The Wild Space In Between

Sometimes I can totally relate to those unfortunate characters on Star Trek who find themselves in a time warp continuum. It's a place where time and space kind of don't factor any more, and everything seems like forever and a second all at once. Between Asia is like that for me.

Can it really be that in just six days I'll be getting back on a plane heading to Thailand?

Flashback. I'm sitting on the runway in Chiang Mai, my gut in knots from the goodbye I have just endured. What have I done to my heart? After two weeks with the orphans at Hot Springs, I am not sure I remember where I end and they begin. And now I am about to fly as far away from them as geographically possible, to the other side of the world. I do NOT want to leave them.

The pain is physical, in my chest and stomach and arms. The engine roars and so does something deep inside of me. How is this happening? Why is this okay? When did 15 children I didn't know exist two years ago, become part of my inner sanctum? Six months. That's how long I will have to wait to see them again. And the plane lifts off and I honestly can't remember ever being so wrenched away.

Six months. On Tuesday the six months is over. How did that happen? When did it happen?

We are travelling as three this time. George Gabber, one of Highview's Elders and an odd mix of completely serious and seriously fun. Starr Bramer, year two of university under her belt, ready to be pushed out of her zone. We'll go to Hot Springs Orphan Home and love and encourage our kids. (Jen Connor will have her very own adventure in June. More on that later.)

April 28 to May 15, a little more than two weeks all included (with travel time). We're bringing gifts and treats and chess and nail polish and frisbees and open hearts to love bumblingly midst the language and cultural cross over. We're excited and anxious and ready and unprepared.

And it's Tuesday that we leave. Tuesday.

Tutu (Thailand Director of Ministry for Asia's Hope) and I have written frequently since that first visit in February of 2008. Recently we chatted about this visit, and I told her that all the sum of the events of the past 11 months have left me with a certain kind of weariness. Not sad, except very sad. Not discouraged, except bewildered some. Not in want, except empty in some places. I told her that I was so looking forward to the "filling up" of our time together. I said that I hoped she and I could have some good 'conversations' about our life and leadership as women in ministry. She wrote back and reassured me, "You will know my heart."

I'm packing. I'm driving around imagining the greeting at the airport. I am practicing how I will say my hellos. I can't wait to kiss the faces and give out candy.

I will abandon myself once again to the wild space in between the space of my life.

Resurrection Intersection

It's been called 'The Greatest Story Ever Told'.

A man named Jesus arrives on the planet, born to a poor Jewish couple midst considerable controversy and reports of various unusual events.....things like angel visits and magi visits and wholesale slaughter of innocents at the hands of a jealous king. Jesus grows up to wander the countryside teaching and healing people and collecting something of a following, much to the agitation of the authorities.

At the peak of His popularity, He is betrayed by one of His own, arrested and charged with blasphemy, a crime punishable by death according to the Jews. (It's significant, this charge, because it argues pretty convincingly, that Jesus was claiming to be God, otherwise the Pharisees wouldn't have been so interested.) The Romans get in on it, so the means of death is crucifixion, long and agonizing by any standards, while His followers look on helpless and demoralized.

They put His crushed body into a borrowed tomb, and everyone's thinking that's the end of it. But the same kind of various and unusual events that marked His arrival, burn that third morning into history like the blinding of an eclipse. And in an act that, if it's true, changes EVERYTHING, Jesus walks out of the tomb, radiating life, breathing power -- God-like.

That's Jesus' story. The greatest story ever told. Except, if you go further in the story...follow it all the way to today, for instance, the incredible thing is...It's not done.

Because what happens is that Jesus' story intersects with my story. And that's where I just have to sit still in the moment and let it make me breathless.

See I know who I am without Him. Paralyzed by my proclivity for emotional dominance. Exhausted by a perfectionistic workaholism. Driven by a need to be noticed and approved of. Poisoned by the wicked clutch of bitterness and revenge that seems perfectly justifiable to my bruised and betrayed psyche. There is no living in all of that. There is no power in all of that.

But because Jesus did it first, I can do it now. Because He was willing to offer it all and able conquer it all, I can offer my all back to Him, and receive "everything I need for life and godliness" (2 Peter 1:3). My emotional life, my work, my ego and my need for justice, it's all His when I collide with a risen Jesus. My heart, my mission, my sense of self, it's all empowered by a power so blinding it flashes across 2000 years of history to meet me where I am, here, right now, where my own story plays out.

I know who I am without Him, and I shouldn't be able to live like I do. I shouldn't be able to shoulder the weight of it, bear the sorrow of it, think through the confusion of it. I shouldn't be able to conquer my own inner junk to be of any earthly good whatsoever. I shouldn't be able to even entertain the thought of forgiving the unspeakable betrayals. Really, there should be no joy.

But there is and I can and I do, imperfectly for sure, stumbling as much as striding, learning and re-learning as I go. But I am breathless in this moment of rescurrection intersection, realizing again, just this morning, what a gift His God-empowered, death-can't-hold-me-back life is to me.

And what that means is that I woke up this morning......astonishingly alive.

A Fog of Trust

I snuck into my office on Monday last week.

Normally there's no one around. Being a church, the Staff generally takes Mondays as a day off to recover from the demands of Sunday before heading back into the thick of it. And because I knew it would be quiet and because I needed that kind of quiet to still my heart and bring some focus to the events of the past month, I came in, turned on the lamps and sat in the crying chair.

They called it that, not me. Apparently there's something about sitting in my office in that chair in the corner that makes people cry. There's a box of kleenex at the ready at all times, just because of this strange phenomenon. And true enough, for most people, the chair, or whatever it is they are talking about while sitting in it, more often than not involves some crying. Mostly good crying, release crying, honest understandings and deep moving kind of crying.

So, on Monday, I sat in my chair. And cried.

Not right at first. I had sat with my Bible in my lap and my journal open for a bit, just being. I'm usually more of a human doing than a human being, so in that moment I was just being. Quiet. Not thinking too much. Not feeling too much. Not yet.

I picked up a book from the stack on my desk that will inform and shape the summer series of sermons for Highview (Restoring Weary Souls, all about soul rest, I'm sure you'll hear more about it in future blogs). The book was Ruthless Trust by Brennan Manning.

I didn't get too far, only to page 5. Manning writes....

When the brilliant ethicist John Kavanaugh went to work for three months at the "house of the dying" in Calcutta, he was seeking a clear answer as to how best to spend the rest of his life. On the first morning there he met Mother Teresa. She asked, "And what can I do for you?" Kavanaugh asked her to pray for him.

"What do you want me to pray for?" she asked. he voiced the request that he had borne thousands of miles from the United States. "Pray that I have clarity"

She said firmly, "No, I will not do that." When he asked her why, she said, "Clarity is the last thing you are clinging to and must let go of." When Kavanaugh commented that she always seemed to have the clarity he longed for, she laughed and said, "I have never had clarity; what I have always had is trust. So I will pray that you trust God."

Craving clarity, we attempt to eliminate the risk of trusting God.

I'm not sure if it's the anxieties of the past month, or the enormities of this past year, but in all of it at every step of the way, I have craved clarity. The sheer volume of decisions that I've been involved in making, both as a church and as a family, hang with the dead weight of implication around my neck. The opinions expressed, the criticisms, the bombardment of grief and anger, confusion and pain, understandable but tsunami-like in its collective form, sometimes threaten to suck me away and bash me against the rocks of personal and professional disgrace. So much is expected of me, every day, all the time. All that was and in many ways still is at stake, in so many ways it seems it all demands clarity.

Doesn't it? I've prayed for it. Sure I have. And in a certain way, when needed for the sake of love, God has provided good ideas, stable minds, level heads, workable strategies. When I keep thinking biblically, remain cognitively prioritized, and work the plan, I see God's power unleashed to make His people strong in the midst of what should destroy us.

But standing by the bedside of a gasping child, not know each day what tricks her little lung will play on us, myself senselessly removed from being part of where my presence is apparently not so essential - for a whole month not so essential - hours and hours of not knowing, not going anywhere.....not doing anything and doing everything all at the same time....there was no clarity in that. Still isn't. I don't get it.

And I came home from London and for a while I let God have it. Because I didn't understand. I had no clarity.

So on Monday, I snuck into my office and sat in my chair and cried. I cried for sheer beauty of abandoning myself to Him all over again. I cried because I suddenly understood that for God to explain it all would ruin everything. I cried because, while it's okay to be mad at God, when I do it, I sure miss Him. And it was deep and sweet and musical to sit there and let Him be tender with me again.

The rest of the week was good. A few not so nice surprises, and some news and the sharing of both pain and joy that comes with walking this way with a community of faith. April is proving to have it's own version of craziness as I attempt to catch up from being away in London, prepare for going away to Thailand, and all the while do some major shifting in family living arrangements, all before the 25th.

Still, I get to Sunday afternoon (my "end of week") and have a sense of quiet trust. No clarity. Not really. Just resting in the midst of the chaos, in the arms of a God I definitely do not understand.

But then again, if I understood Him, He's be too simple and too ordinary to worship.

Not Telling

Father,

Whatever You're up to, I know You're not telling.
But in the not telling
Be God.

You have every right.

All that's gone on
in the middle of the night
in the middle of the day
in the middle of my life....

Interrupting and disorganizing and deconstructing
everything...

All that was threatened....
My most precious treasure,
feverish and anxious and sometimes screaming
Looking me straight in the eye
And demanding that Gramma make it stop,
And not understanding why Gramma let's them hurt her so....

The crazy, "today you can go home but actually you can't"
psychotic game of it....

Not my bed, not my schedule, not my life...

All of it.
You have every right.
Because I've given it all to You.
Over and again I have.
It's all Yours.
I say it, I sing it, I mean it.

So whatever You're up to, I know You're not telling.
But in the not telling
Be God.

My God.
My Yahweh.
You are God and I am not.
And I love You.
I hated this. Almost every part of it was wretched.
But I love You.
And You are God.

So whatever You're up to, I know You're not telling.
But in the not telling
Be God.

Your exhausted, abandoned daughter,

Ruth Anne

Relaxing in the Clarity

I confess to coming close to the end of myself on the stress meter this week.

The intensity of the past three weeks, camped out beside the hospital bed of one very small, completely treasured little girl, watching her struggle for breath at times, scream with fear and discomfort at times, sleep feverishly at times....

Watching Kristyn struggle through, trying hard to care for herself and the child she's carrying while so beautifully, consistently ministering soothing words and presence to a frightened two year old.....

The sudden turn of events last Sunday, when we thought we were heading out of the woods, only to be faced with surgery.....

The added chaos of getting sick myself, locked away for 36 hours from the very ones I desperately wanted to be there to help, feeling helpless and alone and unable to force my body to cooperate with what absolutely needed to be done....

The sense of how long I'd been away from my responsibilities at home, and the knowledge that others were having to carry my load, knowing that, upon return there would be lots to dig out from under in terms of meetings and tasks and people to see.....

The anxiety, the unpredictability, the personal disorientation, the homesickness, the exhaustion.....

By Wednesday, it was all starting to feel so far out of my control, so far out of any zone I could contend with whatsoever, that the first waves of panic began to roll in.

What is that? It seems it sneaks up on me, always. I'm doing great, standing strong, and then, there it is. Fear. All the what ifs? All the worst case scenarios, playing themselves out like demon movies in the tired shadows of my numbed out brain. It's like I forget everything I know and start to run on everything I feel. It's as if I can't remember who I am or Whose I am. It's like my "real life" self gets swallowed up in the "crisis life" self, and I'm not even me any more.

I sat in the car that afternoon, and I couldn't drive. I'd finished a meal and was supposed to head back to the hospital. But I had to wait. Not yet. I couldn't drive safely just yet. Not with this white hot flash of unspoken horror rising up from the gut and grabbing at my throat.

They're not pretty, but experiences like these can be defining moments. Times when the rubber, or maybe it's all my preconceived Christian niceties, hit the road. Hard. And only what counts actually counts.

There's a clarity in coming to moments like that. A blue-light focus that gathers all the fibers of illuminating anythings from every corner of my life and bundles them together in one pure spot of brightness and truth.

"The only thing that counts is faith expressing itself through love," Paul wrote to the Galatians (5:6).

"The chief purpose of man is to glorify God and enjoy Him forever," wrote Augustine.

"It's all Yours", I breathed into the car.

And these simple truths came to me in the moment at the end of myself. And it was enough.

Enough to remind me that no matter where I was or what I was doing, the best demonstration of my faith is my love. And no matter who was near and what they needed, I could still bring glory to my Father and enjoy Him in all His intricacies. And no matter what was going on and what may or may not be within my control or be what I did or did not desire, ultimately and forever, I had given everything all to Him, and He had every right to do anything - anything - He pleased to do with me and my life and everything that matters to me.

It wasn't an immediate lifting. More of a gradual clearing away. Over the next 12 hours or so, as I continued to pray and meditate and clarify (with the help of some good questions from a friend), I felt myself relaxing, breathing, being me again. I could relax into the clarity of what was most important to me.

Quite frankly, I do not like what God is doing in my life this past little while....not the circumstances of it anyways. But without hesitation, I love being loved and led and carried and shaped and pursued by this completely unsafe, out of the box wild and holy God I know, who meets me in the clarity of the end of myself.

The Abby Road to Recovery - Past 48 Hours

This will be a quick, mostly information, kind of update on how we are all doing on the Abby Road to recovery :).

Abby continues to do well, although her progress seems so slow to us. I will let Kristyn give all the medical details when she gets a chance to blog. Which brings me to the next thing.

We've been rather "offline" in the past two days due to my unfortunate encounter with a 24 hour flu bug. This put us into a "wow do we ever need help now" mode and Grandad plus Debora plus Kim have helped to step in and cover off the bedside care until Gramma was back in the game. We're good to go now, but are sorry for the delay in updating.

The length of our hospital stay is certainly causing a degree of physical drain. Kristyn is also "fighting" a cold, and that plus carrying a baby, plus all the stress of the past two weeks...yeah, it's taking a toll.

However...here's what's amazing.

Kristyn remains calm and strong in the midst of everything. She's more than willing to take her breaks when offered, and is doing her best to eat well and drink lots. She is a stellar Mom even in the most challenging of situations.

The medical care we are receiving is top notch. We have so appreciated how calmly and professionally things have been explained to us. Our nurses are amazing, even to the point of asking Abby which colour of Dora shirt she'd like to see the next day. The answer was, of course, purple!

Progress is happening. It seems slow to us and we are tired of doing this, but we are headed in the right direction.

Abby's colour and disposition is good. She's naturally leery of new people who come to the bedside, not trusting what exactly will be done to her. But even at that, she is down to the routine and knows how to lift her arm for the temperature and offer her leg for the blood pressure cuff. She's got her own security thing going on, involving the exact placement of Black Kitty and Pink Kitty and Teddy and Monkey and whoever else is sharing the crib at the moment.

You have all been so wonderful. The cards and gifts and food and physical presence and e-mails....all of it is so very important. You are respecting the quiet we've asked for, and that is helping so much. You keep asking for ways to help, and honestly, mostly we have everything we need. But we are more than open to asking any of you for what else we might need as we go along.

God is here. He's so here. This little corner continues to be a very holy place. We feel so loved. We feel the healing happening. We're tired, but sustained as promised.

Please keep praying. We need you.

Ruth Anne

A Not So Gentle Irony

Abby is getting better. The immediate crisis is over. Time to sleep. Time to eat. Time to think. I ponder the observations of my friend Anne.

I look around at the new universe we inhabit. High hospital crib, surrounded by poles and machines and gadgets, from which follow tubes and wires connected to a wee, precious body. On the other side, "our" side, a collection of mylar balloons has begun to congregate. Pictures and cards have begun to fill up the doors of the cupboard that holds all our early possessions, at least in this universe. The fold away cot is folded away right now, and the large green lounge chair has been rolled into place to give Gramma a chance to put her feet up for a bit. At least until the next request for water, or a tummy rub, or something to eat, or the movie stops.

This is our world. This is my work.....right now. The other work in my other world has come to a screeching halt....for me. Not for all the wonderful, gifted people keeping the machine moving. The work, the ministry, continues well and strong. But for me, who I am and what I do.....I am not there.

It takes a lot to get me to stop working.

And just now, anyone who knows me well, has snorted. Or let out a scarastic, "Nnnnno." And they are well justified. It's true. The combination of my workaholic tendencies with my sense of calling or drivenness or whatever it it is that makes some of us so confoundedly devoted to what we do, makes it really, really hard for me to sit down and not do what I do.

So when, last Sunday evening, the doctors in K-W were saying Abby needed to be transferred to London, and given Kristyn's current status as a functioning single parent, there was no question in anyone's mind that I was coming along.

So I did. I'm here. And it takes me away from my work. And Abby, sic or well is very much "a lot" in my life. So in a matter of an hour of being told we'd be transferred, I was packed and had sent off the first of several download e-mails to our very gracious and competent Elders and Staff, and other volunteers, making sure that all I normally would have been doing this week got done by someone else.

Which is ironic. Because they're doing it.

Back home at Highview, as I said, gifted staff and volunteers are, among other things, very efficiently percolating along towards the beginning of a band new series called "Together We Can". It's a four week exploration of the imperatives of community; the absolute necessity for us to work together in order to accomplish the mission God has given us. Teams are, as we speak, pulling together to make sure we learn how and why we need to submit to each other and empower each other and forgive each other and heal each other.

And there's the irony. It's what I'm having to do, right now. Even though, when this series was first mapped out way back last May, I had expected I would be in the thick of things, I'm not. Instead I have been reassigned to the side of a hospital bed. And guess what I'm learning? Guess what I'm being required to do?

Submit to the whole thing, to those who have taken my responsibilities from me for now, to not being present in the portable, to not being there on Sunday morning. Submit to what God is doing in and through my family, in and through my heart.

Allow myself to receive the love and help, the empowerment from others who are bringing food and sundry items and their familiar wonderful faces to the hospital, a whole city away. Let others empower each other to accomplish the tasks of this weekend, and the weekends that lie ahead.

Forgive whoever is annoying me at the moment, all the tedious, difficult things I'm trying to work through, some still waiting when I get home, some overwhelming and huge that have been in my face in an obnoxious way for the past 9 months or so.

And heal. Be part of Abby's healing. But more, to continue to let this circumstance be part of God's work in my broken soul. To let His Spirit guide my thoughts, my choices, my actions towards healing in me.

Ironic. I'm not a part of it, but I'm totally living it. I'm not there to execute all the well laid plans, or interface with the people I love and am called to serve. I'm not there to teach or listen or check things off lists, to lead meetings or send memos, or comfort or cheer on or reign in, or any of the things I normally do to make sure we as a church keep moving forward.

But I'm here, in this hospital universe of tubes and sick babies, living it all.

Throughout the past 9 months, when the first wave of horror hit our family, and then throughout as other, different but awful events have continued to hiss at us, threaten us, people keep asking. "How do you do it?"

I don't. Not by myself. I can't. Not by myself. I can't face the life I'm living right now alone. I need you.

I'm not sure how long I'll be off "work", but I guess in a way I'm not "off" anything at all. I'm certainly not away from your love, that is clear. I'm not away from your support, that's for sure. And I'm not away from all that God wants to keep on showing me, doing in me, leading me towards.

Highview, I love you. It's been an over the top crazy year, hasn't it? Good thing we have dedicated Elders, compassionate and gifted people, and a very big, very powerful God.

Thank you all. I am humbled by your grace, and this chance to know for sure that Together We Can make our way through anything that comes against us.