Two Companions

Tonight is perfect.

Remember what I said about gently falling snow and writing?  

It's quiet tonight. Unusual for a Tuesday. 

I'm stealing these few moments with a cup of coffee and a stroopwafel, which is an amazing concoction courtesy of our dutch friends. In fact, it's best with black coffee because it's very rich, and fact is, I almost never drink black coffee. Further, I've just started to get my life in order and try to cut out and back on food consumption.  Every once in awhile it's time to reign it in. And that is now. Because desk job.  Holy Toledo. Desk job. Just throw the scale in the trash.

But it's snowing, so, stroopwafel treat.

I've been thinking about my Grandma.  That darn social media keeps bringing up 2014.  Every few days I see a new reminder of the time I waited for death.  It was a precious, agonizing, tender, memory-laden, achingly sweet time as those who loved her watched her physically waste away as her spirit gained momentum for home.  Eleven years prior to that I also waited for death.  And my Grandma waited for me to come.  It is a very, very special moment when a dying person requests your presence. You are ushered into a sacred space, where the eternal nears the mortal. Where the dying are letting go. Where hands touch yours to slip away. Where someone is waiting. Just for you. 

It means you are beloved. 

It is quiet. It is sacred. Jesus is coming. And we're waiting. Here with you. We're waiting for you to release our hand and we will know that in that moment you have taken another.  It is exquisite and painful.  

 It feels. Final.  And it can choke the life right out of you.  I've mentioned how I hate crying in front of people.  This is why: I cannot fully expel my emotions in the presence of others. It is a physical need I have to release stress, sadness, pain; but I cannot feel the freedom to let it go, let it goooo, with an audience.  That completely goes out the window in this scenario. Grief overwhelms me. It wraps me in a blanket of sorrow and wrings out every last tear. 

I remember giving a tribute at the funeral. One of the most difficult things I've ever publicly done.  Giving a speech can be difficult in general; I've given many; but, delivering during emotional duress is another matter entirely.  I couldn't even focus on the service until it was my turn. I am still so proud of myself for holding all of my emotions in check until my speech. It is almost a physical impossibility for me to do that.  As soon as I stood at the podium and looked over the crowd, well, it kicked right in.  It felt like forever until I could formulate some words.  I turned toward the casket, and I knew I could do this for my Grandma.  It would be my last act of service and I would not let this moment go to waste. 

It was my most memorable speech. I remember everything about it. I remember the faces in the audience. I remember the reactions. I remember Ryan's face, my silent champion - "You're doing it! You are doing a phenomenal job. I'm so proud." This is what I love about him - we can have a whole conversation with just looks and nods. He knew how hard this was for me and how much I wanted to do it right. He gets me.  And the crowd got me. And they understood my Grandma. And what a special lady she was. 

I did absolutely lose every piece of my dignity the moment I took my seat and my brother took the podium. Absolutely. Lost. It.  Sorry, Bro, I basically heard zero percent of your speech so engulfed in body shaking sobs was I.  I paid tribute. And then I was finally able to let go and grieve. 

It's a process, grief. No matter what we are grieving. I've recently grieved the loss of a job. I've grieved the loss of friendships. It simply means a time of loving and living has ended, and you are trying to align the change.  

I'll continue to see these memories until the first week in March for that is when we laid Grandma to rest.  I tend to cry a lot but my eyes were permanently puffed after that four day trip home.  They might still have some remnants of the day.  It's about love.  Grief is about love.  As long as you love, grief will always be nearby. It is a companion for your journey, though sometimes quiet. 

Embrace grief for it means you have put your heart into life. You have loved hard. You have invested yourself in a task. You have done what you set out to do. Grief is there to reassure you. 

Grief also has a companion named Joy. The two mix and mingle throughout time and each adds its own blessing and is a benediction for our days.  These two go with you always. May they create memories that define you until the end of your days.

Under Construction

I recently find myself limping on my journey.  This road that I take through life, it looks like it was constructed in the heartland, possibly Ohio, possibly Pennsylvannia, or Indiana.  If you've been to these places, I should not have to provide further description.  If you haven't been, well, I think you can probably ascertain the unspoken.

If you read my last post,  you perchance will understand how passionate I am about the idea of belonging.  Having a place at the table.  You know why I am so passionate about making others feel that way?  Because there are very times that I experience that myself.  All the well wishes. Surface.  All the "I care about you"s. Perfunctory.  That place at the table is difficult to carve.  That seat might just as well be given to someone else if you don't please me enough or fit in the mold I have for you.  I've been working through some of the discomfort of that.

I find myself limping because I am going through numerous changes in a short period of time.  The road has several orange barrels, some holes, some hills, and here and there, smooth pavement.  Change is good.  Change.is.the.worst. Which is why no one ever does it.  It's why many people will go to work unhappy every day for years, because the thought of trying on a new pair of workgloves is unappealing. "Grey gloves will do; I don't need red gloves."  We all need red gloves.  We all need the opportunity to feel uncomfortable.  It uproots and cultivates.  It's good and necessary. (change.is.still.the.worst)

I'd like to run rather than limp. I'd like to feel comfortable enough to run. I'd like to feel like there is a place for me at the table to run. With my ideas, thoughts, purpose.  But it's the uncomfortable stretch of road where ice is pelting the car, wind whips this way and that, darkness settles around you, the windshield constantly fogs up, the gas tank is running low, your hands ache from gripping the wheel, and you are alone.

We learn most about ourselves, and our driving skills, here.  In times of discomfort.  When you don't feel valued.  When you feel disconnected.  Sometimes it's about advocating. Sometimes it's about quietly waiting. Note: quietly. 

I wanted to advocate for myself three weeks back.  One thing that has become increasingly, painfully, obvious to me over the course of the last four years, is how few people understand training.  Do you know what training is? Do you know HOW to train? Do you know how absolutely important it is to provide someone with all the details of every little thing so that they can do their job well?  Do you know how important it is to do a job well?  It would seem that 97% of the population does not, in fact, understand this as a concept.  Every role that I have taken on in the last 5 years has been a miserable failure in this realm. Every. Last. Role.  When it happened as a volunteer at church, I just about lost my last marble.  I went home crying because I was so frustrated to be trained so poorly.  I wanted to write the director and explain my frustration, but I advised myself to sit quietly and do my best.

Last Sunday, the director came to me, whilst I hobbled along at my task, and said, "I've decided to revamp my hospitality sections and provide one specific person for each role.  One person to know everything and provide ongoing support and training.  I want that to be you; because I identify in you the need, dedication, and desire to know and excel in what you are doing, and then have the joy to provide that for others."

Mic drop.

"I identify in you."  Yes.

A breath of air.  A definition of who I am.  Provided by someone else. (Who really does not know me well at all, but is caring enough to observe) Who wants to give me a place at the table.  Who understands the heart of my motivation for life.  Clearly, concisely, delivered.  I. was so grateful for those words.  Someone sees me.  Someone took just a moment to see me.  And nailed it.  I think it would have felt less impactful to me if I would have made an issue of it.  If I had "advocated" instead of quietly continuing on.  In fact, I know it would have.
 Sometimes we advocate.  Sometimes we quietly wait.  Always we push to continue.  Limping or running.  Our role doesn't have to be huge, but it does need to be fulfilling.  It does need to include feeling valued. I'm encouraging myself in these ideas. Making sure I'm placing value.  Seeing with new eyes. And embracing discomfort which in turn encourages growth of character. 

Very soon the orange barrels will disappear and I'll be driving through Iowa.  Nothing but clear, open, sunny country.....

Places I Remember

Today is 38.

Dear ones, I am not too concerned about inching toward 40. I have a goal that when I am 40, my good friend Erin (who lives all the way in Wyoming and I never see her beautiful face) and I, are traveling to Japan. We made this pact to go visit our friend, Sayaka, the year we turned 40. So. Something to look forward to when the time comes. Although, I do count that I've been to Japan because I had a layover in Tokyo. I bought a Snickers in Japanese. Totally immersed myself in the culture. Desperately tried to make sure I didn't miss my flight because English. No. English. I worried constantly because people kept moving from the gate, and here's small, Midwest Ang, sitting alone, with a black backpack and dead eyes (sleepless/foodless/motionless 14 hour flight from Atlanta), looking for a friendly face for reassurance. I count that. I did Japan. But, maybe again, I will count it, and my eyes will light upon that of my friend's and there will be nothing dead about it.

Today, my schedule is so full of things. I will be running from one thing to the next and nothing about this day is about me. (Honestly, there is a small place inside that is disgruntled about that. How did all this chaos end up on the same day? And, when am I ever going to eat with nonstop meetings from 10-6? And why can I never make it to The Rusty Nail for my 38 free birthday wings? I am going to move out of this state before I ever see that dream come to fruition.) But. The bigger side of me. The mature side that can overlook the piggy side, can be grateful to serve others today. To have a place at the table.

Having a place at the table. It is my heart. It is the heart of The Great Commission. It is the heart of Jesus. I love walking into someone's house and it feels like an extension of my own. I love not having to knock. I love gathering in the kitchen, putting the food together and sitting down at the usually figurative table and eating a meal. With loved ones. I truly have no greater joy than this. I have a spot at this table. With you. It fulfills me in deep places. Because this is what we are called to do. Go into the world, make friends. Invite them to the table. With you and Jesus. It's a safe place, this table, it really is. If you never feel home, let this spot be the one. If you never feel deeply loved, let this spot be the one. The older I get, the more passionate I become about belonging. I see it in youth. I see it in mature adults. I see it in seniors. Everyone wants a place where it's safe, comfortable and natural. That can be with me. Look, if you need to blow your nose a hundred times, that's okay. I'm a mother. I was a nursing assistant. I've wiped a lot of bottoms that were not my own. A little snot doesn't bother me.

I encourage you to see who is at your table. Are you sitting with Jesus? Oh, dear friend, if not, I invite you to. Your life will be transformed with the Author of Life sitting next to you. Not an exaggeration. Are you with those that make you feel safe? Are you with those that make you home? If not, go find those ones. Make friends. Fill your table. Fill your heart. Create belonging. Start with yourself.

Today is 38. A place at the table. For you. Is my heart. I hope it will be a place that you remember for years to come.

Claiming Life

Hello, dear, gentle and beloved readers..

The holidays have now passed us by and we are on our winding way through darkened, grey winter.

It's been very cold in this my small corner of the world. I'm not good with the cold. I require many layers and lots of supporting efforts to survive; there can never be too many blankets for my happiness and comfort.

My first weeks in the new year have been busy. I have been cooking and baking a lot. Eating is not so popular these days, but I can't get on board with it. I tend to be a little opposite the crowd, and it suits me just so. We've just finished a meal of steak with onions and mushrooms, and roasted sweet potatoes with maple syrup. And. The oven just dinged to announce that the banana bread topped with butterscotch chips is ready. Soon it's time for a cup of coffee and a warm slice.

I have been resting, enjoying the time that I have with reduced stress. Napping on the weekends and not getting up before 0600. I finished a book and started another. A nonfiction book which, frankly, does not read as fast as fiction, but is, of course, educational. I hardly ever read nonfiction so I'm feeling proud of this accomplishment. I have spent time with friends and had phone calls with loved ones across the miles. It's been good to enjoy these connections. To share life and laughter.

I have counseled my children. Provided direction. Given hugs. Made breakfast. That's right. I made breakfast on a weekday. I started reading bedtime stories again which hasn't been a requirement since forever. But my youngest asked and so we've been doing that and it's even drawing in the too cool middle schooler every now and then.

It's the kind of life for which I can be grateful. It's the kind of life I put on hold for so long.

I've not been feeling well this past week, so you know I hit up the internets for all sorts of diagnoses. Just like you. Admit it. "What can I be dying of today?" And you know all the serious things float to the top. You're fatigued? Cancer. Abdominal pains? Perforated appendix. I was pretty sure I had a tumor and four weeks to live.

I'm still living. I still don't feel awesome. But I think, and hope, that I have more than four weeks to live.

It was a good reminder though, that time is our most precious asset. We truly do have only so many years and days. And it passes so very quickly. If I did have just those four weeks, you can note that I would have been devastated at how I spent the last year of my life. I would have cried great big tears, and my sorrow would have crushed every last piece of me. Not an exaggeration.

I took back my life. I'm so thankful for it. So thankful that I didn't let another moment pass me by. This holiday season, these past weeks, have been some of the best in my recent memory. I count all the moments as so very special. For those that choose to use their most precious asset to spend with me - that's a gift. Someone thinking of me and reaching out to send a text out of blue - that's a gift. Someone calling to sell me something - well, not so much a gift.

The gift of time has been wrestled with for centuries. Immortality. Fountain of youth. Anti-aging everything. We balk at the passing of time, but squander it everyday.

Can I encourage you to take back your life? If you're on the fence, if you're struggling, if you feel trapped.... Live like you are dying. Every decision becomes crystal clear when faced with your own mortality and a brief, brief timeline. And. Honestly. I doubt it's going to be "I wished I had climbed Mt Kilimanjaro." It's probably going to be more "I wish I had made that phone call" or "I wish I had held on to that hug five seconds longer" or "I wish I had chosen to forgive."

I think there is some letter, somewhere, that someone wrote about dying, that killed the internet recently. I didn't read it, but I imagine it might say something vaguely similar. It has to. Because all your priorities shift to the right places.

I might possibly have a tumor but that steak and banana bread was so delicious. And sitting in a warm room with people who love me, beyond priceless.

I might have a tumor but I am enjoying my last days, and that is exactly how it should be.

Showtime

New Year's is my least favorite holiday.

It feels forced, ya know?

Like everyone is trying really hard to appear happy, but no one really is, so copious amounts of alcohol is consumed to create a balanced medium.

I, for one, fell off the wagon and drank part of a Mountain Dew. Something I have not done in 39 days. The only reason I know the number of days is because I haven't consumed it since starting my new job. But if you follow me on social media you know how dearly I love it. All nine billion calories. So that is how I personally tried to appear happy on the saddest of all the days in the year.

I'm ready to have moved on by this point in the season. Onward to cold, soulless winter days that stretch into grey weeks. I suppose when painted like that it doesn't sound appealing, but it provides scope. And every writer needs scope. Good writers generally have some depth of character, tortured artist types with a wealth of moods and canvases to design and unravel. Winter is perfect.

I'm presently tortured by the weather. I wonder just why I vetoed Arizona and opted for New York. It's puzzling to me as I sit here, in bed, in socks, double layered PJs, a scarf and three blankets. Seriously. Why New York? It's been quite the journey here but I can name a few specific blessings that tell me I am exactly where God intended.

I took an old co-worker out today. We enjoyed hot chocolate and hit up the movie theater for a movie that I have been so anxious to see. The Greatest Showman. Don't make me start singing, because I will. I'll do it. I really enjoyed it. For two, okay three, reasons.

1) It's a musical with Hugh which I've been waiting for since Les Mis in 2012.

2) I LOVE the Barnum and Bailey Circus. (Animal treatment blah blah aside)

3) I was with someone who was also enjoying a musical, which is very few people that I know.

I have been in love with the circus my entire life. It should not really be a revelation to many of my readers at this point that my childhood was quite different than most; and, two things still stand out in my mind. I was actually permitted to trick-or-treat and attend the circus. My Grandma took me every year. It was such a highlight for me. It was loud. Creative. Beautiful. Inspiring. Scary. Magical. Amazing.

I, of course, was most enamored with elephants and trapeze artists. Do you remember this song? I can still hum a few bars.

He floats through the air
With the greatest of ease
The daring young man
On the flying trapeze
His movements are graceful
He tries hard to please
I know that he must be the best....

I saw those girls up there. Oh my, they were so beautiful. So glittery. And. Ever. So. Graceful. And as the lights went down one by one, it was power ballad time. They floated and weaved through the darkness while the music played and a trillion sparkles lit up the arena. It was a dream come true. I hoped for brief power ballad moments that I could be so beautiful and graceful one day. Then, they floated all the way from the sky to the floor, took their bow, hopped on an elephant, and lit out of there.

I can still see a young Angela sitting there, dressed very unlike a trapeze artist, who frankly wore little clothing. I can see her blond hair in pigtails. I can see her blue eyes reflected in a trillion sparkles. I still know what she is feeling. She is confined, but she is a dreamer. She is a writer. She longs to live outside expectation. She wants to live a dream, one that begs to be written.

Welcome to the greatest show...