The Bright Hour: Living Life with Death in the Room

Last night, I stayed up too late finishing Nina Riggs’ memoir The Bright Hour. If you’re not familiar with the book, Nina Riggs was a young mother who was diagnosed with terminal, incurable breast cancer. Her memoir is a potent cocktail of poetry and prose, humor and tragedy, modern anecdotes and centuries-old philosophy. In the book, she vividly describes the tragedy and relief and mystery of dying.

My aunt passed away last December on my birthday. Maybe her death shouldn’t have felt so sudden, but it did. It rocked the community of my family deeply, and we miss her very much.

Her passing wasn’t my first experience with death, but it was my most visceral and impactful thus far. Since then, death has followed me around like a chaotic shadow: bullying me, gnawing at me, dragging me into the darkness, tightening my chest with its insidious grip.   

As a Christian, I know intellectually that death is a Homecoming; that life on earth is just the appetizer; that after death, the designs and desires we intuitively know to be true will be realer than anything we can imagine or dream up.

I understand this.

But in my most vulnerable and human moments – in those moments when the void, the loss, the grief, the fear, are so palpable that I can almost reach out and touch them – in these moments, I forget truth.  In these moments, I remember only my smallness and softness and fragility. 

Maybe you understand: it’s not so much death that I fear, but the fear of losing someone I love.  It’s the impenetrable unknown: the nauseating terror of knowing that tomorrow I could wake up and never hear the delicate, lilting cadence of my mom’s voice; never watch my dad’s kind eyes as he quietly observes; never bear witness to the subtle way my brother directs conversation toward goodness; never see my sister delight in and mother her babies. 

Never laugh with my husband, or snuggle into his chest.

I can’t imagine what Nina Riggs must have experienced: saying goodbye to her mother seemed tragedy enough.  But then to confront the certainty of her own death in tension with the budding, vibrant lives of her children? The cruelty and heartbreak is too much.  And I suppose this is why she had to learn to live her life “with death in the room.”

Living life with death in the room. 

To savor the delicious mundanity of everyday living.  The dirty dishes piled in the sink.  The to-do list endlessly growing.  The way my dad throws his head back, screws up his eyes, and laughs with his whole body. The smell of Scout’s fur at the fluffy spot by her ears.  My mom’s insatiable zest for life, for relationships, for the perfect shade of red lipstick. Janie’s long vowels that slink like syrup between her consonants.

To live life with death in the room.  Or maybe to make friends with it. To invite it into my home as a guest, a gift.  To let death crack me open and show me my aching vulnerability, my soft, human belly, and how fragile we all are.

Thank you, Nina Riggs.

Airports and Self-Care: A Love Letter

My commute to work takes me right past McGhee Tyson Airport. Seeing the large gates and expansive grass has become normal, and its exit off of Alcoa Highway hardly catches my eye anymore. But last week, the sight of a totally unromantic maintenance truck on the grounds made my heart flip, like the butterflies you get in your stomach when you see your crush. 

I travelled through several airports this week to visit one of my best friends.  As I sit waiting in Charlotte on the layover before the final leg of the trip, I feel compelled to write again. 

I've had a long, complicated relationship with airports.  Like a committed friend, they have seen me at my best and worst -- extremes including but not limited to: 

Tears streaming across my face, ugly-crying as I say goodbye to my parents on the cusp of a great adventure.

Wild eyes and a magnet in my chest, pulling me strong towards the promise of my boyfriend's arms.

A nervous middle-schooler, trying my very best to keep from barfing on my brother.

But this time, at the airport, there's no fire of expectancy burning in my belly, no text message tingling at my fingertips, and no phone call to make "just in case something happens." There is no magic or romance at all.

Instead, there is just me.

And I am learning, over and over again, that having "just me" is just enough. That caring for, and protecting, and delighting in this person that God dreamed up doesn't require anyone else's permission or validation. It isn't motivated externally -- for an audition, or a show, or a person, or friends and family -- but motivated instead by the heart of God that bleeds and beats and burns and fights for me. For you.

I see His precision when crafting each strand of hair. 

No quirk left unconsidered. 

No passion or dream sewn in unintentionally.  

Perhaps self-care isn't at all what our culture makes it out to be -- Oprah's trite "goddess-self" rhetoric, and make-up companies' "you're worth it" propaganda all seem to miss the mark.  Perhaps self-care actually requires a great deal of courage: courage to listen to and stand-up for that sacred, small voice that dreams and hopes and intuits.

A New Year's Eve Manifesto: The Artist and the Public

I saw La La Land this afternoon and my emotions are still whirling from its beauty; the film contains all of the elements that make a timeless movie: tragedy, joy, romance, frothy nostalgia, and dynamic characters.  More than that, the movie makes a profound statement about dreamers and creators. At the risk of being too effusive in my praise, I expect that this movie will be an ebenezer for many artists -- a touchstone to return to when rejections take their toll.

If you haven't had the chance to see it, I won't reveal any important plot elements.  But to provide context: the movie portrays two artists who believe deeply in what they have to offer the world, despite feeling that no one hears their distinct voice.  There was a moment in the film in which Emma Stone's character, Mia, eavesdrops on her audience as they leave her performance. They say nasty things about her skills as an actress. "Don't quit your day-job." She crumples backstage, defeated after pouring so much of herself into work that was so ill-received.

She took their comments personally.

There's an idea floating around that seems to be the steady diet of most artists I know: it's not personal. When your work or sound or aesthetic or interpretation isn't well-received, it's nothing against you. Because it's just work; it's not personal. The audience or judge or public or editor has every right to express their opinions, no matter how degrading or belittling.

But I just don't buy it. I may be wrong, but I believe that any art that's worth a damn is going to be deeply personal. Regardless of what you're calling into existence, if it's honest and authentic, then it's personal. Any claim otherwise seems to me to be a cowardly attempt to protect egos from the harsh reality of rejection.

So what am I suggesting? That all artists are fragile, insecure butterflies? That the public should coddle and stroke them, and make sure to never tell them the truth that their work just stinks and they should consider a different career?
And what then for the artists? Are the artists allowed to indulge in sensitivity and prize it above listening to friends and family's suggestions? Are they to interpret critique as a personal affront, rather than an opportunity to grow? Should they expect everyone to love everything they do, and if not, dismiss them as tasteless pigs?

Absolutely not. But I want to offer some thoughts, from the perspective of both the artist and the public. Because haven't we all been both? Sensitive and crippled with self-doubt, or critical, cowardly, and dismissive?

For the Artist

Can we acknowledge that the nature of our work is personal? That it demands that we be offended and rejected? Can we allow ourselves to be hurt? And then, after grieving, can we go back to the easel or the studio or the piano or the keyboard, and keep loving the work enough to birth something new again? Can we be brave enough to continue to create the work that burns in us, even when we suspect that no one hears or cares?

For the Public

Can we attempt to take on a new posture when approaching art? Instead of demanding that art entertain, or satisfy, or excite, can we allow the work to speak for itself without our judgement?  Imagine what it must be like for someone to come into your office or home and dismiss your career as tiresome or ugly or pointless, just because they don't understand it. Can we take the time to get to know the art or artist as a friend, rather than as a consumer?

State Troopers and Greasy Hair: An Encounter with Compassion

I spent Thanksgiving in Nashville helping my sister and brother-in-law with their four infants and one-year-old toddler.  Getting to spend time with them was amazing; but, as I'm sure you can imagine, five days with five kiddos under two-years-old means all-hands-on-deck, all the time -- particularly during the hustle and bustle of the holiday season.  By the time I left Nashville late Saturday evening, it had been since Tuesday since I washed my hair - and Thursday since I'd brushed it. I was stinky and sleepy and eager to be home before my church gig in the morning.

Sinking deep into the recesses of Taylor Swift's 1989 album, I surfaced briefly to notice a state trooper nestled in his hiding place, ready to pounce. Moments later, I was parked on the side of the interstate with a flashlight pointed at my face. You guessed it: I was speeding. And not just casually speeding -- but traffic school, reckless driving speeding.

Determined to make him understand why I had been so irresponsible (but mostly determined to get out of trouble), I frantically shared a piece of my story in a rush of verbal vomit -- where I was coming from and where I was going.  I was perhaps too forthright, unabashedly asking him to let me off the hook.  He said no, but that he would go easy on me.  He was kind and curious, and he took his job seriously; he wanted to see my license, registration, and proof of insurance. Defeated and pumped dry of my reserve of charm and energy, I rummaged through my glove compartment only to remember that I took my registration and proof of insurance out of my car last week and forgot to return it. Things were only looking more bleak as I muttered that my documents were in my apartment.

When he came back to my window, I was munching on sour gummy worms, awaiting my verdict in a puddle of annoyance and exhaustion. In my mind's eye, I can only imagine what this stranger saw: a mouthy woman with crazy eyes, greasy hair, and snacks strewn across her passenger seat. A silly girl with silly excuses, ready to tell him how to do his job. The verdict was surprising indeed: because I didn't have my registration or proof of insurance, he was able to issue me a nonmoving violation and a warning. Confused by his lenience - I asked him to repeat himself, which he did graciously. I sputtered out a shaky, tearful thank you and drove away. Slowly.

And so, reader, why do I share this story with you? Perhaps I share because I drank too much coffee and my head won't quiet down until I write my thoughts out. Or perhaps this blog has become a friend of mine that bears witness to my journey. Or perhaps because I'm a sensitive artist who attaches too much meaning to isolated, inconsequential events.

Or perhaps I share this story because 2016 seems to have been hard on everyone.  For some, the year has ached, like an irritation that is difficult to name but impossible to ignore.  For others -- and for those who are close to me -- 2016 exhausted, terrified, stretched, and stunned. And still for more, 2016 has been soggy and dripping with grief and disappointment.  Regardless of where you land on this spectrum or what experiences you are coming from: life may be hard right now.

And so I offer you this story because, for whatever reason, a stranger showed me compassion and it changed something in me. He softened a hardness that I hadn't yet named, and pierced through callouses that I wasn't aware had formed. Grace, incisive and bitter-tasting, left me raw, soft, and grateful.

Perhaps 2017 can be marked by this: you and me, neighbor-to-neighbor, seeing each other - no agenda, no end-gaining - just being present and offering compassion.

Lent: Closing Thoughts on (Not) Dating

You know it's been awhile since you've been on a date when the twenty-year-old librarian says you are "very attractive" and you get all flushed and stumble over yourself awkwardly.  But Lent's forty days are over and so is my fast from dating! If you're just tuning in, I'd suggest starting at the beginning -- this will make much more sense that way. 

Here are some closing thoughts about what this full, rich Lenten season was like for me.

Dating Detox

In the same way that sometimes your body needs to detox, I needed a cleanse from dating.  It was time to take a step back, gather my thoughts, and take inventory of my heart and its many drives and motivations. 

I must admit -- it has been such a relief to not date.  I actually enjoyed it.  Silencing that urge to flirt has been wonderful, and I can be more authentic with guys now. I like who I am when I'm just enjoying someone's company, instead of scanning through check-lists to determine someone's eligibility. 

What's more, I've come to realize how many people I love.  Closing off the option to date has opened my eyes to all the beautiful, blossoming friendships around me.  It's given me a new appreciation for this community, my church, coworkers, and family. These past forty days was worth it just for that!

While I've honestly enjoyed Lent, I would be lying if I said that this "dating detox" made me totally content in my singleness and that now I am completely free from any desire to date.  That just isn't true, and I doubt that it will ever be.  But "freedom from the desire" was never really what I was after.  Instead, I hoped to gain a new perspective on my desires; to see God as He truly is: a Giver of good gifts, who will never withhold any good thing from His children.  I think God has shown up in beautiful ways this Lent to remind of just that. 

And while the thought of dying alone with eleven cats, frizzy hair, and broccoli stuck between my front teeth still sort of terrifies me, I'm choosing to remember what is true: No amount of cats, or broccoli, nor singleness or divorce, nor things present nor things to come, nor height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord. (My own spin on Romans 8:38-39.)

The Beauty of the Present

In His fascinating and unexpected ways, God has used this Lenten season to remind me of how fleeting and fragile life is. Despite illusions of control and our plans for tomorrow, all we are ever guaranteed is this present moment.  It's hard to live into that fully when you're constantly waiting and searching for a different, "better" life. God has been asking me to lay down my expectations of what life "should" be, and come alive -- where I am, as the woman I am, in this totally unique moment.

And what a gift this present moment is, if only we have the eyes to see it; to look at life through the lens of a child -- not jaded, or tired, or irritated that things didn't go our way. But with a soft belly, tall spine, and open hands, ready to receive the mysteries of life as they come -- trusting in the kind and gracious heart of our Father.

Lent: Not Where But Who

When $h!t hits the fan, many times the first question for believers is "God, where are you?"

This question seems valid, right? If God is as involved and present with us as He claims to be, then where is He when life falls apart? 

But the thing about God is that He isn't tame. And we can't demand that He reveal Himself on our terms, in our timetable, in this life.  We see this over and over again in Scripture -- God refuses to justify Himself to us.  When Job finally cracks and demands answers, God responds with a bit of tough love in Job 38-41:

"Then the Lord answered Job out of the whirlwind and said:

'Who is this that darkens counsel without knowledge?

Dress for action like a man;

I will question you, and you make it known to me.

Where were you when I laid the foundation of the earth?

Tell me, if you have understanding.

Who determined the measurements -- surely you know!

....

Will you even put me in the wrong?

Will you condemn me that you may be in the right?'"

This is a hard truth. We want answers; and if we're going to go through hard times, we at least want a good reason for it. But often God refuses to provide that.

Perhaps it's because, if He gave us the answers that we seek, we'd stop realizing how much we need Him -- day in, day out, every breath we take.  I know I would and do.  When life is easy, I'm not as needy, because I often feel that I have the answers. But answers are so easy -- and they don't do much in the way of building character.  

Instead of answers, God offers us a different gift: faith.

But faith is a squirmy thing -- I think that it is a gift, much the way our bodies are gifts. I'm grateful to have a body that works well and functions properly.  But I also have to exercise it, to cultivate it, feed it good food, and care for it so that it can be strong.  I think faith is a gift in a similar way -- we have to practice it, exercise it, and push it. 

How do we exercise it? I don't really know.  But perhaps the start of it is by asking a different question.  Rather than: "God, where are you?", we can ask "God, who are you?" As unsatisfying as it is to not have answers, I think that's what it means to follow God humbly.  Instead of looking to answers to provide comfort or peace, He asks us to look to Him, personally, face-to-face. 

Lent: Hard Phone Calls

Yesterday I got one of those phone calls that knocks the breath out of you and leaves you feeling very, very small.  Even in the best case scenario, this situation is just going to be hard; and the worst case scenario is unthinkable. The content of the conversation isn't mine to share, but suffice it to say, my people and I are very scared and sad. So forgive me, reader.  This post is more for me than it is for you.

It's amazing how quickly life can change, and my perspective along with it.  I have so many expectations of how my life should look -- health, comfort, family, "normalcy."  But when life pops the air out of my balloon, suddenly I realize how much I take for granted. And how much I believe is in my control.

Our post-Enlightenment society has taught us that our lives are our own, that our time is our own. I buy this 100%. But today as I was driving, this verse echoed in my brain:

To live is Christ.

My life isn't my own, my time isn't my own. To live is Christ.