Jesus & The Starbucks Connection

I don't claim to be a Christian anymore, but that doesn't mean I don't think about the faith I grew up in. In fact I think about it a lot. Write about it a lot, as you know if you stop by here with any frequency. Often I write in my sadness and anger, looking back at a former set of beliefs that hurt me in more ways than it added to me. I've left evangelical Christianity behind, but I think it would be easier for some people to believe that because I say I'm not a Christian, that that means I hate God, don't believe there is a God or have completely stopped thinking about God.

Fact is, I'm not a Christian and I think about God a lot.

I especially respect the person of Jesus as represented in the Bible. His interaction with people, especially those the religious establishment of his day judged, wrote off, condemned, rejected and abandoned is simply beautiful to me.

I'm not a Christian and I think about Jesus a lot.

Jesus, according to the Biblical account of his life, interacted with people in some really incredible ways. He connected with the people they WERE, rather than asking them to change, telling them they should change, or even asking them to emulate his own actions and behaviors. When Jesus interacted with people, he effectively made a "place" between the people he was talking to and himself. A place where they could sit down together with no shame and no hiding of their true selves. He understood the context of their pain. He saw THEM and didn't define them by their actions or behaviors.

That "place" he created for himself and whoever he was relating to was what he called "The Kingdom of Heaven." It wasn't like a lot of our experiences of "church" where you have to dress up, hide your pain, pretend you are "better" than you are and act like you have it together. Jesus, over and over, looked for and saw the REAL person underneath the behavior, actions and pain, related to and loved unconditionally THAT person. The connection between Jesus and the person he was relating to was for many the first time they had ever been utterly naked AND utterly loved and accepted. That's exactly how I want to be loved and how I want to love others.

But what was going on in those moments? I think I know. This wasn't all about God being able to magically see into people's hearts. That may or may not have also been going on. But I think to only define Jesus' treatment of others by that "divinity" would be a grave error. He seemed to think others were capable to doing the same. So what is it that he was doing that we are also able to do?

I think it was simply that Jesus approached connection with others with the expectation/goal of seeing through the shit to the real person and loving THAT person. I think it's that simple. He was living proof that the religious way of approaching people with a, "Are you 'good' or 'bad?' I get to decide," attitude was not loving and had no place in the kingdom of heaven. He simply saw. And he loved. Period.

So what was happening that created such a "real" connection between Jesus and those he interacted with? I've been thinking a lot lately about how, when we accidentally or on purpose connect with someone outside an established human construct, we often feel and experience a "connection" that we wouldn't normally. That connection is, at least in my mind, usually of a spiritual nature. Something happens when we are connecting with someone in a way that isn't governed by rules, norms or standards. It's almost as though we can sneak in a backdoor, by-passing the part of our brains that says, "Act like this; talk like this; this person is that; this interaction is limited to ..."

It happens in Starbucks sometimes. You might be sitting there in a sunny spot, watching stranger after stranger walk by, but then one stops and asks if they can share your table since the others are all filled. Every once in awhile that thing happens where two people move from strangers to people who "see" the other one in a matter of minutes, simply because they shared a table at Starbucks.

It happened in the streets of Christchurch, New Zealand a few weeks ago during the earthquake, and then again in the aftermath of the tsunamis in Japan. Strangers clung to on another in a sudden, illogical intimacy as they stood in the streets and watched helplessly while family, friends and colleagues were crushed or drowned. All of a sudden two people who would normally have no reason to even speak to one another spontaneously joined hands and cried into one another's shoulders. People who would never have helped one another because of gaps in age, gender, socio-economic level, etc. became one another's very real saviours, friends, brothers.

It happened in my family when one of my sisters gave her son up for adoption nearly 8 years ago. It is an open adoption, which means our entire family has a real relationship with my nephew and his adoptive family. Open adoption is new enough that there aren't "rules" for how to do it. We've made them up as we've gone along, following heart rather than head, without even meaning to or realizing we're doing it. While others would think we "lost" my nephew to another family, the reality has been that we "gained" a sister and brother "in-law," a second nephew and two extra nieces. My kids have an extra aunt and uncle, as well as extra cousins. There's no map, no rules and no "optimum result" besides my nephew being loved. That's it. So much beauty has grown out of what could have been a heart-wrenching loss.

Sometimes we experience this connection with someone else in the beginning stages of a romantic relationship. Often times it is at that "love is blind" stage of a relationship that we are able to see the "real," the good and the beauty in a person simply because we WANT to see it and are looking for it.

But my husband and I have experienced it in moments we'd never have expected it, as we sort through the anger, hurt, sadness and disappointment of our marriage. Our love isn't blind anymore, and in fact, the eyes with which we see all too clearly now often brim with tears. We're working through some serious shit in our relationship. It hurts like hell. But sometimes after hours of agonizing conversation, we find ourselves laughing through tears about some silly thing totally unconnected to the bitter pain that is still wet on our cheeks. In those moments of half-hysterical hilarity, we see in one another the old Cheryl and James that stood on the balcony of a pink house all those years ago, watching the stars 'til the sun came up. Sometimes the giggles lead to a tearful embrace and for a few minutes, the pain is gone and it's just ... "us," however impossibly, connecting.

Wherever or however it happens, we've all felt it to some degree. And I guess I'm just asking if maybe those "moments"—those connections—whether for a brief time or a lifetime, are what life is all about. I'm asking if maybe Jesus was living like that. I'm wondering what would happen if we intentionally lived like this, as much as possible.

How much in our lives and in our world would change if we lifted the human "constructs" off and just looked around at one another with eyes like Jesus'?

Untitled

A couple years ago I learned that the "tulip tree" in my parents' yard is actually called a "saucer magnolia." I'm not sure who started calling it a tulip tree, but I know why: the blooms each February around this time look a lot like tulips...big giant pink blooms with petals that are strong and almost fleshy. Even gangly at times. These are the sort of blooms that a storm can knock off the tree, but once on the ground, it takes a lot to destroy the actual bloom itself. They definitely aren't delicate, that's for sure. They are gorgeous, strong and always seem a bit on the un-tamed, earthy, wild side.

I don't know if I love the tulip tree because it's just beautiful in a unique way that pleases me, or if it's because it always blooms near my birthday, February 26th, or both. Probably both. There's something comforting about it. Every year it blooms. It isn't phased by what's going on in my little life. It blooms, like clock-work, no matter what, every year.

It bloomed the first year we lived in that house, when I was turning 14 and trying to learn to love the United States again after two years of running free in the green hills, snap-shot-fast storms of the eastern highlands of Papua New Guinea.
It bloomed the Spring I broke up with my first boyfriend while we sat looking at an impossibly-pink sun set over the little lake.
It bloomed the Spring leading up to my wedding in a small, stone church in the country town we would eventually build our own house in.
It bloomed the February my second daughter was born, only 6 days before my birthday, her eyes huge and calm, even then.
It bloomed the February that my heart broke in two, or felt like I did, the shards mixing with old and new hurt, making a poisonous cocktail I would only be able to drink for six more months before it finally ate away a hole that I had no needle or thread to mend, or even fingers to carry them in.
It bloomed last year, the February that I lived in an apartment as a single mom, oblivious to the hurricane coming mere weeks later that would turn me upside down, shake me like a rag doll and leave me, almost lifeless and barely breathing with only a faint pulse.
And though I haven't been to my parents' house recently, I know, without needing to ask, that it's blooming this February, right now, in the days leading up to my birthday, even as I sit and write in my former-but-now-mine-again house, my husband in the next room, trying not to long too much for redemption but knowing I won't stop wanting it any more than I will stop wanting food.

So much has changed in my life in a space of only two years. There has been tremendous joy. There has been devastating heartbreak. There has been brilliant, shining hope. There has been deep, thick-as-mud depression. There has been startling love I swore I'd never allow myself to feel again. There has been throbbing, aching pain I hoped I could keep at bay by staying in safe, calm waters. Call me a masochist (or a romantic realist) but I find I've wandered off into those dangerous waters in spite of my vows not to and, sure enough, been turned upside down by a wave that wants to steal the bloody, beating, apparently-still-too-delicate heart out of me.

And yet every February, irregardless of what is going on, still water or storm, the tulip tree blooms. The only thing that changes is that the tree gets a bit taller every year and the number of blooms it holds multiplies. Those same blooms fall to the ground, eventually. And every year the gardener comes along and rakes the dying blooms into bags to dispose of. When I lived there still I would beg my parents and the gardener to leave the blooms for as long as possible. After a couple of weeks, a portion of the yard is covered in a blanket of pink that is almost as beautiful as the tree heavy-laden with the blooms weeks before when they were new and still attached to branches.

A few years ago I thought about planting a tulip tree here, in my yard. Maybe more than one. It only makes sense. Then I can enjoy it every day, all February, every year. It never happened.

Then last year I thought I would never live here again and I remember once thinking I was sadly glad I hadn't planted one here, as that would be painful to see when I drove up in the driveway to pick up my kids for my every-other-week with them. One more reminder of a dream that died. One more pang of disappointment that my love story didn't turn out as I planned.

And now, here I am, back in the house. There is still no tulip tree. Not yet. I can't buy a tulip tree for the same reasons I can't look at my wedding photos still, despite the fact that my husband and I are back together and want to be. These are things that rub against the wounds still, I expect for both of us. Sure, we are slowly healing. I have come so far in such a short amount of time, when I think about it.

And yet, that doesn't mean the pain is gone. It's no one's "fault." If I try to look around to find someone to hold responsible for this pain, there is no one face I settle on. Certainly not my husband's.

I look for the tell-tale bloody hands that reached into my chest and ruthlessly yanked my heart out before putting it back on my sleeve; I want to return that still-hemoraging heart back into those guilty hands that deserve to carry it around and listen to its soft-as-silk mewings of weak but still painfully-alive sorrow. I don't see bloody hands except for my own as they helplessly swaddle this heart of mine, its wounds still spitting blood every so often. I anxiously hope that, wrapped up in soft, handmade blankets it will drift into a deep, healing sleep and wake in the morning with bright eyes and a hungry, rooting mouth that I can hastily put on my breast to relieve the aching engorgement in my life. It seems, once again, I'm left to tend to my own heart with the tenderness of a mother. So I have. So I do. So I will.

After all, if we've learned anything this last year, it's to finally, sincerely believe that the other person has done their best, at every point along the way. And in spite of doing our best and in spite of, at each juncture, trying to make choices that will hurt everyone involved the least, we still walked away, wounded. It's like a car wreck; even when it's no one's fault, when all parties are doing their best to drive responsibly, accidents occur. People walk away wounded, or worse. Needing hospital care. Afraid to drive again. Shaken and haunted.

"Sadness is but a wall between two gardens," wrote Kahlil Gibran. That's a bright stone I find myself turning over and over in my hand, rhythmically, until it almost sounds like a prayer. Perhaps where I am today is standing in front of a wall that looks impossible to make a hole in or scale, even with the tallest ladder I can find in the back shed.

When I walk around in this garden, there is a sting when I see hard earth where I fondly remember laying (trustingly...innocently) back in a fairy ring of flowers. There is a twist of whatever that is that twists in our guts when I see a once-green, fruit-bearing tree toppled over, its roots askew the way a dead body's limbs lay in unnatural positions that you have never seen a human in even during dance, love-making or gymnastics. Dry, crunchy leaves still try to climb the garden walls in some last, desperate attempt to escape over and out. There is only the vestiges of what was once vibrant, green, buzzing with bees and fairly humming with the low, almost-indecipherable sounds of  insects walking in orderly lines, the slurping of roots underground as their always-thirsty mouths take what they need for growing, feathered bird wings flap and plump earthworms slowly turn earth over, seventeen pieces of dirt at a time.

Now the wind whips through empty air. Un-used oxygen catches the soonest plane out of town. Birds turn their downy heads away, skipping to some other richer earth in which to drop seeds and build nests and sing. They're not telling this garden's secrets; they're too well-bred for that. But that doesn't mean they are going to raise this year's batch of infants there, either.

There are not tulip trees here. And you know? I wouldn't want there to be. They have no place in this cemetary of dreams. They would find no rich earth with the worms having moved on. They wouldn't grow properly without a nest to weigh one branch down while another branch takes its turn growing. The tulip trees couldn't bloom without the muffled lullaby of fellow growing things escaping through ant tunnels and soothing them into a sweet slumber, dreams of growing teaching it which way to reach and when to stay in the bud and for how long.

Some days I press my ear against the wall of this garden and I swear I can hear life in the low murmurs of voices passing through stone. If I inhale while standing in the far corner of this nearly-lifeless garden, I swear I can almost smell Spring. I know there's life on the other side. A place where my tulip trees can be planted young and naive, properly nursed into adolescense, prompted into the quick adulthood and then endless twilight of tulip trees years.

Is this the year I find the gate that leads into that other garden? Is it finally almost time for me to pull back a dead, hanging vine to reveal the rusty doorhandle I've been looking for...well, nearly all my life, if I'm honest?

I'm reminded of the way things are in this day by the soft moans that come from that swaddled, still-bleeding heart that I so tenderly nurse. Will it ever heal and grow into the babbling, always-in-motion toddler that would run through the doorway and plop right down in the middle of a tulip tree blossom blanket?

There's no guarantee. Not with growing things. You can't get an insurance policy that covers hidden doorknobs or lazy earthworms. You can't numb yourself enough that finding the swaddled babe I'm sweetly suckling for now has died in the night won't level you for another day or month or decade. Growing things must be trusted to read their DNA with aptitude and eagerness. They must be allowed the space that a little blind faith makes for them to fatten in. Green leaves aren't greener because they were told to be. Doorhandles, as well, seem to be rather like growing things in that they present themselves when the time is right, just as surely as a peach becomes ripe and dripping with peach-sugar not a day early nor a day late.

Maybe I will sneak over to my parents' house some night and gather the blooms before the gardener can. Maybe I won't. Maybe I will tearfully ask my mother to pick some from the tree so that I can float them in a bowl of water and candles when no one is watching. Maybe I won't. Maybe I will drive out to a nursery early Saturday morning and buy a baby tulip tree for myself. Maybe I won't.

Each would require various amounts of faith...the substance of things hoped for and the evidence of things not seen...because they all say, in different voices, "She still wants a tulip tree."

I pull the still-breathing form at my breast a little closer and whisper into its left ventrical something no one else can hear. It seems to understand and begins beating a little quicker. After all this, it still wants to try again; it still keeps hoping to take its old place in my body...amazing, even after all its been through.

A door. Another garden. A hand-planted garden. A tulip tree. Maybe more. I inhale sharply. Hoping hurts. And yet...I can't help but hope. Maybe that's the piece my friend calls "God." Maybe it's not. I chuckle.

"God, the tulip tree." How silly. And yet that thought causes one tear to slide quickly down my cheek before I can brush it hastily away.

Festivities!

Some photos from our little family birthday party for Rachel...

Happy Birthday, Rachel...

Happy 7th Birthday, Miss Rachel!

How is it possible that you are turning 7?? It seems like just yesterday that we brought a little bundle of sweetness home from the hospital. And now you are a big girl!

You are a delight. I am so very, very thankful you were born and so lucky to be your Mama.

You are one of the sweetest, kindest, most gentle people I know. I love to watch you "big sister" your little brother. You are so loving and no one comes even close to being as cuddly as you!

Your sweet smile lights up our lives.

You are simply enjoyable, Rachel of mine...

You are a good friend, a great student, a sweet sister and a precious, precious daughter.

Your bright eyes and the way you talk just charm the socks off of anyone who meets you.

You are my sweet, sweet angel girl.

I just adore you...it's impossible not to!

You are so much fun.

You are as cute as cute can be and always have been.

So today you're seven. You're learning to ride your brand-new bike. You are growing up, my love, and I'm so, so thankful that I have gotten to watch you turn into the lovely girl that you are. I can't wait to see all the wonderful things you do this year. I hope this year is the happiest and most fun year yet.

Happy Birthday, Sweet Miss Rachel. Mama loves you.

This Afternoon

I went running this afternoon. I was tired from not enough sleep, feeling down and even a little lonely, but I pushed myself to put on my running shoes, some running clothes and my hat, which, incidentally, reads, "Sweet Tooth," which is just my own funny little ironic joke. I grabbed my cell phone and pepper spray and headed out.

It was the sort of winter day that, in my book, couldn't be more perfect for running. Big, fluffy clouds floated in a crystalline blue sky with a crisp chill that wasn't too cold, but instead made my skin and my brain wake up. The grass (and weeds) were brilliant green and a few fruit trees were hesitantly beginning to bloom. We live in the country so my route takes me by fields with cows grazing in them, a horse here and there and even a flock of lovely dark grey goats that seem to have more babies among them this year than I remember. The animals all turned to look at me as I ran by and I had to slow down to a walk to savor it all, several times.

My route also takes me through a few neighborhoods, behind the high school, over the main street and past the acres and acres of bare grape vines. I live in the Central Valley of California, a place sometimes referred to as The Breadbasket of the World, so there are orchards, vines and fields everywhere around our little town. In the 110-degree heat of summer when everything that isn't irrigated artificially turns a gross brown color, living here seems dreary. But the end of winter, leading into an always-quick Spring is a lovely time to live here.

Today everything felt right, from the weather to a surprising new strength in my muscles. I've been running 2-3 times most weeks for a couple months now after a long hiatus of almost a full year. Today was the first day when I felt the very familiar "grab" of my abdominal muscles in a way I had totally forgotten about. As soon as I felt it, I remembered it from my running-an-hour-every-day stretch during a big chunk of 2009. It felt...wonderful. I don't feel the need to lose pounds and in fact am trying not to, but the feeling of muscles getting strong enough to engage in a way that haven't in a long time made me feel that much more alive as I ran along.

After my run today, I came back and sat down on the floor of the shower for awhile and just thought. I let the hot water pound on my aching neck and upper-back muscles. I let some tears fall that I'd been holding in. I decided not to shave my legs because I didn't want to. I thought about my life and some of the things I've been grappling with. And I felt really proud of myself.

Now don't get me wrong. I know I'm not perfect. Not even close. I'm screwing up, as usual, as I write this, I'm sure. I'm not going to get today right, or tomorrow, for that matter. I'm going to spread myself too thin. I'm going to stop short of insisting on what I really want. I'm going to swallow some truth that I'm still afraid of speaking, even to myself. I'm going to speak sharply to one of my children. I'm going to say something to a friend that I probably should have left unsaid. I'm going to make a food choice based on fear rather than nutrition or appetite. I'm going to take my loved ones for granted. I'm going to send a child out of my studio that I should instead invite in and fold into a big, lovely hug. I'm going to be selfish. I'm going to think of myself first. I'm going to stay up too late. I'm going to leave the lights on when I leave the room.

All that is true. It means I have a long way to go in the "perfect human being" department. And yet. I'm proud of myself. I'm proud that I went running through a town I was afraid to show my face in a year ago. I'm proud that I was honest with someone close to me last night in a moment when it would have been much easier to gloss over the truth of my feelings. I'm proud that I did the amount of laundry that I did. I'm proud that I'm keeping a couple promises I made myself the other day, even though it's challenging. I'm proud that I am moving forward, one step at a time, into the career of my dreams. I'm proud of the mothering I have done today (mostly). I'm proud of the fear I've overcome and the healthy boundaries I've erected. I'm proud that I've learned to see people (most of the time) as the real people they are underneath, rather than defining them based on their behaviors. I'm proud that I've forgiven people I would have though it impossible to forgive. I'm proud of myself for writing this.

The sun is disappearing and my little studio is getting dark. It's a bit chilly. Dinner-noises are coming from the kitchen and my children are pretending to be playing in a band which consists of the piano, a xylophone and an empty oatmeal container. I am wishing my heating pad would magically float from the other room into this one so that I don't have to drag my tired self out of my comfy blue chair to get it. I'll wrap this up, I guess.

I guess before I go, I just want to say that I really, really hope that, whoever you are, you can walk away with the permission to see the beauty in yourself, even for a moment. You're magnificent. You really are. I hope you can feel the strength that is yours. I really want you to think for a minute about how hard you are trying to do your best at so many, many things. I want you to consider the courage you've demonstrated in this life. Think about all the things you have overcome in your life, the things you rose above and the things you refused to be knocked down by; feel how much those weigh and how that weight would have changed you had you not acted with such courage. Think about the people who depend upon you and the people that you've made life a little better for. Think about how many hugs you've given. Think about how much you have loved every single person you have ever loved. Feel the weight of all that love. That weight is the amount that you have affected those people's lives in a positive way. Think about what you're good at and the way that the people you know would be altered if you didn't throw your muscle in the way you do. You are good. You are strong. You are brave. And I'm proud of you.

That's it.

Comfort

This is an old family photo that is one of my favorites. This is me, at age 11, with my little sister, Whitney, at age 2. Whitney and I had a special bond. I am 10 years older than she is and mothered her in some very real ways. She would often want to cuddle like this on the couch and many times fall asleep like that. But the truth was, I sometimes asked her to come cuddle. When I was upset, feeling misunderstood, unhappy, disappointed, or sad, holding Whitney was like balm in a wound. Her sweet little baby self cuddled up against me soothed whatever I was feeling right away.

Today, at almost 34, I am feeling a need for comfort; it's just one of those days. My little Andrew will inevitably end up cuddling up with me at some point in the day, his big brown eyes full of the love that sometimes startles me in its intensity. "I love you so much I can't stand it, Mama," he'll say, and kiss me on the lips. And that will soothe the feelings inside me.

But today I'm also going to be consciously holding others I love in a kind of inner embrace. Even if I don't talk to them out loud or physically wrap my arms around them, I am going to hold them in my loving thoughts all through today. Whitney taught me how much the comfort of others comforts me, all those years ago on an ugly brown couch and I know that reaching out to those I love will make me feel held, as well.

So, dear ones, I'm wrapping my arms around you. I'm pulling you close. I'm whispering that I love you and pulling you even tighter still. I hope you can feel my love.

8:30

"Sadness is but a wall between two gardens."