Three Dots Blinking

I was texting with a dear friend, and the humorous banter made me eager for his next reply. Staring at the three dots blinking in succession, I knew he was coming up with a witty reply, and I couldn’t wait. It seemed to take forever, but, as I sat there staring, I realized how often my conversations with God feel like that.

I’m not good at praying. Growing up in the Episcopal church, I felt my prayers needed to be read from the Book of Common prayer, or be as poetic as Thomas Cranmer. Eventually, I worried less about how I spoke and focused on what I was trying to say. I found it easier to speak when using my own words, expressing my deepest thoughts regardless of how raw or unpolished they were. I’ve also turned to writing in a journal in an attempt to get my soul to breathe, which, after all, is what prayer is.

The problem is, my prayer life so often feels like a monologue, like one hand clapping. I’ve never had a burning bush, nor been knocked off a horse (in the spiritual sense). While I do think God has spoken to me, it’s always in whispers. It’s never been as clear, or as often, as I would like. It’s felt like the three dots blinking, like God is on the other end working of His response, but it takes forever. I wait, staring at the screen, so to speak, but the dots keep blinking.

I’ll keep waiting.

A response will come.

At least, I hope it will.

Crying Flowers

Her tears caught everyone in the room by surprise. They didn’t run down her cheeks but fell straight to the floor. She was young, newly sober, and scared to be sitting in an AA room full of strangers. And yet, she stayed.

Even now, I’m thinking about her tears. What was their source? What could I have said to make her feel better? A kind word? Something inspirational? Or maybe the too-often-used remedy of humor, which I know is only a way to disguise my discomfort with tears (mine as well as others). For some reason, I have a paralyzing fear of tears.

But if the 12-step recovery rooms have taught me anything, it is that we should let tears flow. We should be brave enough to go into the darkness, the place where wounds go to fester and grow, regardless of sadness it will stir. To do so will hurt and bring tears, but those tears and the willingness to touch the wounds that cause them are the very things that lead to new life.

Jane Yolen wrote a collection of stories entitled, The Girl who cried Flowers. The title has always reminded me that our tears can be a source of life, that the pains and sorrows we carry can bring new life - to others as well as to ourselves - if shared. It’s easier said than done, I know, but watching the tears fall on the floor this morning makes me want to try.

Turning on the Light

I walked into the familiar room at my old campus. With lead-paned windows, plaster walls and oak paneling, the room felt familiar and perfect . . . until I reached over and turned on a lamp. Suddenly, I saw the imperfections in the plaster, windows in need of repair, and scratches across the paneling. Like a bubble popped by a needle, the ideal setting was ideal more.

I was on campus for my forty-fifth reunion. I was excited to be back, but also anxious. Such events shine light on my life, and the imperfections become visible. I see who I was when I was a student, both good and bad. I see what I’ve made of my life since graduating, both impressive and not.

This weekend my stepdaughter is getting married. Like a reunion, it is a wonderful and exciting event, but it, too, is a light-shining event. Family imperfections become visible, old wounds rise to the surface. Beside the beautiful flowers, inspiring words, and abundant love and support, are the people who have died, the friendships that did not last, and relationships unable to weather the storms of life.

Our church is about to have a capital campaign. It is a special place, one worthy of support, but capital campaigns turn on the lights and cause people to wrestle with what they see. Why does the church do this and not that? I thought the church was supposed to care about this, but all our money if going toward that. In the light, we notice and discuss the imperfections we see.

I get that our lives are imperfect, that there are holes, broken panes, and scratches everywhere. No wonder we prefer dimly lit rooms. At least there we can deny the imperfections and ignore the needed repairs. But no matter how hard we prefer the dark, the lights get turned on. It might be an event, comment, or action, but the switch is going to be turned, the light is going to shine.

Then what?  

I don’t have an answer. I only know that I need God’s help when I’m overwhelmed by the brutal truth of the light. “In him there is no darkness at all,” goes the familiar hymn. “The night and the day are both alike.” Somehow because of my faith, I accept both the dark and the light, the good and the bad, the pristine and the messy. In doing so, I have no choice but to rely on a power greater than myself. That, in the end, may be the answer.