When we arrived, we ran up to my parents to drop Toby off and went down to my Grandmother’s apartment complex where my parents and my Aunt and Uncle from California, and my brother were. Sorting through 80 years worth of memories, belongings, knickknacks, and ohmy knickknacks. So, so, so much stuff. Borderline hoarder (I only say this because, since watching the show “Hoarders” on A&E, I assume that anyone who has an “excess of things, is a hoarder. My husband, for example, I’ve diagnosed as a sentimental hoarder. We’ve tried working through the issues but he is having a difficult time, and it might come to a point where we need to call in the experts from the show to receive proper care and treatment).

Anyways, there are boxes everywhere. Things everywhere. Letters, newspaper clippings of everything that the Grandkids or children did, relatives of distant relations, crafts my dad had made when he was 5 (“Now, THAT’S a find, Dad!”) All of these things that seem completely pointless to most of the world were kept treasured and safe within this tiny apartment.

We worked through all this for a few hours and left to have dinner. Later that night, in the living room at my parents house, we had taken this large 3 drawer container full of pictures and strewn them throughout the room. I sifted through pictures of my dad throughout his whole life. The picture where he got into a fight at school and broke his nose, the picture of his first Harley, the hippy weddings with flowers laying on the ground and people sitting on the ground barefoot, my Mom on her parents houseboat, pictures of my parents first house, pictures of me when I was born, my brother, when we moved from Cali to WI. All these memories. The newspaper clippings of when my parents tried opening a group home for unwed mothers and were turned down by the cynics of the world.

We started wrapping up our evening and I came across a hand-written diary entry from my Grandma. She wrote it the morning I was born. It said:

“April 12, 1985- Charles(My Grandpa) answered the phone about 4:30AM-Lee (my dad) was calling. I didn’t hear it and when he got up suddenly, I was wondering why and all and I’m always thinking of his heart and was about to ask him the matter, when he leaned over and said-”It’s a girl!” For a fleeting moment I didn’t comprehend what he said-only a moment tho-and I was elated! I had HOPED for another granddaughter what with Lee’s track record of fathering sons- but I didn’t want to pray for one. My only feeling was whatever it was to be a special baby. She was born at home about 4 with a midwife attending. Specific details hopefully come later-”

This was the best Christmas present I could have ever received this year, at the mourning of my Grandma. Merry Christmas Grandma. I love you.

   But isn’t this the way Christmas season goes? We want everything to be perfect, and every time an “event” (as I like to call them) happens, we freak out. Our at least Type-A, high-strung people like me. Christmas is suddenly “ruined”, we don’t like it, and suddenly, we’re pouting about how much Christmas is ruined. Or at least Type-A….

But the reality is, is that “perfect” doesn’t exist, unless we are perfected in Christ. I think about Mary and Joseph and how their “Christmas” must have felt “ruined”. Think about it. Joseph is pleased that he’s marrying his super-hot-girlfriend, and suddenly this angel appears to say “She’s already pregnant”. Um….what? Moment: ruined. Or Mary, who is young and can’t wait to become a housewife (at the awesome age of 14, when it’s still cool and fun to “play” house) is visited by the same Angel saying, “I’m going to make things a little complicated. You’re going to be pregnant with the son of God. Fear not! See ya” Being the Type-A sort of person, I would have been FREAKING OUT. “I’m what, with who, and do not fear? I’M FOURTEEN, GOD”. So here’s the situation. Joseph’s super-hot-girlfriend is preggers, and Mary is what?? NOT freaking out.

When we read the Nativity accounts in Luke and Matthew, there’s none of the “Great, now Christmas is ruined”, or “I hate this time of year because nothing is going right” or “I don’t have any time to relax because there’s too much to do, and this is the worst Christmas ever”. There is no room for Type-A’s in this story. Instead, there is nothing but.

Calm.

Definition of calm:  1.without rough motion; still or nearly still: a calm sea.2. not windy or stormy: a calm day.

Funny how calm Joseph and Mary seem to be about the birth of their son, Jesus. Funny how 30+ years later, their son would emit calmness on the sea. It would not be windy or stormy, or rough motion.

Calmness in the sea of frustration, anger, hurt, annoyance, Type-A, high-strung. Calmness like the moment or two when you are stuck in a white out in the middle of driving back home. And for those few split seconds, you don’t know where the car in front of you is, if you’re even on the road at all. But for just a moment…everything is calm….and you can’t…hear…anything but the beating of your own heart.

I think that is how Jesus calms our hearts in the midst of the raging sea. Everything around you is windy, rocky, rough motion, but in the swell of all of this, it is calm.

So take notes from Joseph’s super-hot-girlfriend, and the calmness that exuded from her being.

I had received a coupon for $10 off a flower delivery order. I had decided that I would send my Grandma flowers. As I walked to the church yesterday morning, I decided to order the flowers right away. I got to work, and 10 minutes later my mom called. My Grandma, Evelyn, passed away unexpectedly that morning. Today is the day that Earl passed away, December 15^th, 2007.

My heart is heavy.

            Last night I came home from church and started to rage. I was so upset about all the things I have to do, the running around, the fact that I haven’t started Christmas shopping, still not knowing where we will be for Christmas, the frantic pace that the Christmas season “calls” for. I sat at the kitchen table and was brooding. Nate came over and knelt beside me and took hold of me saying, “I’ve got you”. It was enough. Deep wracking sobs escaped my chest and I cried. I began to mourn every single person I have lost in the last three years: Earl, Sam, Grandpa, and now Grandma. I missed all of them so much; I felt the loss of them wash over me once again. 

            I was talking with my good friend, Kelley Brown, and she was talking about the things that we have to do in life. “People ask me all the time, how I did it, how I managed to begin a new life with 2 babies. And you just do it! You just get through it, and you just. Do it.” I thought about this idea, this “new” idea to me, last night as I laid in bed, feeling like I was drowning in responsibilities. I just have to do it. I will get through it. Because to quote Miss Kelley, “It really doesn’t matter what we do. We have a great God who will see to any of our needs”. We just get through it. Though tragic and upsetting, deaths are honestly a part of life, and you get through them. You push forward, because our souls are resilient. We have the great Advocate, and He is our Defender, our Comforter, and our great Healer. I am, because of who HE is.

My heart is light.

You may be asking how my heart can be heavy and light. But I think you know. Because I think we have all felt this indescribable moment where our hearts our both. Our hearts are heavy because of the grief, and our hearts are light because we know who our God is. “How He Loves” has been my mantra this morning. I leave you with this:

“We are His portion and He is our prize,
Drawn to redemption by the grace in His eyes,
If grace is an ocean, we’re all sinking.
So Heaven meets earth like a sloppy wet kiss,
And my heart turns violently inside of my chest,
I don’t have time to maintain these regrets,
When I think about, the way He Loves Us”

My heart is heavy and light.

     Let me describe myself then. I was chubby (still am, I’ve just learned to call them “curves”), wore round shaped glasses (Harry Potter style, before they were “cool), and had heavy bangs that came down past my eyebrows (also back instyle. We call it “fringe” now). AWKWARD. It should also be stated that I was homeschooled, furthering the awkwardness of those 3-4 years. My family had recently moved from California, the hot west coast of sunny beaches, to Wisconsin: the frozen tundra of the midwest. Nice move Mom an Dad! Needless to say I went from being a cute little So-Cal girl with a social network, to a chubby, acne stricken pre-teen with no friends.

  During this phase in my life I depserately wanted to have friends, and until you are established in an area of other homeschooled peoples, you don’t tend to meet anyone. The local school district however allowed youth in other discricts, rural areas, and homeschoolers to participate in extracurricular activities. I begged my parents to let me join a volleyball team. It must have been a summer type session. I was so excited to start. I thought to myself that I would meet new friends, and learn a sport that I would actually get into. I remember picking out my “sporting” outfit days in advance. I had this cute baby blue nike t-shirt with white ringers on the sleeves. Then I paired it with black stretchy nylon style pants. I had black shoes. I spent an hour putting my hair up. I was super excited! My mom took me into the building to confirm my registration. I looked around trying to spot someone I could start talking to.

All the girls were skinny, and had cute little shorts, and nikes. Their hair was long, blonde shimmering hair, and no bangs. None of them wore glasses. When it came time to start doing drills they paired off with each other and I was stuck with the assistant coach: who I might add was probably 2 years older than I. I tried talking with some of the other girls and they would point and laugh and run off to show their awesome volleyball skills. I stood in the corner, with my arms hanging by my sides, playing with the shirt to keep myself occupied so as not to cry.

I went home that afternoon after class, and bawled. I wanted to quit. “Please, mama, don’t make me go back. I didn’t fit in. No one talked to me!” My mom wouldn’t let me quit because it had cost quite a bit of money for me to take the course. Money was especially tight since my dad was self-employed. I cried on the way there, and cried on the way home every single day. I didn’t fit into their clique. In the team picture I was off to the side of the group: everyone in their cute little shorts and nike tennis shoes, me in my baggy clothes and ugly black shoes.

 I hate this story. I told my husband of five years this story for the first time. It was evident to him how painful it was for me as I relayed the story to him in vivid details. It hurt so much being excluded and not feeling included or wanted. More than hating this story, I hate cliques. We have all been abused by cliques, and we’re all part of cliques. But I hate them. There was a clique in my youth group growing up. I broke into the clique but still to this day know that I never really quite fit into the youth group.

As a youth pastor I strive to break the cliques. Their painful. They hurt. They just down right suck. I try my best to avoid cliques for several reasons. First: It is hurtful. Second: it is unbiblical. Third: Jesus NEVER allowed cliques and never asked us to form them.

There are numerous stories of Jesus including everyone into his inner circle. In fact, most of Jesus’ life ws depicted of him hanging out on the fringes of society. John 4 we see Jesus hanging out with the Samaritan woman at the well. Different social and economical class than he; yet he shared the Kingdom of God with her. Luke 19 we find Jesus hanging out with Zacchaeus the tax collector. Tax collectors back than are no different today: they were not liked. Luke 18 we see Jesus allowing the little children (whom should be seen and not heard) to come to him and learn from him. The disciples themselves were a hodgepodge of various types of men. Zealots, tax collectors, cheaters, liars. The very followers of Jesus: adulterers, povery stricken, diseased, wealthy, teachers, rabbis. Jesus stayed in the fringes of society, the fray. The place where he could reach anyone, anytime, anyplace.

I believe this is what he calls us to do. To hang in the balance. To put ourselves in situations that are uncomfortable. To not stick with the same group of people all the time. To not form cliques that don’t allow anyone in and sometimes don’t allow anyone out. Jesus calls us to be in the fray. Live life on the edge. Be uncomfortable. Be Jesus.

I don’t ever want to be that awkward girl standing in the corner of the volleyball court. But I find myself still being that ugly duckling. But then again, maybe that is what Jesus is calling me to be. To be on the edge, the fray. To welcome anyone. Anytime. Anywhere. He is calling me to be like him. On the volleyball court.

Jesus, can You show me just how far the east is from the west
’cause I can’t bear to see the man I’ve been come rising up in me again
In the arms of Your mercy I find rest
’cause You know just how far the east is from the west
From one scarred hand to the other

I start the day, the war begins, endless reminding of my sin
Time and time again Your truth is drowned out by the storm I’m in
Today I feel like I’m just one mistake away from You leaving me this way

I know You’ve washed me white, turned my darkness into light
I need Your peace to get me through, to get me through this night
I can’t live by what I feel, but by the truth Your word reveals
I’m not holding on to You, but You’re holding on to me
You’re holding on to me

Jesus, You know just how far the east is from the west
I don’t have to see the man I’ve been come rising up in me again
In the arms of Your mercy I find rest
’cause You know just how far the east is from the west
From one scarred hand to the other
One scarred hand to the other
From one scarred hand to the other

I loved school at Viterbo. I loved the smell of walking across the courtyards into school. Campus was about 3 blocks from the local La Crosse brewery, and when they turned the hops at 4pm every afternoon, it smelled like fall. Pumpkins, the smell of dying leaves that filledhe air with their sweet, almost sickenly sweet smell. The smell of the grass clippings after a few days smelled like hay. For me, the season of Fall makes everything stand still. Time moves slowly as the wind ripples through the trees, blowing the dead leaves into a firy sky filled with gold, red, orange, dark green and brown. For me, fall is a time of renewal. What has become old blows away and life becomes for a brief moment in time, immobile as it lays in preparation for its dormant season.

I miss Viterbo. I miss what it stood for in my life. I miss sitting underneath the trees being taught by my own Assisi scholars. I wish I had more time. Not hours in the day, but more time in the moments of my life. There were things about Viterbo that I wish I would have had more time. Like when I met Eli Wiesel, I wish I could have asked him to transport me back into his own courtyard in WWII. Explain to me, Sister Helen Prejean, what it felt like to be on the other side of bars feeling compassion for men and women of their own crimes, and of their own victimized lives. Explain to me Earl Madary, pull me back into that moment, give me more time, teach me all the classes over again.

I need more time for things. For moments to resolve. I want more time. Even just a few months for each moment. Let me resolve these moments. Have you ever experienced an incredible moment and then after the fact wished you would have had more time? More time to talk to a beloved? A mentor? More time with a sunset? I wish a lot for more time so I can be settled in these moments and gifts that I’ve been handed. Father God, give me more time. Just a few more months and then I can let go of this moment; it will have been resolved.

Often my struggle in life is that things don’t resolve. I want more time. And yet, God doesn’t resolve. There is no end to Him. And I crave Him. I want more time with Him. Let me settle into this moment Father. I want to remember THIS moment in time. He tells me over and over again, “Your whole LIFE is my moment with you.” Okay, God. I see your point.

I guess really, it’s not about getting more time for things. It’s about embracing the moment while we’re in it. Though I would love to go back to Assisi Courtyard and relive all my moments there, I know my time has passed. I would love to go back and sit in Earl Madary’s 4 season porch and listen to him sing, but the moment has passed. The one thing I can ask for more time with, is God. I need more time Jesus.  And everything will make sense. Everything will resolve….at least for this present moment.

watch?v=sy0fIyongdI

We react to death differently, each and every time.Each time, it is this defining moment in our lives that will make us or break us. We have this choice to bear of what we will do with the surviving pulse of a shattered heart left behind.

I have experienced 3 deaths within the last 3 years. Each one effecting me differently. I don’t share these lightly, nor do I share them to say, “look at mine”. No. I share them, because memories will continue to wash over us somedays with each heartbeat, and each breath we take.

My beloved professor passed away and I mourned him with sincereity. I would miss the lessons taught, the vibrations of the soul awakening. His bride wore white at the funeral. I remember and still think that if I am faced (God fobid ever) to bury my own beloved into the ground beore time is due that I will wear white. Innocent as the purest snow and as pure love echoes into the mountains. It is in this death that I saw hope. Renewal. Faith. A future, though it’s missing a certain person, still continues in this overwhelming sense of purpose.

My brother did not die well. When I was told in the parking lot at work, my knees gave out. I fell to the ground as my body responded in a way that defied gravity. My heartbeat skipped. My pulse ran ragged. It was shallow and waited for something more like a sweet salve to be replaced so that the imitations of life would breath into me again.  There was no funeral. There was no hope. And what hope I clinged to is becoming more like a desperational response so that my mind, my psyche doesn’t face the truth. Did I grieve differently? Yes. Do I still mourn? Yes. There was no future that I could claim to, where I would see him and understand his own path and decisions. Do I grief with an ungodly momentum? No. Because God understands that this sort of death wasn’t planned. There needed to be more time. But God knew this. And I rest in that.

My Grandfather who died in April, was a celebreation of life. How sweet is the pulse of one’s life well lived. He knew he was passing away and he knew that he rested in the Creator of the universe. When asked where he was going he replied with his sassy self, “Heaven ofcourse”. There was no doubt in his mind that when he breathed his last breath here, an dhis next breath in heaven he would see Jesus with arms wide open. I sang at his funeral. I sang like I meant it. I sang because there was a celebration to be had and my heart rejoiced. Did we grieve? Yes; it had been a short time from beginning to the end of his death. When a funeral week happens, time stands still. No one cares if you are late, early. You never pay attention to when you go to sleep or what your sleeping in. Who’s house you eat at or where you laugh histarically watching your Aunt and Mom revert back to their antics as teens. What they do care is that you’re there. And suddenly a family who can be as ridiculous as the next, pulls together and you are the most important thing to them that week. Family suddenly makes sense at a celebrational funeral.

These were all three different deaths for me. Two celebrated life, one celebrated the loss of an unretrievable moment. I think sometimes we are given these pulsations to remember that life is fragile. That life is a series of heartbeats. That God knows this. That God places people in our lives for a period of time so that we may grow and learn and move. So that we may understand grief and heartache so that we may understand the pulsing rythym of life as in propels us to love and to move. Because really, isn’t that what love is? Life? Love is what beckons us forward out of our grief. Love is what makes this world move.

In the last few days I have found myself being involved in numerous triangles of relationships. The newness, the exciting, the terrifying, he said/she said, goings on back and forth of the heart. Relationships all around me are moving and bending and molding and breaking into something that I don’t understand and don’t necessarily crave. And yet they are happening all around me and I want no part of the unfamiliar.If any of you have been following my blog, you understand the pity posts I’ve been writing about; changes that are happening around me that I don’t necessarily understand. The Holy Spirit seems to be pushing me through the circles of change anyway despite my rantings and rages when I scream at the wind. The Holy Spirit seems to understand my need to rage, because when I’m through, I feel this sense of peace. But knowing that as he holds me, he says, ” Do you feel better now? Don’t fight the hands that hold you.” He is my unrelenting lover who calms the raging seas of my heart.

But back to the desperate relationship triangles. One of my favorite scenes with Beth March is when she’s on her death bed and she pours her heart to Jo:

Beth: If God wants me with Him, there is none who will stop Him. I don’t mind. I was never like the rest of you… making plans about the great things I’d do. I never saw myself as anything much. Not a great writer like you.
Jo: Beth, I’m not a great writer.
Beth: But you will be. Oh, Jo, I’ve missed you so. Why does everyone want to go away? I love being home. But I don’t like being left behind. Now I am the one going ahead. I am not afraid. I can be brave like you.

I resonate with Beth, because in the last few days I’ve been saying, “I was never like the rest of you, making plans about the great things I’d do… Why does everyone want to go away? I love being home.” What IS it about life that we find so inviting to the unknown, the unfamiliar? I looked at Nate last night and said, “I am thankful we are past this point in our relationship” (We’ve been married 5 years. I certainly HOPE we’re past this). And yet Nate has said to me on more than one occasion, “I want to live our marriage like we lived the month before we got married. The adoration, the love.” The relentless pursuit of love. Maybe perhaps that is what moves us forward; love. This always changing idea of love that propels us into the unkown. And I think on some level that is why the Holy Spirit has been pushing. pulling, dragging me through these cycles of change: to pursue a relentless chase for Love.

Relationships are crazy. Change is maddening. And yet, most of these things are ignited by love. I don’t like people changing, relationships around me changing. But at the end of the day, it matters not, though it may sting. What matters is my own personal persuit of a Loving relationship with the Holy Spirit. Though Beth March craved staying home, she pointed out however, she was the one moving ahead faster than the rest of the family. She was going home to heaven. And she was not afraid. She could indeed, be brave. I can be brave too, and not be afraid of the reckless pursuit. The pursuit of Love.

The feeling of having established “roots” where people know me, truly know me, the feeling of being able to walk in a room and feel comfortable. And yet…I don’t “fit in” in WI anymore either. People move on quickly it seems, and the places that were once familiar now seem distant and far off. The smells of home are different and they change. You know that smell…that overwhelming tastes, smells, the streets, the way your car just knows were to go to get home. I feel trapped in some time warp where nothing is familiar. My senses are confused. “This should be home, but yet…something is off still…”

Another thing is that people change. Quickly. OR maybe its that we change depending on our surroundings and that we get comfortable with the familiar. And as we step into a different place we immediately sense a shift within ourselves and personally, I become whiny. I want things different, I want things to be familiar. I would like my bed. I would like the towels that I use in the bathroom, and why is there not as many vegetables in this house as in mine? I remember this street being different, that building is new! Oh, they closed down. Everything changes and yet we stay the same. Or perhaps we change and everything else stays the same. Either way. Things are unfamiliar. We are different and yet unchanged. This is the state of limbo that I cannot stand. This song that relates to me right now, in this place in my life, “Limbo No More”. Lyrics are as follows:

My house, my role
My friends, my man
My devotion to God
All the more feels indefinite
My taste, my peers
My identity, my affiliation
All the more feels indefinite
I sit with filled frames
And my books and my dog at my feet
My friends by my side
My past in a heap
Thrown out most of my things
Only kept what I need to carve
Something consistent and notably me
Tattoo on my skin
My teacher’s in heart
My house is a home
Something at last I can feel a part of
Sense of myself
My purpose is clear
My roots in the ground
Something at last I can feel a part of
Something aligned
To finally commit
Somewhere I belong
Cuz I’m ready to be limbo no more
My wisdom applied
A firm foundation
A vow to myself
‘Cuz I’m ready to be limbo no more

This song is me. At least right now. And I am so ready to be in limbo no more. And when that happens. Maybe the smells I smell and the tastes and sights of things unfamiliar become the familiar and I begin to feel “normal” and have this sense of belonging. And maybe thats what its all about. Belonging to somebody, someplace, somewhere. Belonging to God and resting in that and knowing that and being SAFE in that. *sigh*. Things to remember and to be devoted to.

~Nicole