The Transcendence of Mindfulness

Ann Voskamp the wise says that “faith thanks God in the middle of the story.”

Here I am, caught in the middle.  The middle of life.  The middle of recovery.  The middle of motherhood.  The middle of the waiting.  I have passed through some stories, all of which I can look back on and thank God.  In the midst of those stories, however, I was pretty much cursing God.  I want to understand God from a non-linear perspective.  I want to see God above the spectrum of time.  You see, to God, my story has no beginning, middle, and end. It is complete, a whole.   There seems to be this juxtoposition to the concept of living in the moment.  To be completely present here and now is to step out of time.  You are so enraptured by the glorious, kairos now that you have no concept that you are even within the bounds of time.  God is with us, in the forever now.  There is no “waiting” with God, because all is now.  In His infinite greatness, He has poured eternity into this tiny millisecond, and we can thank Him and see Him in mindfulness and in the hushed, deep, pause.  In God’s transcendence,  there is an eternal present, and if I am deliberate,  I can step out of time into His transcendent now.  I pray for eyes to see and ears to hear the infinite God in this, His timeless moment.

Coming out of Hiding

Once upon a time, there was a little girl.  This little girl had a best friend.  This best friend was so wonderful that the little girl was desperate to tell everyone about Him.  He was the good news that she wanted to share with the entire world.  She would have gone to the ends of the earth to talk about Him.  She didn't talk about Him because she was supposed to, or because she felt a moral obligation, or because she was worried about her friends burning in hell.  She talked about Him because her entire life revolved around Him.  She couldn't help it.  It was like her little cup was just constantly spilling over, and she couldn't help getting it on everyone that she was around.  Sometimes people didn't like it.  Sometimes they really liked it when they got to know her best friend.  But that didn't really matter to her.  She just couldn't help herself.  It was like breathing.

Then one day,  she isn't sure when, she got scared.  She learned that her best friend was offensive.  She learned the word "tolerant," and she learned that that word was the most important thing in the world.  She heard about these people called fundamentalists who tore people down.  She was scared to be like them.  So she went into hiding. She took her best friend underground.  She loved Him and loved people, but she was scared.  It wasn't okay to overflow anymore.  Unfortunately, going underground didn't work.  He was still her life.  So she had to shut up and try to cut herself off from her best friend.  It seemed to be the only way to function in this great big world that hated her best friend.

So the little girl grew up.  She grew up with a heart that was turned off because her best friend was in there. She really couldn't get away from Him. She was lonely and confused.  She was empty and had no anchor.  But she was not allowed to turn her heart back on.  He might hurt people's feelings.  He might make waves.  What if people disagreed with Him?  It was a very sad life for this young woman.  You can't turn your heart off entirely, so there was always a faint, nagging glow in her chest.  It always reminded her of her best friend whom she wasn't allowed to speak of.

Now, this young woman wants her best friend to be her life again. She misses her heart too. She isn't quite as afraid of the world. She is stronger, and more desperate.  She remembers the joy and relationship and wants her best friend more than she wants to be quiet.  She doesn't want to hide.  She doesn't want to tiptoe.  She doesn't want to live out of fear.  She is learning who she is, and she is learning that it is okay that she is intricately woven into relationship with her best friend.

She is coming out of hiding.  Because she misses Him.  Let me introduce you to my best friend, Jesus.

Weeping Definitely Endures for the Night...

I am holding two realities in tandem:  I loving being a momma, and I am really really dead tired.  

Last night was one of the worst yet, and our child is well out of the newborn stage.   I don’t know if it was teething, tummy ache, or just fussiness, but she screamed for three hours in the middle of the night.  We don’t sleep much to begin with.  This is an understatement.  She usually sleeps for two hours at a time, and she is seven months old. I can’t really figure out sleep training thing.  I can’t even figure out how I feel about sleep training.  

Sometimes Jordan has to hold me down at night so that I don’t get up to comfort at the first sound of distress.  Other times, I punch him, or scream at him, or both punch and scream, leap out of bed, and swoop in to “rescue” my baby.  I don’t condone punching or screaming at your husband.  It just seems instinctual at times. I'm trying to stop. 

Consistency at night is not my best quality.  I am genuinely happy for mommies who have babies that start sleeping through the night at seven weeks, or four months, or six months.  And I also have moments when am ferociously envious of those mommas.  Mainly those moments arise at one in the morning.  

I LOVE being the one who gets to nurse my baby.  That communion together is precious, and most of the time I wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.  And I get really mad at God that He didn’t make daddies with the capability of lactation. Come on, God, it would have been so easy. Just insert the little mammary glands into their boobies too. Then we could share duties. This anger with God also usually surfaces in the wee hours of the morning.  

In the middle of the night, muddling through hours of screaming, I don’t know how we are going to make it through.  I can’t see a light at the end of the tunnel.  I feel like a terrible mommy and an even worse wife.  Then the dawn comes.  Another night over.  The light of the morning comes every day.  There is grace.  There are apologies. Sometimes many profuse apologies.  Maybe we will figure out sleep.  Maybe we won’t.  Hopefully we will. But we love.  

Her morning smiles, babbling, giggling, and playing wash over the dirty remnants of the difficult night. It is cleansed.  Joy will come after tears. 

I am so glad that the morning follows night.  Always.

The Beautiful Agony of Writing

“There is no greater agony than bearing the untold story inside of you.”

Maya Angelou

I stopped writing for six days.  I turned off that part of my brain.  It seems that when I shut down other parts of my brain, the writing part goes with them.  I have only located one power button in my emotional brain, and it controls the creative part as well as other parts.  I can’t really pick and choose what sections I turn off.  I guess that this is why lobotomies don’t work that great. 

On the surface, I didn't feel too great of a loss, but...

I haven’t decided yet if I am a writer or a writer wannabe.  I usually consider myself a wannabe in all of my endeavors.  I think that this assessment protects me from really becoming disappointed if I fail.  

Writer or poser, however, I guess that I feel really sad and empty when I don’t write. 

For a couple of years, I buried that part of my heart so deeply that I didn’t know that I missed it.   With the encouragement of wonderful friends and a committed husband, I located the burial plot and resurrected the writer in me. (Or the wannabe).  The problem with writing is that it also resurrects other parts that I might not want to dig up.  If I am going to really truly write from the heart, it means that I start feeling more emotions and becoming...duh duh duh...authentic.  Authenticity can be terrifying. 

This might be why I took a week off.  I needed a break from the realness of writing. I needed to slip back into the false reality of being shut down. Writing opens up the world to me, and the world hemorrhages all over my keyboard.  And I’m squeamish. Like really squeamish. Like faint-from-clipping-a-fingernail-too-low-squeamish. Writing heightens my awareness to life.  I see the universe through different eyes, and these eyes are willingly open to a greater level of experience than they were before.  This is good and bad.  It is breathtakingly beautiful and devastatingly heartbreaking.  I come face-to-face with glory and eye-to-eye with evil.

So I am faced with a decision.  Do I write or not write? The pen can be a weapon. It can be an instrument of healing.  Can I handle the surgeon’s tools slicing open my heart? There are words that want to flow.  I fear that they will be messy.  Do I dam them or unleash them? Writing is incredibly dangerous.  But so is living, REALLY living. 

Pouring Out

It is more blessed to give than to receive, to be poured out, broken.

That first latch.

Those eyes.

I prayed to be poured out for you. 

For the grace to give.

I am filled to be emptied.  I cannot find more satisfaction than is found in this action.  It houses pain, but so much more joy.  The crystal blue eyes that look up into mine, as I pour out for you. 

The little fingers that grab, grab, grab. 

My hair, nose, mouth, chin, teeth. 

The attentiveness with which you watch my facial expressions.  As you grow into your body, you can interact and engage with a simple look.

We have complete conversations with no words.  Pre-verbal does not mean pre-communicative.

The sacrament of giving, of pouring out, of self-emptying so that you can be filled and live.

It is so much more blessed to give than to receive.  Never has eating served a higher purpose.  This once agonizing act now serves to provide life for two.

I cling to the moments.  You are more efficient now, so the seconds are fleeting.

You are learning how to self-sustain, which will carry you when I let go.  But for now, I carry you.  I pour into you.  He pours into you.

We have struggled.  The sacred act has been at times a wrestling match. 

The arched back. 

The sputtering. 

The showers.

But we persevered, and you have thrived. 

And instead of wondering how long I have to do this, I wonder at the privilege and ache at the thought of it ending.

I am filled with grace, and that grace is poured into you.

Grace fills, and empties, and fills again in the emptying.  It is the ascension of the mountain, only to be poured out all the way down.  And that is why we ascend.  Because it is more blessed to give than to receive.

There are no pretenses, no masks.  We remain unedited for one another.  You have yet to learn how to sensor, and I have no need.

God is in the nourishment.  He is in the pouring out. 

In Him, I am filled, and thus, in Him, you are filled.

We reflect divinity to one another.  So simple, so pure. 

There is hope.

I whisper thanks, and I see Eucharist in your eyes.

Considering Lily

“Consider the Lilies of the field, how they grow. They toil not, neither do they spin.”

Matthew 6:28

Postpartum OCD is an issue that is rarely discussed in open dialogue, at least to my knowledge.  It is often seen as something shameful, and new mothers fail to reach out for help.  One author says, “I never knew the wheels could fall off of my brain.”  This is how I feel frequently throughout the day.  That my brain is careening out of control, down a never-ending highway of terror and loss.  In any given moment, as I look at my daughter, I see a handful of scenarios that strike terror in my heart.  I feel like I have a glimpse into another dimension, the dimension of “what ifs” that I cannot filter out.  I think that it is somewhat normal to get an occasional glimpse into this dimension, but living there is complete torture.  The fear of what could happen to Lily colors every interaction.  It influences our lives in so many ways.  All new parents have fears.  This is absolutely normal.  Postpartum anxiety and OCD cause fear and stress that can paralyze and cripple.  This type of fear is what I have been wrestling with over the past seven months.  In this midst of all of this mental and emotional torture, I find some solace in the pursuit of gratitude and trust.  May it be known that a chemical and hormonal imbalance cannot always be cured by spiritual platitudes and scripture quotations, but for me, it offers just enough peace for me to hold it together, at least for the next few moments. 

Consider the Lilies...

I can’t protect my daughter.  Something, anything, might happen.  She might be ripped from my arms at any point along the way.  I am not in control.  I can do everything right and something go wrong.  I could do everything wrong, and she could end up all right.  So what gives?  How do I live? 

Consider the lilies…Why did we name her Lily?

They do not toil nor do they spin….She’s not mine.

How they grow…She’s His Lily.

Anxiety has been my anthem for years.  This is the same song, different verse.  My anxiety just picks new people and things to hone in on.  Lily is its prime target.  

But how ironic that God would give her a name so reflective of the garment of trust that He desires to wrap around us.  Maybe God chose her name knowing how much I would struggle with the fear, knowing that I need constant reminding of my daughter's Provider and Keeper. 

Do you not know your Father? 

The one who named your child?

Do you not know that He loves you and He loves her? 

Do you not know that he knows the number of hairs on her head?

Do you not know that her very life is a miracle, one that was birthed out of a broken and dry body?  The medical marvel of fertility after a lifetime of damage?  Can you not see that she is His, not yours?

He whispers to me, “Let go.”

It’s not on my shoulders.  I don’t have to carry it.

Care for her with gratitude, with thanksgiving.  She’s a gift.  Enjoy her.

In Him, she was created, is sustained, and has her being.  Not in you. 

Megan, you are not God. 

In life and in death, we all are His, not our own.  In disaster and crisis, we are His.  When the unthinkable happens, we are His.

The fear and anxiety negate joy.  How can I revel in this blessing when I am riddled with the gut-churning terror of loss?  How can I step out of the terror when it seems to swallow me whole?  In thanksgiving, I recognize that I am not in control. In gratitude, I lay down my sense of my own self-worship.  And then a tint of joy colors my life.

So I still feel anxious.  I have irrational brushes of sheer terror.  I have visions of death. I long for the day that my OCD doesn’t write death all over the screen of my life. But I have thanksgiving and gratitude.  I have joy in knowing that I’m not the one in charge.  So far, I am not cured.  But when my brain is threatening to careen out of control at unimaginable speeds, my heart whispers the truth of why my daughter is named "Lily." 

Leaning into the Longing

I recall an experience with a magnificent sunset.  I was pulled into its beauty.  I literally chased it along the Kentucky trails, until the last light disappeared behind the horizon.  The loss of the sunset felt catastrophic. 

Here in Kansas, sunsets are incredible.   I navigate the road, trying to maintain my driving skills while adoring the splattering of colors draped along the tips of the trees. I feel profound loss as the sky transforms to the darker hues of dusk. 

Still on the topic of glory…Glory is a big thing.  Beauty.  Beauty is a big thing too. The beatific vision.  When you reach, reach, reach, almost touch it….but it is gone.  The loss of beauty is devastating. The good dream from which you suddenly awaken to realize that you are back in mundane reality, and the baby is crying. 

Plato understood this in his cave.  Augustine captured it in his beatific vision.  C. S. Lewis talks about it in The Weight of Glory.  Ann Voscamp encapsulates this concept in One Thousand Gifts.  

Why does beauty produce a longing, yearning?  An old ache exists, a brush of ancient nostalgia, but not for something from this lifetime.  As C. S. Lewis says, this earth is merely a symbol of something else, and we will outlive nature.  The stars will burn out.  The galaxies will collide.  

“Our natural experiences (sensory, emotional, imaginative) are only like the drawing, like penciled lines on a flat paper.”

Why do we as a people long for art, for beauty, for the representative?  We will not be fully happy, fully satisfied, until we can fully grasp the true beauty of Creator God.  While we search  for this complete and total satisfaction on earth, we will not find it.  Could it be that contentment is leaning into the longing?  Is it being happy and satisfied in the dissatisfaction, knowing that it will ultimately be fulfilled in the final Vision?  

“We see now but in a glass darkly, but then face to face.” 

1 Corinthians 13:12.  

Can we continue to run after the visions of beauty, the penciled drawings on scrap paper, embrace the longing, and know that one day, the veil will be lifted?  There is great joy to be discovered in the beauties found in this lifetime, and even greater joy in the awareness that they can’t compare to the beauty for which we were created.