then what the hell

b and i had the tremendous pleasure of seeing Johnnyswim with Drew Holcombe & the Neighbors last year (or a hundred years ago?) and when they played 'ring the bells' it brought the house down.  

it came across on my playlist last night, and i was reminded of the absolute intoxication of the moment - the room was alive with joy and hope, practically vibrating.

'we say mercy won't be rationed here / that's what we're fighting for / if all is fair in love and war / then what the hell is loving even for?'

if all is fair in love and war, then what the hell is loving even for? it's such a striking question, isn't it? i expect most of us have experienced a "love" that keeps score and know that it is no love at all. it's some kind of shadow love, a hollow thing that keeps us scrambling to fill it up, prove we're worthy and good enough and enough enough...but we never quite get there. love that measures itself out in appropriate doses, quid pro quo, is not relational, it's a transaction we are always on the losing end of. 

there is no single worthwhile, loving relationship in the world that won't come with someone getting the short end of the stick sometimes. there is no single person who - however much they absolutely, genuinely love you - won't also hurt you, come up short, neglect you and put their own needs ahead of yours ... AND whom you will hurt, shortchange, neglect and put in second place, among other things... no matter how much you love each other. if we can't keep loving and being loved in the midst of that, then what's the point? what is loving even for? love that fights and falters its way through that, both given and received, is the only kind of love that has the potential to change us, protect us and move our lives forward. 

*aside* i feel compelled to note here that i am not talking about abusive, destructive and manipulative cruelty in a relationship - those things are genuinely harmful and are not acceptable on any level, toward any person, ever.

it's not a very romantic notion that the bullet you will have to take for your loved one may well be shot from a gun they hold, is it? or that the sword they'll fall on will be yours sometimes. oh well... c'est la vie. but that's why love, honest to God, real love, is so powerful, so muscular and so damn strong. it is calloused and scarred from the battles we engage in, but kept pliable by the battlefields we limp off of, leaning heavily against each other. love that knows what it's for learns how to stitch up and soothe the wounds it causes; we who love learn to say sorry and mean it, to make amends, to right the wrong and figure out how to do it differently next time. better, hopefully. and we learn to allow ourselves to be stitched up, because pride has no place in love. i am terrible at that particular portion - i hold a grudge rather spectacularly and my pride struggles to accept peace offerings and apologies. i am learning though. trying to learn, anyways. 

the question 'what the hell is loving even for?' is even bigger and more daunting when expanded out of the personal realm ... 'choose love', 'love wins', 'love changes things', et al become much scarier propositions than the bumper stickers they reside on. what pain, what humiliation of our pride will be required of us if we were to even tiptoe out into the world with love that knows what it's for? 

the song is worth a listen, if you've got a minute -  ring the bells :) happy friday, y'all - love the hell out of someone today! 

je suis desole

 once again, it is pouring. once again, i look ahead into a weekend full of ... nothing. je suis desole. i know i am spectacularly fortunate that the hardest part of covid for me isn't paying bills, or being sick, or losing loved ones...it's just the isolation. 

just. right.

really, it's not the isolation, per se. b and i are happy enough to spend time together, fiddling through the never-ending homeowner to-do's or binge watching marvel movies. it's the utter lack of celebration and feasting that isolation requires. i didn't realize at the time that hanging out with friends, drinking on patios and nibbling fingers foods, cookouts with paper plates, walking downtown or getting a sidewalk table and people watching were feasts and celebrations, but they were. they are. ordering a gorgeous meal and sitting for hours sipping wine and catching up in the warm light of my favorite spot, splurging on dessert, going to the zoo on a saturday, last minute plans to meet for coffee or grab lunch - all of these are feasts and celebrations. and god, how i miss them. 

i know i'm not alone in this. and most days i can brush the loss of that aside, but i want a Friday. a strolling in the evening air, stopping to browse the little shop on the corner, slipping in for a cocktail, sitting on the deck with friends Friday... one without fear of violence or anger, without fear of covid, without stress or panic. i want friends and lipstick and the twinkling lights of the world around me ... i want relief. it feels as though my heart needs a deep breath. 

i am struggling today (obviously).... and the only possible weapon i, or any of us have, against the struggle is gratitude, so i am trying to remember to how much i have to be grateful for: a partner who is my best friend, a home that is safe and warm, a good job, kids who are healthy and doing great, friends (even if i can't see them!), food on the table, a strong, healthy body... i am so, so fortunate. 

but dammit. i want a feast. i am longing for celebration. 

just a momemt

you guys. it's unbearably gorgeous out. for the first time in ages the air is cool and i have had my windows open all day!

my daughter is a junior in pre-veterinary medicine at state, and stopped by last week to do some laundry. she paused to show me a video she had taken with her phone of the end of one of her online lectures by her favorite professor...she said, with awe in her voice, 'he ends every lecture like this... and he really means it. we all love him!'  he stood in an empty lecture hall, teaching remotely, and emphatically said, 'i am so proud of you for taking control of your moments, for capturing them and holding on to them! you must notice your moments and appreciate them, and then you can let them go.' it struck me so viscerally that i immediately wrote it on a post-it and stuck it to my fridge. 

hold on to your moments, and then you can let them go. huh. i am not sure why, but it seems important for me to note that he had an eastern european-ish accent. maybe because in our western "civilization" we seem to live so frantically, leaping from to-do item to to-do item, rarely noticing our moments at all, disregarding them and sweeping them aside. i'm compelled to wonder where he came from that someone taught him that moments are important. i find myself curious about what moments his journey to teaching at a university in north carolina held. 

as a culture, we are rarely in the moment. even as i write this, in the first truly beautiful, fall-ish afternoon we've had this year, listening to the squirrels rustle and watching birds on my feeder, i am not actually in the moment at all. i am busy trying to transcribe it for you. i am turning my moment into something productive and useful, not letting it seep into me like water that cools and soothes. so i am going to stop now, put down my laptop and be present to my life here on the deck, alone in this moment. i am going to capture it, and be grateful for it, and then let it go and move onto the next moment. maybe it will encourage you to enter your own moment. i hope it does. 

unraveling - with and without

it is legitimately pouring at my house. it's the end of the day and i've opened the garage door and am sitting here barefoot in the dim light, watching the rain, drinking a non-alcoholic beer (sober september - sigh) and half-smiling at the moment. occasionally a giant pine cone thunks down from one of our towering pines, and even with the sound of the rain they're heavy enough for me to hear across the lawn. the downpour reminds me that the roofer is coming next week, and i cross my fingers that the temporary repair will hold. so here's me: beer in hand, tarp-covered roof, lounging in the garage. redneck much? :) 

it is the end of day 11 of my new job, and it's really quite astonishing to feel sane when i clock out. B & i drove out to the beach one day this weekend and, as is our habit, dumped our chairs and cooler and headed off on a long walk. we've done this 4 or 5 times this summer, and without fail, our walks have ended up in alternately distressed and resigned conversation revolving around my work - how much longer can i suck it up / the money is good, so how can i justify walking away (always my struggle, not B's - he truly did not give a single fuck about the dollars vs. my happiness. happiness was always the winner there) / how long can our relationship and my mental health bear the strain. the sand became a place where i vented and hashed out plans to cope. this weekend, though, 10 work days into my new job, we walked and talked and looked for shark teeth and it didn't occur to me until we sat back down that work hadn't even crossed my mind. i was, honestly, a little bit shocked. it was ... a revelation. 

if i am honest, though, the western mindset (indoctrination?) that says i must make as much money as possible, consequences be damned, still trips me up. I have continued to second guess myself, on and off, since the moment i gave my two weeks notice, because i choose mental health and happiness over a paycheck. and let's be honest - not only because of the pandemic, but more sharply because of it - i am *incredibly* lucky to have the luxury of even making the choice. i have a partner with a job who shares our financial responsibilities. neither of us were laid off or furloughed. we are, by all measurements except the imaginary ones, rich. 

but man, those imaginary ones... the ones shining forth from social media, celebrities, influencers, ads... they're insidious, aren't they? they plant seeds of dissatisfaction that grow fast and furious. it's enough to *almost* makes me thankful for the pandemic. we haven't been eating out, and guess what? we are fed, and our food is pretty yummy. we haven't been shopping or buying new clothes, and i still have jeans that fit and a shirt on my back. we haven't had people around to compare ourselves to, haven't traveled or brunched or tried the newest, hottest trends/spot/whatever... and we are just peachy, thank you very much. 

i refuse to be tied up in the bondage of success, as it falsely defined by the culture in which i live. i am unraveling the rope that ties me to the anchor of without. i can live without a lot, as it turns out. instead, i want to measure the success of my life in how much i live with. With joy, laughter, friendship, generosity, courage, compassion and gentleness. i will measure it in days and years lived with an open heart. i will measure it with love.

an honest story in parts: hope

i am an evangelical pastor's daughter (pause) i was married to an evangelical pastor for 22 years (pause) i am divorced (pause) i am married (pause) i have hope (full stop)

this may be the most "becoming not already became" part of the story. in fact, instead of saying "i have hope" i should probably say that i will choose to try and live into hope, toward hope. 

there is *so much* that seems hopeless. needless violence and cruelty - the kind that we used to watch on the news happening "over there" is suddenly happening in our own cities. needless hate and vitriol, increasing disparity between poor and rich, increasing insecurity in our jobs and homes, family structures crumbling under the pressure of quarantine, climate change, global disaster... god, the list could go on and on, couldn't it? sigh. it's exhausting, and when we are all isolated from one another, from the relationships that form so much of the foundation of joy and meaning in our lives, it is harder to see beyond the looming darkness. 

it takes intention to look for hope, to find it. it takes diligence and persistence, and maybe a little foolishness. 

it's there, though. i see hope in the nice boy my youngest daughter met, who makes her smile and flip her hair. i see hope in the joy my oldest daughter has as a young woman doing actual, important research work, who is marching in DC and believing change is possible. i see it in a friend who is thinking about online dating and in text chats with my brothers as we all navigate lives with really difficult things in them, bolstering and encouraging and just ... being there. 

i see a lot of hope after work, actually. most nights, after work, brent and i walk a 3 mile loop through several neighborhoods, some a little bigger, some a little smaller, and we have been struck time and time again how people seem more willing, not less, to wave, say hello, be kind, smile... instead of pretending we don't see each other, it seems like we are trying to see each other more. trying to hope that this small gift of bestowing humanity on each other by seeing will build and grow and be less becoming and more has already become.

there is hope to be found, i think, and if we nurture the small hopes, i believe it will be easier to lean into big hopes. because we *need* to be big hope-ers. if we are just going to throw our hands in despair and call it quits, then we have lost while the fight still rages on. and i hope we are better than that. 

 

an honest story in parts: love

i am an evangelical pastor's daughter (pause) i was married to an evangelical pastor for 22 years (pause) i am divorced (pause) i am married (full stop)

when i left my marriage, it was with the honest intention of never getting married again. i was married at 18 and couldn't imagine a man or a circumstance that would be compelling enough. and then due to the happy accident of locking myself out of the house, i met this guy:

without warning, i found myself loved. loved. even adored. and i found love (and cheesy, smooshy cornball feelings) oozing out of me. it was really the strangest thing. and the most unexpected, beautiful thing. my whole life i had heard it said at weddings that someone was 'marrying their best friend' and while i knew it was a lovely sentiment, i dismissed it entirely as romantic rhetoric, not something that could possibly be true or bear the weight of Real Life. 

but then, this guy. the week we met he bought tickets for us to see my favorite band with vip access (!) for a show that was 3 months away. i was delighted, to say the least, but also figured it was a waste of his money because the likelihood we'd still be seeing each other was slim to nil. i made him promise to leave them with me when we broke up. that was 3 years ago. 

there's a line in one of my favorite songs that says, 'you can be flawed enough, but perfect for a person'. i have no illusion that either of us is perfect, far from it, but our flaws are part of what make us perfect for each other. turns out i *did* marry my best friend... we adventure through the world together, actual partners. we have each others backs.  and our friendship does bear the weight of Real Life. negotiating the tentative relationship with my daughter, which was fraught and volatile for nearly a year. being laid off. buying a home together. a job that had me in tears and wiped any margin or lightness from my life. big financial realities. loss of relationships. quarantine. and those are just the big ones. despite the small stresses and pettiness-es of daily of life, evening still finds us on the couch, side by side, touching or holding hands, every night. i look at us and wonder how on earth we got so lucky as to even find each other - a girl from western canada and a boy from west virginia, meeting in north carolina. i have to shake my head at the miracle of it all. 

but here's the thing. i struggle even to write that all down. i hesitate to openly celebrate all the crazy love i get to give and am given. because i am an evangelical pastor's daughter (pause) i was married to an evangelical pastor for 22 years (pause) i am divorced (pause) i am married (full stop)

the guilt and shame of leaving my first marriage is an undercurrent in my life. it carved deep grooves in my bedrock, that are only now starting to smooth out. i feel like i ought not to be outspoken, or even overly cheerful, about being married to my partner, my best friend and my lover. i feel as though it is frowned up, even dismissed as temporary or unfounded, because i am divorced.... that it is seen as a second class second marriage.

i am totally willing to admit that may be entirely internal and that none of it is coming from people i know or the world around me, but that just makes it even more appalling. even if, especially if, i am the only one i am living apologetically toward, it's a cruelty to my relationship, my husband and myself.

i am the luckiest girl around. maybe there are whole swaths of people who have spent 6 months cooped up with one person and are totally blissful about it, but maybe it's just us. who knows. but i *do* know that i am loved, and i love him. and my life is better, fuller, happier, safer and more joyful because of him. and i am grateful - like super, crazy grateful. i didn't think anything even close to this could be real. i recently posted that i was not going to apologize that we are so damn adorable... and i think it's time i really meant it.

an honest story in parts: faith

i am an evangelical pastor's daughter (pause) i was married to an evangelical pastor for 22 years (pause) i am divorced (full stop)

this story isn't so much about those things as it is about the things that followed, and the things that have come together for me recently. things that are still more exploration than fact, more becoming than have become. 

i have a beautiful friend, Dylan (@the_dylanhill), who is a gay man who loves Jesus.

He recently posted this picture with the following caption: “I’m living proof that you can look like a street walker, and still love the Lord...” This is a funny quote that I say all the time. But it is such a true statement! This weekend I sat by this window in a hundred year old church. This church hasn’t had a congregation in a very long time, but looking out at the empty pews, God’s presence was still ever present. As it is in my life. I can’t tell you the number of times people have tried to dismiss both my love for him, and his love for me. Simply because of who I am, and how I present myself to the world. But here in this empty church, he whispered to my soul, a gentle reminder that we all come in different packages... some more abstract than others, all carrying different things, gracefully broken, and always loved by him. So yes, just like you, I’m living proof... "

what he wrote ricocheted around inside of me... "all carrying different things.. and always loved by him..." when i left my marriage, i lost all the things you hear about ... friends, dishes, the trust of my daughter...and i lost God. i was devoured by a firestorm of guilt and shame, my whole interior world reduced to ash. divorce, and divorcing a pastor no less, was a Sin with a capital S, and i knew that i had been abandoned by God. unable to return to the church i loved, i attempted, twice, to attend a church in the city that was vaguely familiar to me and that i knew i enjoyed. from the moment i sat in the pew, my eyes began to well up and by the end of the first song i was in full-blown tears. i didn't even make it to the sermon. i had the same experience going back a second time, and found myself crouched against the short wall of the parking lot, tears streaming down my face. i had no longer had any right to enter the presence of God... i had pinned the scarlet S on myself with both hands. it was over a year before i attempted church again. 

my friend ashleigh recently said to me quite matter-of-factly, ''you KNOW God looks after babies and fools." it's been over 4 years since i made the incredibly difficult decision to leave my marriage, but i grabbed onto that like a lifesaver, because even now the journey back toward some kind of faith is difficult and halting. and though it may not seem like it to an onlooker, i am still a girl who loves Jesus, and has her whole life. but i can no longer find comfort in prayer, though do sometimes in music. i struggle to connect, feel adrift, and have to look around my life for the beautiful things, the joy-giving things and point them out to myself saying, 'see - God loves you - he is still watching out for you.' but when we found out the roof needed to be replaced, my initial thoughts carried the underlying current of 'see! God has turned his back on you.'

it's as though i live in a schism inside myself - the faithless and the faithful, the daughter and the outcast, the beloved and unlovable. some days, sooty piece by sooty piece, i want to try to put the ashes back together. some days i don't... i seem to myself a lost cause. but i *want* to. i want to find my way back...no. i want to find my way forward.  not back to the girl i was. i have outgrown that girl and her small beliefs. i want to unearth the woman i have become, with all of her experiences and love and hurt and joy, and find God whose love is big enough to hold all of that. 

so i will hold on to the hope that i am a fool, looked after by God. and a gracefully broken human, loved by him. and i will keep trying to dig through the ashes to see what emerges, if anything...