How We Wait: A Poet’s Spiritual Practice {guest post} + BOOK GIVEAWAY

By Abigail Carroll | Website

This year, my church celebrated Lent in an unconventional way: we created art together. Specifically, we snapped black-and-white photographs designed to capture the theme of waiting.

Everyone was invited to submit their best six photos, and a skilled artist in the congregation assembled them into what we called a photography quilt, which we displayed during the Palm Sunday service.

As a member of the Arts Team, I had helped come up with the idea, but I harbored concerns that we would find a sufficient variety of examples when it came to visually depicting waiting—would we all end up photographing the same six things? I also wondered about the spiritual value of the project: would it merely offer a feel-good community experience, or would the church grow spiritually? Would I grow spiritually?

To my astonishment, I hardly had to search for waiting: it found me.

Shortly after we launched this arts initiative, I found myself in that iconic space of involuntary tarrying: a hospital waiting room. A woman at my church with no family in the area had asked me to pick her up following minor surgery. I arrived at the hour she was scheduled for release, but the surgery had been delayed, took longer than expected, and required more recovery time than usual.

Because I had anticipated a simple pick-up, I had neglected to pack reading material or my laptop, so I spent what amounted to about eight hours flipping through magazines, wandering hospital lobbies, and listening to the conversations of others who were also waiting. I found myself moved to pray for many.

As I snapped a photo of the sign, Bernice and Milton Stern Surgical Waiting Area, I realized that what I was waiting for was more than my friend to emerge from the surgical ward in a wheelchair escorted by a nurse: I was waiting—with a deep sense of yearning—for the time when surgery will be obsolete, when, as John the Revelator puts it, “there will be no more death or mourning and crying or pain” (Revelations 21:4). I was waiting for the old order of things to pass away and the new order of things to be ushered in.

The second photograph I snapped was not in a hospital, but in my home.

My spirit had been feeling lifeless for some time, and I had been struggling to experience refreshment in prayer. One day when I was simply out of words to pray, I decided to take ten minutes with God in quiet with no attempt to use (or even think) words.

I installed myself in the rocker at my bedroom window overlooking a neighboring farm, and I gazed out over the white, snowy pastures. Something happened during those ten minutes that I can’t quite name. When I rose from my chair, I sensed that God’s presence had been with me, and my soul felt as though it had taken a deep, long breath. Once again, the theme of waiting had found me, so I photographed the chair next to the window, bathed in winter light.

A third image of waiting presented itself while I was on a walk, but not just any walk.

I had learned that dear friends whom I considered practically family would be moving away. I was devastated. All morning, the sky had been spitting snow, and my heart was feeling as bleak as the damp day, which, though it was April in Vermont, yielded no sign of spring. That is, until I stumbled on a pile of brush on the side of the road sporting small velvety buds. It was pussy willow branches that had been clipped, but were blossoming just the same. I gathered some of the clippings and snapped a photo, and as I did, I realized the picture was less about the willow clippings, than of my clipped soul, which felt utterly dormant and cut off, but which I knew would bud again, even if I couldn’t yet see the life.

We are all waiting for something—a call, news about a job, a broken bone to heal, vacation, the coffee to percolate, spring. Waiting is inherent to the human condition. What I realized, as I participated in our Lenten arts project, however, is that just as the poetry of everyday life resonates with eternal truths, every instance of our day-to-day waiting bears the imprint of a larger waiting.

Just as the poetry of everyday life resonates with eternal truths, every instance of our day-to-day waiting bears the imprint of a larger waiting. @ACarrollPoet

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In his letter to the Romans, Paul says, “[We] groan inwardly as we wait eagerly for our adoption as sons, the redemption of our bodies” (Romans 8:23). This is the ultimate waiting to which all our other waiting points.

On Palm Sunday, when the photography quilt hung before the congregation, we beheld a portrait of our individual waiting, but also of our collective hope—a hope in the gospel’s promise that one day all which is broken will be restored.

I like to think that the act of snapping each photograph helped pique our hunger for a world gloriously renewed. At the very least, it piqued mine. I have come to recognize the experience of longing in my daily life as an opportunity to remember the One for whom I long, who has pledged to renew all things. As for pussy willows and waiting rooms, I don’t think I’ll ever look at them in quite the same way again.

***

BOOK GIVEAWAY!

We are giving away two of Abigail’s books of poetry: Habitation of Wonder (Wipf & Stock 2018) and A Gathering of Larks: Letters to Saint Francis from a Modern-Day Pilgrim (Eerdmans 2017).

TWO WAYS TO ENTER

1. Sign up for my newsletter below AND/OR

2. Tag up to four friends on either my Instagram or Facebook posts about this blog post and I’ll enter YOU (not your friend) once per friend you tag! Contest ends Wednesday, July 4th, at midnight (MT)*Only U.S. residents, please! And no bots;-)

About Abigail:

Abigail Carroll is author of two books of poetry, Habitation of Wonder (Wipf & Stock 2018) and A Gathering of Larks: Letters to Saint Francis from a Modern-Day Pilgrim (Eerdmans 2017). Her first book, Three Squares: The Invention of the American Meal (Basic Books 2013), was a finalist for the Zocalo Book Award. She serves as pastor of arts and spiritual formation at Church at the Well in Burlington, Vermont. You can find her online at www.abigail-carroll.com and follow her on Twitter at @ACarrollPoet.

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**All images except the first one are the property of Abigail Carroll and are used with permission.

March 5, 2018March 20, 2018

Why Simplify?

If I were to pinpoint one golden thread running through the fabric of my life, it would be this:

“Stop doing, just be.”

It would be God whispering in the straining and trying,

“Stop. Just breathe.”

“Soak in Jesus and all of his richness and pour out peace, love and joy onto others around you. Enjoy. Notice. Relax. Be grateful.”

There is an over-quoted verse that I also frequently tell myself: “Cease striving and know that I am God.” The second half of it is less well known: “I will be exalted in the heavens. I will be exalted in all the earth.” (Ps. 46:10)

When we slow down, stop, breathe, and just be, we begin to notice God at work all around us.

Our culture of productivity and busyness demands we be on-the-go, plugged-in, running, frenzied, over-worked and over-scheduled. We are to multi-task and be well-rounded, never focusing on just one person or experience at a time. “Buy more, do more, see more, read more, live more, more and more.”

I read a book a couple years ago called The More of Less that states this month’s theme succinctly with its title. What if having and doing less actually makes our lives richer and more fulfilling?

What if having and doing less actually makes our lives richer and more fulfilling?

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I hope you’ll follow along this month. As usual, my ideas and plans exceed the actual time I have, but in the month of March on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, I hope to talk about ways to:

Simplify Buying Used Clothing

Simplify Mom Guilt

Simplify Your Perspective on Motherhood

Simplify Easter with Kids

Simplify Doing Laundry (likely a 2-parter)

Simplify Hospitality

Simplify Baby Gear

I’m also planning a post with books, podcasts and articles relating to this theme, so tell me if you have a great resource you’d like to add!

I have at least one guest post lined up, but let me know if you’d be interested in guest posting and shoot me an email at scrapingraisins@ gmail (dot) com. I’m looking for personal stories on this theme in the 500-1000 word range.

As always, thank you for meeting me here in this space. If you haven’t yet, be sure you sign up for my mid-month and monthly secret newsletter for the latest posts and even some news, discount codes and book giveaway information that only Scraping Raisins subscribers are privy to!

Sign up for the Mid-month Digest and Secret Newsletter Here:

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October 27, 2017

A Bite Out of the Sun: An Eclipse Story {for SheLoves}

We were among the fools who drove hours to put ourselves in the Path of Totality for the eclipse. At the risk of ramping up the sense of FOMO for those of you who skipped it, I have to say the experience ranks among one of the most inspiring of my life.

We spread out our ratty quilt next to the river, claiming our spot in the RV site that claimed to be a “resort,” but was really just several hundred campers smashed into tiny gravel lots charging $120 a night. But since hotels in Casper, Wyoming, were $399 a night and my parents had the foresight to reserve a spot nine months ago, we pitched a tent for our family of five on the rocks behind their camper.

Mostly, we waited. The kids became instant best friends with the family across the gravel path who had driven overnight from Vegas. We tried on our opaque eclipse glasses, gazing at the burning dot, then checking our phones again for the time. A man set up a mammoth telescope and let people look through it, for the small price of having to hear him marvel about the wonders of a divine creator, to the great irritation of my parents’ atheist friends.

We settled on the blanket to the whining of our three-year-old, demanding that she have her hot pink camping chair. My husband darted back to the site to get the chair, with just two minutes to totality. The temperature was dropping, the sky darkening to twilight. Terrified my children would stare at the sun and go blind, I yelled at my daughter to put on her glasses, panicking that I myself had looked at the sun, now just a sliver of light, without my glasses. I was glad our baby was fast asleep in my parents’ camper so I wouldn’t have to obsess over him not ogling at the sun.

My husband returned just in time. The girl next to me suddenly shouted, “Take off your glasses!” After so many minutes of stressing over wearing the glasses, we finally yanked them off and found ourselves frozen, trance-like in the horrific wonder of a modern-day science fiction film.

The campsite erupted with noise and motion. The adults shrieked wildly and the children spun in circles–pirouetting, twirling, cartwheeling and hugging one another in the eerie light. We were Frodo, our vision transfixed on the eye in the fires of Mordor. The moon was a smooth black orb, framed by the most brilliant shock of light I have ever seen. Touching my cheek, I realized I was crying.

The trees, grass and river glowed with the light of dusk—or perhaps dawn. A pinpoint of light pierced the darkness and the diamond glinted off the side of the burning ring. This was the end–the finale that left us speechless except we suddenly knew that we were small and nature and space could drastically dwarf our overinflated sense of self. We knew light and dark could dance together and we’d survive the harrowing nightmare.

Totality lasted two minutes and twenty-two seconds. In that short span, the supernatural peeled away reality to reveal life in all its wildness and God in all His glory… CONTINUE READING AT SHELOVES

July 16, 2017July 12, 2017

Small Sticky Hands Lead Me to Jesus {for The Redbud Post}

Last summer, hugely pregnant with my third child, I took my 1- and 3-year-olds on a walk every afternoon. I’d saunter along behind them, absently resting my hand on my taut belly, hoping to receive some communication in the form of a heel or shoulder blade in my palm. My head ached from the dry Colorado heat, and every joint and ligament protested at being stretched to capacity. I had no delight left in me, so I drank in the delight of my children, filling my own empty reservoir with their joy.

We spent over an hour on a half mile stretch of concrete path that wound behind our neighborhood. The path only extended another half mile beyond that and was barricaded by a chain-link fence, though there were rumors the city planned on extending the path one day.

On these walks, my kids would lie on the sidewalk, watching ants and poking roly-polies until they curled into a ball. They’d pick dandelions by the fist-full and stuff their pockets with ruby red berries I hoped weren’t poisonous. Wild, brown bunnies would dart out of bushes and skitter away as my son and daughter chased them under fences.

For once, I was glad to roam at the rhythm of my children. The first four years of motherhood had been a constant tension: my kids wanted to go slow; I wanted to go fast. They wanted to savor simple pleasures; I wanted the adventurous life I had lived before children. They wanted to play; I wanted to be productive.

But last summer, I finally surrendered. My children won the battle for slow, small and simple.

So now, instead of resenting them for weighing me down, holding me back, and stunting my growth, I’m starting to accept that my children are not a burden. In fact, they are teaching me how to live.

My children are my wonder-catchers. They are my sieve—capturing every small, insignificant, glorious life particle before it can slip away. Like getting eyeglasses for the first time, my children magnify life, bringing every bug, spider web, sparkly rock, quirky person, and familiar place into sharp clarity. We do not go far or fast, but they are teaching me to marvel at the mysteries of a God hidden in plain sight. As a writer and worshiper of God, slowness is a gift, for I am honing the ability to notice and delight.

We do not go far or fast, but they are teaching me to marvel at the mysteries of a God hidden in plain sight.

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I’ve had these prophetic words by Madeleine L’Engle scribbled into my prayer journal since my pre-kid years. I never knew their fulfillment would come in the form of motherhood:

“Slow me down, Lord … When I am constantly running there is no time for being. When there is no time for being there is no time for listening” (Walking on Water 13).

In my former life, I was a doer. I led, organized, taught, and planned. I lived in other countries, got my masters, traveled alone on 27-hour train rides across China, and spoke other languages. But it turns out God was not impressed. Instead, he wanted to teach me how to be nearsighted again. He wanted to slow me down. Not just so I could see his work in the world, but so I could hear his still, small voice …

Continue reading at The Redbud Post

September 26, 2016

The Best Years of Our Lives {for The Mudroom}

I had the privilege of writing over at The Mudroom a week (or two) ago and with all the life shifts, I am just now getting around to sharing it here (quickly…all three children are sleeping!).

Legs curled under my body, I stole a few minutes from studying to sit on the floral couch in the chapel hidden in the attic of Williston Hall, scribbling in my journal. I’d sometimes sneak in here for an hour of quiet between classes since it was in the middle of campus and my dorm was a much farther walk away. Suddenly, the door burst open and a woman in her early 40’s entered with her two school-aged daughters. She peered around the room, eyes wide. “I spent so much time here,” she whispered. “And it hasn’t changed at all…”

In her, I saw my future self.
What will life be like when I’m 40? Where will I have gone? What will I have done? I thought.
Later in the day as I crossed Blanchard lawn on my way to class, I passed some alumni visiting for their twenty year reunion and one of them stopped me to ask for directions. Before turning away, though, he said, “Enjoy this. These are the best years of your life.”
The “best”? So it’s all downhill after college? I thought. Sad.
Now that I am nearing 40, I understand more of what that man meant. From his life of mortgages, insurance, bills, retirement savings, car payments and parenting, what my dad’s description of college as “living with your friends and studying a bit on the side” sounds pretty amazing.

****

I now have two teeny children who I avoid taking to the grocery store at all costs. But when I do, I catch some grandmother fondly admiring my two blondies and I know what she is about to say. “It goes so fast. These are just the best years!” she’ll call over from the other aisle. And if she’s especially anointed that day, she’ll add, “Enjoy them!”
Another woman left much the same message on one of my blog posts about motherhood recently. In fact, I think she actually used the words, “Those years with little ones were the best years of my life.”

…continue reading at The Mudroom.

~~~

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Previous Post: Falling Off the Missionary Pedestal {for SheLoves}

August 22, 2016

The 37 Week Pep Talk for the (Scared) Waiting Mama

I know you reached this point in your other two pregnancies and struggled with fear and worry, so I thought I’d ward that off with a few reminders.

Hey lady, here we go again. You’re 37 weeks and feeling like this pregnancy has gone fast, but in slow motion. I know you reached this point in your other two pregnancies and struggled with fear and worry, so I thought I’d ward that off with a few reminders.

1. Trust your body.

The first time around, you weren’t so sure if you could really trust your body. You wondered how your labor story would play out and if your body would betray you. You let others dictate how you should labor and push out your baby. Though you had an unmedicated birth like you hoped, it was long, harder than you expected and you had some regrets. The second time around, you were better prepared and trusted that the pain was purposeful. You knew that slow is not bad, it is just the way God programmed you. So the next time, you surrendered to your body and allowed it to guide you. You sang, swayed, slept, soaked in the tub and relaxed. You did what it took to allow your mind to get in tune with your body. And after two days of laboring at home, you delivered a healthy baby girl 30 minutes after arriving at the hospital. I know you can do this again—trust your body. It knows what it’s doing.

2. Trust (and enjoy) your baby.

This little pink wriggly that they’ll place on your chest is more intuitive than you will ever know. He already knows you, loves you and respects you. Listen to him and find ways to be in tune with him—even when your gut goes against “the books.” God has made YOU his mama—no one else. He has gifted you with the ability to meet his needs in ways that no one else on earth right now can.

Instead of “getting through” those first few weeks and months with your new one, focus on enjoying him. Cuddle him longer than you “should,” tickle your nose with his baby fuzz hair, breathe in his newborn scent, strap him to your body to feel his warmth, nurse him in the middle of the night while you catch up on T.V. shows (without guilt) and cup his frog legs in your hands as his body still wants to be in a ball. Blink, and he will be running circles in the living room with your other two, so enjoy these precious, fleeting days of infancy while they last.

3. You will be given what you need.

Now that you have other children, you wonder how you will have space in the inner rooms of your heart for more. Will there be enough love, patience, wisdom, strength and time to stretch around and envelop this new one? Will you feel the same toward him that you do toward your other lovelies? This is where Jesus will step in, making His miracles. Like the widow who hesitated to give up the last of her oil and flour when the prophet Elijah asked for it, you, too, wonder if you will be required to give more than you have. But you will be shocked to find that “the bowl of flour shall not be exhausted, nor shall the jar of oil be empty” (1 Kgs. 17:14).

You will be given what you need exactly when you need it, so give freely. Err on the side of generosity. This time of adding a needy soul to an already chaotic and overflowing life will extend you beyond your ability so that you will see your needs and your new one’s needs met in miraculous ways. Your lack will lead to a demonstration of God’s provision. Your scarcity is an opportunity for Jesus to lavish His excessive love on you. Wait and see. God will make a feast out of your simple offering of flour and oil.

4. This baby does not belong to you.

He has never belonged to you and never really will. He has been knit, formed, made and molded in your body—but not by you. The Holy Spirit has been at work for a long time on this little one—you have always carried a part of him inside of your body, just waiting for this egg to be picked for such a time as this. God knew his name before he even existed and has always known the number of days he ordained for this little one. Open your clenched hands and place him back on the altar. This baby is not yours. The sooner you accept that, the better you all will be.

5. Do not fear.

Before you conceived, you feared it wouldn’t happen. You were afraid that pink line on your dollar store pregnancy test would never have a partner. But then throughout this entire pregnancy, you have feared that you would lose the baby. Now, you fear complications in these final weeks, in labor or that your baby will be born with birth defects that will alter his life and yours. Fear has stubbornly clutched your skirt hem all along this road. But here are some words of life that you wrote out for yourself on note cards the first time around. Let these words empower you as you prepare to give birth. Submerse yourself in them like the muscle-soothing soak of the weary who takes a bath after training for a marathon.

Soak in these Truths:

“The Lord is my strength and my shield; my heart trusts in Him and I am helped; Therefore my heart exults, and with my song I shall thank Him”
(Ps. 28:7).

“For God has not given us a spirit of fear and timidity, but of power, love and self-discipline”
(2 Tim. 1:7).

“When I am afraid, I will put my trust in you. In God, whose word I praise, in God have I put my trust; I shall not be afraid. What can mere man do to me?”
(Ps. 56:3-4).

“For God is not a God of confusion, but of peace”
(1 Cor. 14:33).

“I can do all things through Him who strengthens me”
(Phil. 4:13).

“You will keep in perfect peace him whose mind is steadfast, because he trusts in you. Trust in the Lord forever, for the Lord, the Lord is the rock eternal”
(Is. 26:3-4).

“Do not fear, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name; you are Mine! When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they will not overflow you. When you walk through the fire you will not be scorched, nor will the flame burn you”
(Is. 43:1-2).

“Be strong and courageous! Do not trouble or be dismayed, for the Lord your God is with you wherever you go”
(Joshua 1:9).

“Be strong, and let your heart take courage, all you who hope in the Lord”
(Ps. 31:24).

“The Lord is my light and my salvation; Whom shall I fear? The Lord is the defense of my life; Whom shall I dread?”
(Ps. 27: 1).

“Peace, I leave with you; My peace I give to you; not as the world gives, do I give to you. Let not your heart be troubled, nor let it be fearful”
(Jn. 14:27).

***

You can do this, lady. Trust God, yourself and your baby. This is not the first time a woman has given birth and it is certainly not the last. You are not walking alone, but are held. Embrace this incredible experience for all its rawness, intensity and mystery. You’ve got this!

~~~

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May 18, 2016

The message on the bathroom stall

Scraping Raisins blog post: How God used a grafitti message on a gas station bathroom stall to speak to me.

We pulled into a sleepy country gas station at 3 AM and I groggily trudged into the store, searching for the restroom and shuffling toward a hand-lettered sign that hung askew above the door. We were in the middle of a 13 hour drive through the night from Colorado to Chicago.

We’ve found that this means of travel is actually perfect for us because the kids sleep the entire way (ideally) and wake up when we arrive at our destination in the morning. There is no time lost in traveling and certainly nothing to miss in the long, flat drive over the lonesome plains of Colorado and Nebraska. The drive is so desolate that many of the exits warn of “no services” or that the next stop will not be for 30 miles. But the stars at night are incredible.

Entering the bathroom stall, I closed the door and noticed that it was covered in graffiti. Right at eye level, a message jumped out at me. Though I was tired, the profundity of the message struck me enough to read it again and again, memorizing each word. It said:

“You are safe. God is pursuing you with true love. Don’t give up.”

What kind of person writes a message like that on a bathroom stall in the middle-of-nowhere Nebraska? And who were they talking to? It felt personal. Intimate. Like a stranger was staring into my soul and speaking a prophetic message to something they saw there.

Being who I am, with all my tendencies to over-spiritualize, of course I read into the message. I felt like God himself had vandalized that stall so that I would see it there in the middle of the night in May 2016 on a long distance drive with two tired babies in my reluctantly acquired minivan. Like He wanted to speak to me personally, but also illuminate a message for friends I have right now who are battling cancer, infertility, miscarriage, depression, disappointment, confusion and feeling forgotten by God.

You are safe.

God is pursuing you with true love.

Don’t give up.

Later in the week, I was on a run and noticed a bird nest high up inside the prism of a street light, straw and sticks poking out of a tiny hole in the glass. The lantern must have provided the heat and light the mama bird needed to nurture her young, but mostly it promised a secure spot away from predators and dangerous weather. I was comforted by the safety of that snugly situated nest, thinking about how we have security in God when we build our nests next to Him. But then it occurred to me that He is more like the mother bird, and we are his tiny, vulnerable, needy babies, completely dependent on Him to keep us safe. He fights for our survival like a mama bird fights for her young.

Familiar words came to mind, like the comfort food of the Bible:

“Those who live in the shelter of the Most High will find rest in the shadow of the Almighty. This I declare about the Lord: He alone is my refuge, my place of safety; he is my God, and I trust Him. For he will rescue you from every trap and protect you from deadly disease. He will cover you with his feathers. He will shelter you with his wings. His faithful promises are your armor and protection” (Ps. 91: 1-4 NLT).

If you’re like me, these words are soothing, but also seem a bit naïve, because we know that sometimes we and our loved ones are not protected, healed or spared. We are not always safe. But today as I prayed for my hurting friends that seem to have fallen out of safety, I was reminded that though Jesus could have healed and even protected some of His friends from harm, He chose not to. What He did do was enter right into their pain. He sat down with them and wept. He was present with them in their loss in a way no other human being could ever be. His heart broke with the brokenhearted.

This is where the second part of the Nebraska bathroom graffiti message rings true. “He pursues you with true love.” And that is where our security lies. Though we may not always feel safe physically, we can know that He is always searching for and pursuing our hearts with His unfailing love. Even when we give up on Him, He will never give up on us. And sometimes that means chasing us all the way into a dirty gas station bathroom stall in Nebraska just to remind us.

You are safe. God is pursuing you with true love. Don’t give up, my friend.

~~~

Related Post: When We Fear {for Velvet Ashes}

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Previous Post: When You Feel Like God Misled You {for Middle Places}

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January 4, 2016January 13, 2017

What No One Told Me About Breastfeeding

Before I had a baby, I hadn't conceived of how amazing it would be to use my body in such a raw and mystical way to completely sustain another life.

When you are pregnant, there is no lack of doomsday warnings and terrible tales passed on in attempts to crush the spirit of the rosy-cheeked and hopeful mom-to-be. So by the time I had my first child, my expectations were super low. I was about to ruin my life.

And though I knew I wanted to breastfeed and was committed to it no matter what, I dreaded the soreness, time and late nights that everyone gave me dire warnings about.

So I was floored to make a discovery after my son was born: I loved it.

With my son, I planned on nursing for a year, but when that year came and went, I realized I didn’t have an endgame. And I really enjoyed nursing, so I wasn’t eager to wean him. I was thankful when he suddenly lost interest and weaned himself at 16 months.

Now, I’m considering weaning my 17-month-old daughter, so I’m feeling nostalgic. If we don’t have other children, these may be my last days of nursing a baby, which pulls on my mama heart in ways that watching our children grow can simultaneously bring us delight and sadness.

I know there are reasons people are not able to nurse their babies, but I wanted to write about some of the joy I personally found in nursing.

The Beauty
Before I had a baby, I hadn’t conceived of how amazing it would be to use my body in such a raw and mystical way to completely sustain another life. To know that the milk I gave my baby was tailored to their specific age and developmental needs and even contained antibodies to fight off diseases and potential threats in our home gave me peace at a time when I often wondered if I was doing everything right.

I first read the book Babywise, which advocated a strict schedule and strongly discouraged demand feeding. I did try and feed each of my children on a schedule of sorts, but I am so glad I read another book on breastfeeding, The Womanly Art of Breastfeeding (don’t be deterred by the cheesy title). Reading this changed my perspective on breastfeeding and taught me to trust my body and trust my baby.

Nursing is the most beautiful thing I have ever done with my body. Yes, the act that brought this baby into existence was beautiful and good, but making love takes effort and requires you to be actively engaged in the process. But nursing is a passive generosity (especially as you and baby get stronger), requiring the simple offer of yourself, cradling of your child, drinking in their new baby scent, nuzzling their soft peach fuzz head and allowing yourself to relax in the natural mystery of womanhood.

Night Vigils and Sleep Fasting
Though the tiredness struggle was more real with my second child, with my first baby, I thought about my evening vigils as “sleep fasting.” I tried not to complain to people the next day about my lack of sleep just as a fasting person shouldn’t complain about how hungry they are. My sleep was my sacrifice to God and to my baby. And God met me in the watches of the night as my husband slept and I and my baby listened to clocks tick, cars make their way home from clubs, bars and social visits and the old apartment creak in the night. When else do you sit awake in the middle of the night and do nothing but listen?

Solitude
As the feedings have become less frequent with each child, I find that I miss having an excuse to escape a crowd full of people to nurse my baby. Not that I haven’t done my share of public nursing (I’m a fan of using a cover, but admire women who whip it out–more power to you!), having nursed in parks, bathroom stalls, store dressing rooms, restaurants, movie theaters, mall benches and numerous parking lots. But there have also been plenty of church services, parties and weddings where I have been able to sneak away with my baby and allow myself to melt into the scene of mama and baby alone at last.

Now, my daughter’s body hardly fits on my lap and I can tell that she is not getting much milk at each feeding. She is a busy toddler and barely slows down during the day enough to sit on my lap anymore. So I continue to hold on those few times a day she still nurses and I can’t deny her when she gives me the sign language sign for nursing. I’m going by the “don’t offer, don’t refuse” method of weaning. So for now I will hold her squishy little girl body, with her wispy blond pig tales tickling my nose and her chubby hands grabbing my shirt and nurse her for just a few more days. Just a few.

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December 16, 2015January 13, 2017

Keeping Secrets With God

Have you ever held a profound secret that only you and God shared?

I think Mary must have been an introvert, listening and reflecting more than she spoke. After the shepherds stormed into the birthing room, marveling over the infant Jesus and (probably) loudly relating their story about the multitude of heavenly host that recently had them surrounded, everyone else in the room vehemently discussed the shepherds’ story and wondered what it meant.

But Mary treasured up all these things, pondering them in her heart (Luke 2:19). She didn’t speak, just collected this news, mulling it over quietly. She already knew she was in the middle of a magical story that would include every essential element of a riveting plot: strong characters, conflict, and the triumph of good over evil.

This was one of those moments that Mary and God shared privately, because who could really understand?

Have you ever had any moments like this? Moments where life is a bottomless well of meaning? Moments where all you know to do is to place them in the treasure box of your heart and marvel? In her book Wonderstruck, Margaret Feinberg describes these moments as being “sprinkled with pixie dust.”

Have you ever held a profound secret that only you and God shared?

I have felt this way only a few times in my life. The first was when I decided to move to China. My roommates at the time were engulfed in life and death. One was in love and the other had a family member who was dying. And my impending move was not happy news for my parents, who hoped that God’s will for my life would lead me down the street, not across the world.  So I celebrated in isolation, rejoicing that God had made His way clear.  And I silently wondered how He would enable me to take this leap across the world as a single woman. I considered how He would use me and whether or not He would seem different to me in another country.

The second time was when I fell in love.  Like being pulled along in a current where I couldn’t swim backwards if I tried or like a slide where you can’t fight gravity to get back to the top once you have begun to fall, love was more powerful than I had expected. But I was 10,000 miles from my love and all my friends and family, so God was my confidante. He alone held my questions, fears, and hopes as I stood in awe at the strength of a love that could propel me in directions I had never expected to go.

Years later, having a human being growing inside me was the ultimate secret.  My husband and I didn’t tell anyone I was pregnant for weeks and though my husband knew, only God truly shared the incredible mystery with me.  God knew my child’s name before I did and had chosen that egg and that sperm at that time to create the person He wanted to create. And when my son came skidding across the bed and was laid on my chest? Inexplicable love. Wordless wonder. The kind of moment where human fingers brush the clothes of the Divine and power leaks out.

I aspire to be more like Mary. To absorb more and pontificate less. To meditate rather than act thoughtlessly. To be a contemplative in a world that demands action. And I want her awareness of the presence of God in a normal, dusty stable that smelled of horse manure and chicken feed. I long for her peace when all around her screamed that she should fear the unknown and impossible.

I am not Mary. I will never give birth to the son of God. But I am a future character in the same story in which she is featured. Lines of sacred and secular sometimes blur into holy moments of recognition and are added to my heart treasure box just as Mary added them to hers.  In these moments, all I can do is freeze in amazement because God, the author, is moving His divine story forward–whether I am aware of it or not.

What about you? Have you ever had any moments in your life where you felt like you shared a secret that was for you and God alone?

What would it take for you to become more contemplative?

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Category: sacred moments