On Loss.

   Pink flowers the size of saucers were blooming brilliantly on magnolia trees all throughout Kansas City the February that my mother died. While I was still trying to process my loss, everywhere I turned, there was a profusion of pink putting on the most stunning display I'd seen in a long time. Every time I caught sight of a saucer magnolia tree, it made me smile. A tree flourishing in late February while I waded through the landscape of loss. When spring finally arrived, I planted one in my front yard in memory of my mom. Every year I watch and wait for my magnolia tree to bloom, and every year my buds have died due to frost before it can put on a proper show. I've yet to see a display like I saw in February of 2016. It's year eight, and I'm realizing it's quite possible I never will.

(This year, buds began to open on the 27th, but a frost that evening killed the open flowers)

     Loss is anything but linear. With each passing year, I become more aware of how longing lingers over time. In addition to the continued reverberations of her death, I'm processing other losses that I've previously tried to bury under analysis, tasks, and to-do lists. I'm now realizing the only way to is through. It brings to mind a quest in a children's book I used to read to my daughters, We're Going on a Bear Hunt. It's been years since I thumbed through the pages, but I can still hear the refrain in my mind:

"We're going on a bear hunt.

We're going to catch a big one.

What a beautiful day! 

We're not scared.

Uh-uh! 

A forest!

A big dark forest! 

We can't go over it.

We can't go under it. 

Oh no! 

We've got to go through it! 

Stumble trip! Stumble trip! Stumble trip!"

    It seems I'm stumbling and tripping through my own thicket of trees, trying to make my way to a clearing. Many children's books hold profound truths about life if we look for the threads. 

    I'm learning that loss doesn't only come from death. Loss can also result from using a lens that was a little smudged along the way. Some threads start to unravel because of a book I'm reading that's revealing various distortions: On Our Best Behavior: The Seven Deadly Sins and the Price Women Pay to be Good. Recently, I explained to an older, wiser friend that this book was disentangling beliefs that, years ago, unknowingly influenced some of my decisions. She gently reminded me that God's goal is always for wholeness and that nothing is wasted in his economy. I can't help but notice that sometimes the path to wholeness seems covered with overgrown tree roots and thistles. My friend tells me that she read it, too; it also impacted her, and she sighs with knowing. 

    Being a woman isn't easy, and as the author accurately says, "We all struggle to be known, express the truest, most tender parts of ourselves, and feel safe enough to bring our gifts to bear. We wonder: Who am I? What do I want and need? How do I find my purpose and serve?" These questions resonate and feel more urgent during seasons of loss with the acute realization that time is limited and life is short. There are few easy answers, and our lens matters significantly. Naming the book's complexity, my friend cuts to the chase and reminds me to pay attention to Jesus' treatment of women in the New Testament, specifically, how much Jesus truly loved women. After all, Mary Magdalene was the first person to see the risen Jesus. It's not a mistake that the entire gospel of Christianity was trusted to a woman.  

     Leaning into my examination of loss, I listen to an On Being podcast titled Loss, Yearning, Transcendence. In it, Nick Cave explains the impact of the loss of his son: 

    "You know, I don't see the world in the same way I did before; it's much more complex and much more fragile, and this creates a different feeling towards people in general. Grief and empathy are very much connected, in the same way as loss and love are very much connected too, and that the common energy running through life is loss, but you can translate that into love quite easily, they are very, very much connected. That comes from an understanding of just how fragile and vulnerable and precarious the nature of life seems to be."

The host, Krista Tippett, artfully navigates this conversation about loss, accurately concluding towards the end of the episode: 

    "What you learn in the thick of life is the limits of rationality. That this rational way of being that thinks and insists that we can plan everything, and that in fact, we won't again and again be obliterated by things that happen to us, it actually is not reality based."

    I nod my head in agreement while listening. Rationality has its place, but as I'm learning, reality often has other plans. Meanwhile, the magnolia trees begin to bloom, and the snow geese migrate north in perfect synchrony. Hope springs eternal, and nothing is wasted in God's economy.

Loess Bluffs National Wildlife Refuge

On Surrendering to Joy through the Power of Play

    Two years ago, I developed a passion for Ping Pong. We purchased a ping pong table for the garage to play outside on lovely days with our fantastic neighbors in the best cul de sac in Kansas City. Many Sunday afternoons were spent playing while simultaneously dancing to Sunday by Ben Rector (which the neighborhood kids now request as "Ms. Kristin's music"). Sometimes, I would be so distracted dancing that I would miss the serve. Our kids ran free, occasionally stopping to watch an intense match, sometimes asking to play, too. We laughed until we cried more times than I can count, the definition of time well spent.

Twinning and winning.

About to be smoked by their wives.

    I couldn't get enough! It was connective play, paired with movement, outside, with fantastic friends. As adults, weaving play into our grown-up, responsible lives takes intention. Becoming a parent taught me the power and importance of play, and I re-learned the art of it by watching my girls do this regularly at the playground and the pool. At some point, we grow up and become too serious and, let's be honest, too tired for much play. I now understand that play restores something in us lost long ago. It enlarges us to receive and offer joy. 

    During 2020, I read the book Joyful, which shifted my perspective on intentionally pursuing both play and joy. It also prompted a renovation of our home, but that's a story for another day (perhaps in a post on resiliency). This book opened my eyes to see where joy and play were already waiting for me and available. Amazingly, God has sprinkled it absolutely everywhere for us. As Ingrid names in Joyful: "The blossoming of the trees, the rising of the sun, the flow of the tides: these recurring events remind us of time's circular nature and create an underlying cadence of joy that we can rely on." I think it's God's way of showering us with tangible gifts of his love through beauty, scent, sound, and texture. Spend 10 minutes outside soaking in the sunrise with the birds; I almost guarantee you will sense it. 

    When I look back at my life, I see that I often tried to "save" joy and small pleasures for later. Perfume, wedding china, beautiful stationery, red lipstick, odds were high I was holding onto it for an unspecified future date. In the past, if I felt the urge to dance to a song I liked, I pushed it down because I was a responsible adult, and responsible adults don't bust out into spontaneous dancing. I definitely wasn't spending an afternoon playing ping-pong. We still enjoy the ping pong table, dance parties are a regular in our home (Come Alive from the Greatest Showman is currently on repeat), and I'm adding rollerblading to the mix this spring because it's fun and gets me outside. These things are small, but they aren't insignificant. Small pleasures add delight to our days, and if there is something I want to surrender to in this life, it's joy.    

Ping pong with our neighbor, Chuck

On Grief and The Shooting at Union Station

     It's 3:43 AM, the house is dark and quiet, and I'm awake because I just can't sleep. February brings an ache that I just can't shake, with memories that wake me in the middle of the night. Just when I think I've looked my grief square in the eye and dealt with it, it slithers out to surprise me on the day of the girls' Valentine's Day parties at school. One thing I know for sure is that running from grief doesn't help. I'm "doing the work," but my tender, perfectionistic heart still struggles with the chasm between how different things are from how they are supposed to be. 

(4th grade Valentines party)

    This past fall was heavy, driving me back to counseling. I'm immensely grateful for the gift of a wise counselor. After retracing things, my counselor almost instantly finds the root cause: grief with a side of regret. As soon as she names it, tears fall down my cheeks. There it is perched, next to my pain, and initially, it was pretty difficult to perceive. At this point, I recognize that I feel embarrassed over my grief because shouldn't I be past this by now? Can't we just move on, permanently? Pain has other plans, and as John Green says, "That's the thing about pain. It demands to be felt." Today, I'm digging deep and uncovering all sorts of surprises. 

    At 4:47 AM, Evie saunters down the stairs. "I'm so excited for my Valentine's party, I woke up!" Fantastic. Escorting her back to bed, I explained she could sleep for another two hours before she needed to be awake for school. 

She quickly asks, "OK then, why are you awake?"

"Because sometimes grownups have trouble sleeping."

"Ok, well, you know that happens to kids sometimes too!"

"I know. Try to close your eyes and go back to sleep."

Some days, it's easier said than done. 

    I come back downstairs. My mind flashes back eight years, and I recall a pile of heart-covered pink and red Valentine's gift bags sitting on my parent's dining room table. I found them there, waiting to be gifted to us and the girls, when I was called to their home the morning of my mom's death on February 28th, a full two weeks after Valentine's Day. Before the 28th, I had felt too busy to come by; plus, the girls (ages 2.5 and 6 months at the time) had been sick. The moment I saw the Valentine's bags, heavy regret fell over me like a weighted blanket. 

    This week, Valentine's Day, the Chiefs' Super Bowl parade, and Ash Wednesday all fell on the same day; in some strange way, it resonates. In a horrific turn of events, a shooting occurs at the event my family attended. Ashes are painted on our foreheads to the tune of "From dust, you came, and to dust, you shall return." We come from dust; we learn about love, connection, celebration, pain, regret, and sorrow, and then to dust, we return. I'm convinced God uses each degree of sorrow I embrace to provide a counterweight of growth in my ability to experience a whole host of other emotions, including delight and desire. Could it be that our souls are shaped in direct proportion to our ability to let suffering stretch us? In my own life, it feels like each inch of light is holy and hard-won. 

    We try to distance ourselves from the dust in our fragile humanity. We deceive ourselves to believe we have more control over our timeline here on Earth than we actually have. At bedtime, I ask the girls if they have any questions about the shooting that took place at the Chiefs rally that we skipped for lunch (after attending the parade). Adelaide covers her ears and says she doesn't want to talk about it. I don't force the topic. Evie has approximately a million questions, so I take her to her room, lie in her bed, gently stroke her hair, and thoughtfully try to answer each one. "Were the people shot all girls or all boys?" "Why are guns even a thing? That's my question." "How many were kids?" When I tell her nine children had gunshot wounds, she realizes out loud, "That could have been me, but it wasn't." I close my eyes and squeeze her more tightly than I typically would. 

    Listening to Lectio 365 in bed on Valentine's evening, I learn, "Eastern Orthodox Christians describe Lent as a season of 'bright sadness.'" I'm prompted to pause and "acknowledge both the brightness and the sadness I've experienced today." Where to begin, God? We have so much ground to cover. 

Truly, Madly, Deeply? On Love.

    When you hear the word “love,” what comes to mind? Do you picture Savage Garden and the 1997 release of Truly, Madly, Deeply, or is that just me? I’m kidding, but only a little. In English, we don’t use unique words to describe the variations of Love we feel, so the word can be confusing. After all, my Love for my daughters differs from my Love for my spouse. In the end, though, Isn’t Everything a Love Song? The English language has its limitations.

    In a fantastic On Being podcast episode about Love, Alain de Botton explains, “The Ancient Greeks had a view of love which was essentially based around education…love is a benevolent process whereby two people try to teach each other how to become the best version of themselves.” This resonates. Love applies in so many situations when viewed through this lens. Perhaps the Greeks had a better understanding of how to express Love. After all, they used eight Greek words to help define our closest relationships. Here is a quick primer on the various ways the Greeks explained Love:       

• Eros: It is an overwhelming love understood as intense desire. It's probably fair to say “Truly, Madly, Deeply” by Savage Garden describes Eros.
• Philia: the Love of a deep friendship and the Love between parents and children. The basis of philia is appreciation and fellowship. Perhaps the songs Forever on Your Side or You’ve Got a Friend in Me evoke this.
• Ludus: the playful flirtation among strangers found in Call Me Maybe.  
• Agape: selfless Love and universal kindness. C.S. Lewis called it “the highest form of Christian love.”  How Deep the Father’s Love for Us expresses the depth of God’s agape.  
• Pragma: picture an elderly couple sitting on a park bench. Pragma is a weathered and profoundly committed love, grown from understanding and patience. Johnny Swim’s song Devastating (and the accompanying music video) illustrates this well.  
• Philautia: Andrew Peterson’s song Be Kind to Yourself demonstrates Philautia.  Philautia is a compassionate self-love where your Love grows for yourself and, therefore, for others. 
• Storge is familial Love rooted in kinship and belonging as part of the family. Hello, Family by Drew Holcomb. 
• Mania is an obsessive and dangerous love that could lead to extreme behaviors.       

Each of these types of Love shapes us formatively. As I think about my soul, it would not be the same without knowing the intense wanting of eros, the ultimate kindness of agape, or the belonging found in storge. Each moment on earth is an opportunity to choose Love, and what are we here for, if not to become people of Love?  

Heading into Valentine's Day, Alain de Botton reminds us, “Love is something we have to learn, and we can make progress with, and it’s not just enthusiasm, it’s a skill, and it requires forbearance, generosity, imagination, and a million things besides…The more generous we can be towards that flawed humanity, the better chance we’ll have of doing the true hard work of Love.”

May our hearts be full of the "true hard work of Love" this Valentine's Day.

On "Confusement"

     Lately, I've been more consistently writing out my expectations for the girls after they get home from school. For the most part, it's the typical, put your backpack away, practice piano, and do your homework variety. Occasionally, I'll throw in something extra just to keep it spicy. The other day after they finished the list I reminded them that they needed to pick up the living room; it had been littered with their things and I was D-O-N-E. Evie immediately responded in a shrill voice, "BUT YOU SAID WE COULD PLAY AFTER THE CHECKLIST! YOUR EXPECTATIONS AREN'T CLEAR! THAT'S WHAT IS CAUSING THE CONFUSEMENT!" This made me chuckle because even though confusement isn't a word in Merriam-Webster, it probably should be, and I'm going to hang onto this one because she's at an age where I no longer hear many made-up words. 

    While trying to choke down my smile (unsuccessfully), I reminded her that picking up things on the main floor is something we always need to do, which is why it was missing from the whiteboard. I offered to include it on the checklist going forward. She was less than pleased but understood my point.

    So this week I had my own encounter with "confusement" compliments of Jesus. I'm currently studying The Sermon On The Mount with Jen Wilkin. The first several beatitudes given by Jesus in his most well-known and lengthy sermon are as follows:

"And he opened his mouth and taught them, saying:

'Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. 

Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.

Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth." -Matthew 5:2-3

    I've heard this sermon many times. Yet, after a quick initial reading, I had lots of questions. How can the poor in spirit "be blessed" with the kingdom of heaven? What does it actually mean to be blessed? What does it mean to be poor in spirit? Cue "confusement."

    First of all, it feels as though the word "blessed" has been distorted by the #BLESSED movement on social media. In fact, I nearly skimmed over the word "blessed" because it's been so twisted by my encounters on Instagram. 

    Fortunately, The Bible Project Podcast is also doing a yearlong deep dive on The Sermon on The Mount, and the content is exceptional. They spent an entire episode, 34 minutes total, discussing the meaning of one word: "blessed." They explain the following in the podcast summary: 

    "The Greek word translated as 'blessed' is makarios, and its Hebrew equivalent is ashrey, which means 'the good life.' But there's another Hebrew word for blessing, barukh, which refers to blessings from God." Isn't it fun to learn the meaning of a single word in a foreign language that has no tangible equivalent in English? It is one of the many small delights in life. 

    After listening for 34 minutes I'll summarize it as: "Barukh is the Hebrew word used when you want to highlight that God is the one who has brought about abundance, safety, and security in someone's life." I almost want to replace the word blessing with barukh in my everyday vernacular. Perhaps upon receiving good news from a friend, I'll use this greeting, "Barukh are you, friend!" The Bible Project even goes a bit further to substitute the word "blessing" with the phrase "how good is life" in a paraphrase of the beatitudes, so the first beatitude could be interpreted as "how good is life for the poor in spirit."

    I felt a bit better about my understanding of blessed, but still felt "confusement" about what it meant to be "poor in spirit." My initial thought was that this was someone who felt anxiety (relatable) or quite possibly, more severe depression. Given my definitions, I couldn't follow Jesus on his train of thought here.

    Jen Wilkin saves the day. Jen explains in the video study that the Sermon On The Mount provides an understanding of where "Our character takes root and where our character bears fruit. Character takes root in poverty, grief, submission, and famine...Poverty doesn't necessarily mean financial poverty but spiritual poverty. Someone who is 'poor in spirit' is someone who recognizes their great spiritual need. Too often, we think about God as an add-on to our good life, but we don't fully understand the depth of our need. Only someone deeply aware of their lack can confess their need, and in that confession, the kingdom of God is given to them." 

The "confusement" started to clear. 

I re-read the Beatitudes, and they show the compounding effect of this understanding: 

'Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. 

Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.

Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth." -Matthew 5:2-3

    Jen named that "thousands have admitted their sin, but have never truly mourned it. When do you truly turn from sin? When you recognize it for what it is and daily turn from it. Many of us come to church to be blessed, not to mourn, but we can't be comforted if we haven't mourned our sins. Comfort comes from mourning sin."

Jen further summarizes Jesus teaching by saying the following: 

"You recognize your spiritual need for Jesus --> You mourn your sin --> You are meek (gentle) --> Anything the Lord sends our way is a gift this side of heaven."

Woof and Bingo. Now I could see the beatitudes clearly. The "confusement" cleared. It brought to mind 2 Corinthians 3:18, one of my favorite verses: "And we all, with unveiled face, beholding the glory of the Lord, are being transformed into the same image from one degree of glory to another." Transformation is a lifelong process in Jesus' kingdom, not a one-time occurrence, and we are told to expect it to be one iota of glory to the next iota of glory, day by day. Painfully slow yet persistent and faithful. My expectations of my Christian walk shifted a few degrees.   

    Each of us have various starting lines for our transformation and blind spots that make the journey less smooth. The Christian life isn't simply an upward 45-degree growth angle; there are shoots and dips along the way as God reveals more of himself and ourselves to us. This is perhaps a different expectation than I started this Christian journey with, but a better expectation and a better word for all of us, clearing the "confusement" of how the life of a Christian is intended to look. The dips and cracks are part of the process. God uses those dips for our growth and our sanctification. In the meantime, I continue to seek God wholeheartedly and simply pray that when I reach the end of my numbered days, I hear the words, "Well done, good and faithful servant." 

Lord, make it so.