parents of former students who have organized baby showers, the teacher friends who have showed up with meals and diapers, and the teacher leaders who have loved me through the amazing summits and devastating valleys of our journey into parenthood. In all parts of our story, I have been blessed by the glittery bits of friendship and the ribbons of my family. 

Last night, as I attempted to organize and pair down the bag of bags, ribbons, and bows, I found myself on my knees-- the familiar posture for my gratitude these days.

Despite my clumsy attempt at wrapping it, I am living in the reality of the promise that every good and perfect gift comes from our God. Even the most beautiful wrapping paper cannot compare to the gifts He gives us.

I suppose there are far worse things than being a hoarder of wrapping paper.

The Golden Hour

 4AM

She is sleeping so sweetly in the crib beside me with her hands forever folded beside her cheek. 

These are my hours. Before the sun splashes away the last bits of darkness. I sit and watch the sun's tide come in, and for the first time since I can remember, I am not anxious for the hour to pass. For years, I waited for this sweet exhaustion... to not just witness the tidal change, but to feel it... to participate in it. God knew the desire that He had generously bestowed on my heart, and in His perfect timing, He obliged. 

She stirs and stills once more.

Years ago, when my faith was pristine and unblemished by trial, I went bird banding with a friend from the flower shop where I worked. For those unfamiliar with the technique, bird banding involves venturing into the woods before sunrise to set up mist nets within the tree canopy. Over the course of the dawn's incoming tide, the bird banders revisit each net to identify, tag, and release the captured birds. It is one of the oldest techniques for researching individual birds and their migratory patterns. 

Espy whimpers, and I carefully reach into the crib and wrap the blanket over her liberated toes. Sleep returns. She is stilled once more.

As a neophyte without license, my participation was limited, but I quietly trailed my older and more experienced bird banding colleague. Silence was carefully kept so as not to disrupt the delicate creatures... It seems like words are a much more valuable currency during this golden hour. 

As sunlight confined darkness to its shadows, we approached a mist net with a very small stain of color. A ruby-throated hummingbird was caught in the tender grip of the webbing. Without a specialized license, it is illegal to band hummingbirds. They are especially delicate. I watched as my friend gingerly removed the lattice from her fragile feathers. Seemingly aware of her helplessness, the little bird did not stir or startle. Once removed from the net, my coworker placed the stunned creature in the palm of my hand. For a moment that felt like eternity, the hummingbird and I took each other in. As she recognized her liberation, she levitated on buzzing wings. She lingered for a moment in quiet gratitude before darting out of sight. 

The present uncertainties will overwhelm me if I let them, and the shadows whisper that this tide won't last, but it is here now, and I am bathed in its light.

Espy coos. Wings stir. I reach into the crib and gently lift her to my chest. Her gentle breath brushes my collarbone like feathers. Good morning, my precious little hummingbird.