The Jasmine Plant

"But we have this treasure in clay pots so that the awesome power belongs to God and doesn’t come from us.  We are experiencing all kinds of trouble, but we aren’t crushed. We are confused, but we aren’t depressed. We are harassed, but we aren’t abandoned. We are knocked down, but we aren’t knocked out.  

We always carry Jesus’ death around in our bodies so that Jesus’ life can also be seen in our bodies.  We who are alive are always being handed over to death for Jesus’ sake so that Jesus’ life can also be seen in our bodies that are dying.  So death is at work in us, but life is at work in you."

 2 Corinthians 4:7–12  Common English Bible.

A few weeks ago, I was thinking about these verses as they apply to my pregnancy and growth.  I have this treasure growing inside my fragile and organic body, and so much is happening by the beautiful design of our creator, and out of my hands. Some power is in my hands.  The power to respond positively to stress and confusion with rest and curiosity.  The power to say no when I have done too much, and the opportunity to say yes as an answer to my intuition.

The part that gets me is the verse that says, “We always carry Jesus’ death around in our bodies, so that Jesus’ life can also be seen in our bodies.” As the life of our new child is starting to be “revealed in my body”, pains of loss continue to meet me at the same time I feel stirrings of joy.  My body continues to show signs of health and growth, and at the same time, I carry the memory of previous injuries.  When Paul wrote these words, he was talking about living as a witness to the sacrifice that Jesus had made, and the promise that awaits those who believe in the power of God.  I feel like this image also carries forward as a testimony to how God can redeem our earthly bodies and offer us new life in the here and now. I can’t help wondering if others who have survived great suffering, physical and/or emotional, also feel this juxtaposition of emotions, as we literally carry our varied experiences with us on our journey towards big dreams and new life.  When I was overwhelmed with pain and suffering, I longed for a time when all of the pain would be gone. Now that I merely carry the memories, the pain seems to add depth and beauty to the joy of new life.

A friend of mine suggested that this image of holding life and death at once exists many places in nature.  Trees, roses, bodies of water, and the list goes on and on.  So, I went looking for a little rose plant to paint in my contemplation.  At the flower market, before I could find any roses, I walked past this Jasmine plant.  The incredible, fragrant smell was overwhelming from this one plant.  Even more remarkable was the fact that it was filled with dead blossoms and stems as well as buds and beautifully flowering branches.  I knew that this is what I needed to paint, so I bought it.

I took it home and tried to take a great picture in the back yard.  I’ll say it.  Part of it was ugly.  Part of it was beautiful.  I had a hard time capturing it and getting what I thought would make a good painting.  Eventually I decided on a few pictures and printed them to paint.

My drawing turned out nicely, but I was having a hard time making a good contrast of colors.  There was just so much green, so much white, and too little purple.  So, I added more purple to the background, and that sort of helped, but it still looked so boring. Then I took it to my watercolor club and one of the members suggested that the plant was just floating.  It needed some context.  If I give it a defined table and shadows, the painting will have more structure. “Don’t rush it!” He reminded me, “It will take many layers, but it will be worth it."

So I started with a darker blue that I made from a bold blue and orange.  I added a layer of shadows and waited.  I added them again and waited a bit more.  I started to see a few trees in the background, so I made a nice brown by taking that shadow color and adding other colors in my palette.  I placed the trees and the blossoms and the background started to take shape.  I added the path in our back yard and some grass.  I added more shadows. The brown I had used for the trees made a nice addition for the dead breaches and blossoms and the soil underneath the plant.

How had I left out these parts before?  Only painting the “life” or bright colors, made the painting seem lifeless. Adding the shadows started to bring the little bush to life.  It sort of jumps off of the page now.  The death and life, the light and the dark, all coming together for a beautiful, almost fragrant, image.  So many times in my life, I dreamed of a day when there would be no more sorrow or pain and yet, especially during pregnancy, I feel like I’m discovering the beauty found in the depth of our experience: the risks taken, the lessons learned, the paths conquered, the valleys explored, the peaks sought after. Perhaps, the beauty comes in the redeeming moments when our tired hands find a new function, when our worn-in bodies serve a new purpose, when we release the expectations we have for ourselves—what we know is possible—and we accept the new gift of life that God is offering us—greater than we could ever imagine.

May you take a few moments today to sit in awe and wonder at the beauty of life you have lived and are now currently living. As you carry the breadth of your experience in your body, may you find joy in God’s continual desire to add new life. Even if our imagination can’t handle it, perhaps we can try to hold this life and death in our bodies.  In the end, may we find that the Holy Spirit holds all these things for us with a fragrant peace that surpasses all understanding. Alleluia, Amen.

The Bounce in My Step

It happened. I bounced up the steps, got to the top, and kept going. Everyday I feel stronger, healthier, and more beautiful. This is not because I’m following our diet perfectly, sucking up the pain and forgetting about our loss. The growth has been from facing the loss, enjoying what’s in front of me, and being honest about how I feel inside. Sometimes that means crying when I “should be” happy. Sometimes that means more milk in my coffee and honey in my tea. Sometimes that means guarding my heart while caring for others.

A few weeks ago, I had an unwavering upswell of my grief. At first, I felt like something was wrong with me, “Why can’t I get past this? Shouldn’t I be better at controlling my emotions by now?” Then I started to question if I was actually physically sick or something. When I went to the clinic, the PA said, “Give yourself a break. You’ve been through a lot. Infertility is hard.” That’s when it hit me. My sadness wasn’t just coming from our onetime loss, it stemmed from our monthly loss, the reoccurring heartbreak in the disappointment of still not being pregnant.

Since then, I’ve been thinking about how facing our grief is like peeling an onion, you get through one layer and it starts to peel back another, and then there’s another, and more tears keep coming, until you get to the center, you let out all of your tears, take a big breath, wash your hands, and reach for the next challenge. (Robbie also suggested that the metaphor continues when we try to put the pieces back over that grief and tuck it away, but the tears still come.)

The revealing of each layer of grief brings the other layers up to the surface. Loss of one parent or grandparent, stirs up the old feelings of the loss of another to the point that the raw grief is intensified by the previous loss.  So, each month, our momentary loss stirs up the pains of our miscarriage, which stirs up the loss of our grandparents, and other past losses along the way.

My first memory of grief is standing a the garage sale, as we were preparing to move from West Virginia to North Carolina.  Someone was coming to take my dog, Koney. I didn’t want him to go, but I knew the new owners would take good care of him and we couldn’t take him with us.  I cried big tears as I let go of my best friend.  My second memory of grief was moving from Charlotte, North Carolina to Wilmington, Dela-“where?” as we called it. We had the best house with our best friends living across the street and a pool within walking distance and the best church I could ever imagine at the time. The last Sunday at our church, the choir sang Micheal W. Smith’s song, “Friends are Friends Forever,” and I cried big tears, again, and again, each time I heard that song.  My third memory of grief is still a big one for me, the loss of my Mama, Rosemary. I’ve written about my grandmothers before in A Thanksgiving for Motherhood and Learning from our Grandmothers.

As I remember the grief, I’m also reminded of the adventure. Each loss accompanied the beginning of a great adventure. Giving up my dog easily precedes the fun and exciting time we would have in Charlotte. Sadly enough, Mama’s death runs parallel with the beginning of my career as a flutist. I put my love for her into flute playing and even visualized her watching and listening to my concerts and recitals in years to come. This blog started with one of my favorite adventures, my journey to the Czech Republic, and yet it came only in my availability after a hand injury.

Somehow my stories of grief and loss have always bumped up against the stories of my greatest adventures. None of those adventures came to us by choice.  None of the losses caused my adventures. By the grace of God, my grief was transformed into beauty as I faced a new challenge with the energy I was holding for something else.  Like when you make a meal for one guest, and then the guest never shows, so you take the meal to someone who needs it and find a whole different experience.  

I wonder what I will look back and see as the great adventure that we are on right now? The adventure of changing the way we eat and think about food? The adventure of playing with watercolor? The adventure of starting our new worshiping community @thelightmhk? The adventure of marriage and cherishing life together? The adventure of telling my story and listening to others?

All of it. This outlook of adventure gives me a bounce in my step, knowing that with each step, fall and bounce our creator is “continuing the great work which has already begun inside” of me.  The holes and cracks in my heart open up space for new growth and life, this is the good news of the love Jesus talks about: 

Love + Grace = Life + Death + Resurrection.

Forgiving God

Beloved, take note of this: everyone should be quick to listen, slow to speak and slow to become angry, for one’s anger does not bring about the righteous life that God desires.

 James 1:19–20

I’ve been pretty cranky lately. Scientifically the Keto diet mimics the state of fasting where your body turns to burning fat instead of carbs. Who would want to always have that 24 hr fasting high all the time? A crazy person. Or maybe a sane person who had no pre-existent conflict, grief or pressure in their life.

Life is hard. Trying to change your eating habits while life is hard sucks. It sucks.

So, I eat one of Robbie’s 2 carb chocolates or my 5 carb nut mix or steak or ribs and try to re-create “comfort food”. Here’s the catch: Food has never brought lasting comfort, and true satisfaction in food, only opens the door for gratitude, it doesn’t get you there. 

My challenge is that my anger stage of grief is finally stepping up to the plate. 

I am not doubting God's power. I am angry at the use of that power. How am I supposed to trust what I can’t see, when God has already let me fall so hard? And (to borrow a phrase from "Rising Strong") this is "the story I’m making up": God was watching my baby suffer and let him die. God said, His life isn’t worth saving. Then I had to bear the physical and emotional ramifications of that decition. This is the story I’m making up, but it feels like real truth and I can’t get past it. 

So, today I decided to write a new chapter. I know scientifically and theologically that withholding forgiveness only hurts the offended. But who do you forgive when really no one is to blame? Way back to days after Bob’s death, I remember praying, saying I don’t know where to aim my anger because I don’t know who or what to blame. “Blame me,” Jesus said. “I can take it. I did take it. I suffered the punishment for this and every other horrible act on that cross. Let go of your anger and unleash it at me.” 

I have been incredibly “slow to anger”, until we started this new diet and suddenly all of the physical and mental challenges improved in my life to the point that only one struggle remained: why is God withholding a child from two people who would love and teach and nurture with such passion and mercy, with God’s image as their goal!?!

I am losing weight. I look great. So many awesome things are happening in our life, and yet the sadness and the anger remained.

So, this morning I decided to do the scientific and Christian thing, I am going to forgive God. God doesn’t need it, but I do.

This is how I can move to the next chapter, by first writing a chapter of forgiveness. Jesus, you said you want the blame, now I will do what is required of me: I will show you mercy and forgive you as you have forgiven me. 

Now I can face the day with joy. Alleluia, Amen.