Almost a year ago, something began which I thought would bring me joy. And it did, for a while. But very quickly, the situation took me (or I allowed myself to go) to a place of darkness, pain and sorrow. It was so bad that I stopped writing. I lost my words, part of the core of my being. I lost part of my self. Those who know me well will know how significant this was. When I go silent for too long, it's not a good sign. I went quiet, I went numb with the constant hurt, and I misplaced my backbone.
If not for the friend who asked me where the woman she knew and loved had gone, I might still be there. If not for the friends who loved me, supported me, let me cry, didn't judge me, fed me tea and cake, listened to me, kept me company, protected me, held my hand, helped me heal and reminded me who I was, I would probably still be a puddle on the floor.
Instead, I have returned! I am strong, beautiful, alive, happy! So, thank you: Charli, Tina, Simon, Tracey, Rob C, Rob M, Henri, Till, Maddy, Nat, Bethan, Emma C, Siobhan, Emma A, Elizabeth S, Jane, Yiwen, Suwei, Bobby, Zoya, Egle, Dominika, and many more. Like the stars, I know you're always there - wherever in the world we are.
Thanks to you, I was lost but now I'm found! And the words are back :)
This is really two posts in one, two stories I felt I needed to tell. They are separate, but connected by what they meant to me, and by the loving place they came from.
The Lady and the Cushion
I went away on retreat over the weekend, to a still, peaceful place where beauty lives. It was a gift I decided to give myself, but the giving of it cost me a lot, because I find it difficult to be kind to myself - as I suspect a lot of people do. Anyway, I spent the first couple of days in silence, trying to quiet all the internal noise I put between myself and God. For me, this is a worthwhile exercise, and a necessary once, but it's also emotionally intense and I find it challenging on many levels. The point of me telling you this is to explain that by the time Sunday morning rolled around, I was in a vulnerable place - not that this was a bad thing, but when you make the effort to open your heart, take an honest look at what's inside and turn your will to being receptive, it's going to feel raw.
So that's where I was on Sunday morning. It was a gorgeous sunny day and after breakfast I took myself off to a quiet spot by the lake just to sit and be. It had rained the night before, so the wooden bench I chose was well and truly cold and damp but I couldn't be bothered to move so I was prepared to put up with it. It wasn't conducive to calm and relaxation though!
A few minutes later, one of the women also there on retreat came trotting cross the lawn, lugging an enormous cushion. "Right young lady, you haven't been well and you cannot, you simply cannot, sit there getting cold and damp. Honestly, it can't be comfortable! Now you sit on this, you'll feel much better." And so saying, Eileen hauled me (gently) out of my seat by the elbow, plopped down and plumped this cushion, sat me back down, threw a rug over my knees and strode away again without another word. The whole exchange probably took less than a minute but it touched me to the very core of my heart and changed the complexion of that day for me. This kind woman had seen me from the house, and decided that I couldn't be allowed to sit on a wet bench slowly freezing. She didn't have to do it, and I know it sounds like a small thing, but it was just this pure expression of loving kindness, no strings attached, and it made all the difference to me. Because the truth was that I didn't love myself enough to care for my comfort, and to find that someone else could and did was incredibly moving. God was there, in that moment, in that love.
The man and the tea
This is something that happened a couple of years ago, and I don't know if I've since told the person involved how significant that moment was for me. If not, I hope he'll know now.
My world had been gradually crumbling for some time, and on this day I reached a point of total collapse. There was only one place, one person I felt I could go to and so I did - even though we'd never met and he didn't know me from Eve. I will say until my dying day that God led me there, because I certainly didn't know what to do. This nice man listened to me, and really heard me, and has continued to be there for me, all of which has meant so much to me a little blog post isn't going to do it justice. But you know what rocked my world? He made me a cup of tea. That's it. That's what changed everything. Because I could not remember the last time anyone had done that for me. I'm usually the tea-maker, the care-giver, the organiser, the Martha. To be taken care of in that small way was the most loving thing I had experienced in a very long time, and it did something to my heart. It made healing possible; I felt it, but it took me a long time to understand.
The point of all this is that it doesn't take a lot. Grand gestures not necessary. A random act of kindness, which costs you nothing, can change someone's world. These two blessed mine, and I give thanks for them.
The word resentment means to re-feel...to feel again. Someone wrongs or wounds you; in resenting it, you re-feel the injury. And you re-hurt yourself. The Hebrew Talmud says that a person who bears a grudge is "Like one who, having cut one hand while handling a knife, avenges himself by stabbing the other hand."
"... follow your heart. I know it sounds trite, but it's the only thing to do. Because at the end of the day your heart will stop beating, and it will be too late to regret that you didn't go where it prompted you to go." (Berthea Snark, "A Conspiracy of Friends", Alexander McCall Smith)
God knows what He's doing. It's a truth I find it hard to hold on to sometimes, especially when nothing seems to be going the way I'd like it to, but it's an unshakeable part of what I believe and therefore of who I am. It doesn't mean that bad things don't happen, or that life isn't full of disappointments and unfairness. But it does mean that when I remember to stop being such a type-A control freak, I have the exquisite luxury of knowing that the guy in the driver's seat knows where we're going and how we're going to get there. All I have to do is go on the journey - and try to remember to enjoy the ride.
I have spent most of my life fighting my own heart. I am used to putting everyone else's expectations before my own desires, everyone's wants before my own needs, other people before my self. Not because I'm particularly good or kind, but often because I have felt that is precisely what I am not. I have a terror of being selfish, and so I find it very hard to say "no". I have been conditioned to put duty and responsibility above all else, and certainly above that pesky little ego and id - my super-ego reigns supreme.
Don't get me wrong, duty, responsibility and moral obligation are important. There are far too many people with no sense of how what they do affects the people in their lives - or who just don't care. But how do you take care of the people you love if you won't even give yourself permission to breathe?
Rob Bell, writing in Velvet Elvis, puts it better than I can ever hope to:
"I started identifying how much of my life was about making sure the right people were pleased with me. And as this became more and more clear, I realised how less and less pleased I was with myself. What happens is our lives become so heavily oriented around the expectations of others that we become more and more like them and less and less like ourselves. We become split.
...I had all this guilt and shame because I wasn't measuring up to the image of the perfect person I had in my head.
...I meet so many people who have superwhatever rattling around in their head. They have this person they are convinced they are supposed to be, and their superwhatever is killing them. They have this image they picked up over the years of how they are supposed to look and act and work and play and talk, and it's like a voice that never stops shouting in their ear.
And the only way not to be killed by it is to shoot first."
The very first time I read this passage, a few years ago now, I felt the power of what Rob Bell was saying. It scared me how close to the bone this man, who had never met me and didn't know me from Eve, had come. I read this, and I saw myself, and I knew that he was right. If I didn't stop living this way, I was going to end up dead.
I knew this, and still I could not, or did not, or was not quite able, to stop myself. And so I kept going. I fought it, and I tried, but I kept going. I didn't want to, but I kept going, because that is how I am. I am a perfectionist, and I try hard, and nothing is ever good enough. I am never good enough. Way to miss the point, huh?
And finally, finally, it has almost killed me. It has almost, quite literally, ended my life.
There is a story that's been doing the rounds for years, told as a joke but with a serious point to make:
A religious man is on top of a roof during a great flood. A man comes by in a boat and says, "Get in, get in!" The religous man replies, "No I have faith in God, he will grant me a miracle."
When the water is up to his waist, another boat and rescuer come by but once again the man responds that he has faith in God and God will provide a miracle. With the water at chest height, another boat comes to rescue him, but he turns down the offer again because "God will grant me a miracle." Finally, as the man is almost completely submerged, a helicopter throws down a ladder and they tell him to get in. Mumbling through the water in his mouth, he says - you guessed it - he believes God will come to his rescue. Of course, he drowns. He arrives at the gates of heaven with broken faith and says to Saint Peter, I thought God would grant me a miracle and I have been let down." St. Peter chuckles and responds, "I don't know what you're complaining about, we sent you three boats and a helicopter."
I have turned down several boats, but there is no way I am not getting on that helicopter. It means letting go of a lot, and leaving people behind. It means having to fight a lot of learned behaviour. It means giving myself permission to be the person I really am, instead of struggling to be the person I am expected to be - which, horror of horrors, means accepting that maybe, just maybe, who I am is enough. No, not good enough, which has nothing to do with anything; just enough. It is the hardest, most terrifying thing I have ever done (and this is a lawyer speaking). But it is better by far than the alternative.
It is going to be a struggle, and I am going to need help - most of you will have no idea what it took for me to recognise and admit that, to myself much less to anyone else. But at this point I have nothing to lose. So I choose not to let the floodwaters close over my head. I choose to be free. I choose life. And it doesn't really matter that I don't know what I'm doing, where I'm going or how I'm going to get there, because God does, and I have found, in some of my darkest hours, that I really do trust Him. So, don't worry about a thing, 'cause every little thing's gonna be all right.
"The gift of the Holy Spirit closes the gap between the life of God and ours. When we allow the love of God to move in us we can no longer distinguish ours and his; he becomes us, he lives us. It is the first fruits of the Spirit, the beginning of our being made divine."
"To accept grace is to admit failure, a step we are hesitant to take. We opt to impress God with how good we are rather than confessing how great he is."
“You weren't an accident. You weren't mass produced. You aren't an assembly-line product. You were deliberately planned, specifically gifted, and lovingly positioned on the earth by the Master Craftsman.”
- Max Lucado, The Christmas Candle -
“If God had a refrigerator, your picture would be on it. If He had a wallet, your photo would be in it. He sends you flowers every spring and a sunrise every morning... Face it, friend. He is crazy about you! ”
"There is nothing to prove and nothing to protect. I am who I am and it's enough." (Richard Rohr)
I think my quality of life would improve tremendously if I could just internalise that, and live it. Of all the things I struggle with - and believe you me that's some list - this is the one I find myself wrestling the most, and it's probably the root of everything else. Richard Rohr also has this to say on the subject:
"It's a gift to joyfully recognise and accept our own smallness and ordinariness. Then you are free with nothing to live up to, nothing to prove, and nothing to protect. Such freedom is my best description of Christian maturity, because once you know that your "I" is great and one with God, you can ironically be quite content with a small and ordinary "I". No grandstanding is necessary. Any question of your own importance or dignity has already been resolved once and for all and forever."
How amazing is that? Because it's true: your "I" is great and one with God. That's the whole idea. He made you, and it's fine that you're not perfect. If He had wanted to make us perfect, whatever that means, I'm pretty sure God could have done it. But He made me how I am, and you how you are and He gave us free will, which by definition means we are going to mess up. And that's ok.
As Christians, we are all on our way to a better version of us. Christ is our compass, and he points us towards healing and liberation. But on the way, we remain who we are. We have to make decisions, some of which are going to go against the grain of our inclinations and impulses, and we are going to make mistakes. There is nothing wrong with making mistakes. The important thing is to learn from them, and keep checking the compass. If you choose to head due south, that's something else entirely. But look and Christ and his journey. Think of Christ on the cross, asking that very human question: My God, my God, why have You forsaken me? His words echo the beginning of Psalm 22, and in that context, these are not words of total despair. They are words of submission, but also of trust in the Lord.
Christ on the cross was crucified as a man, but he never ceased to be God, suffering in our place. In disorder, imperfection and even pain, Jesus found God - and so can we. How can we doubt that we are loved, and that we are meant to be, in the face of an act of such love?
So, I will keep telling myself: there is nothing to prove and nothing to protect. I am who I am and it's enough.
There once was a boy named Kimeli Naiyomah. A member of a Masai tribe, he grew up in a small rural town near the Masai Mara National Reserve in Kenya. The town had no water, roads, phones or electricity. Kimeli had no father, his grandmother had been murdered, and his mother was battling alcoholism. One day, Kimeli went to the hospital with his ailing mother. He didn't know what the people who helped her were called, but he knew he wanted to be a healer, just like them.
No one Kimeli knew had ever gone to school, much less to university. There was no such thing in his village. But Kimeli had a dream. He wanted to learn. So he ran away, to another village where he had heard children were being taught under a tree. What was under that tree was a church school, and it became Kimeli's school as well as his home.
When he outgrew the school under the tree, Kimeli found the nearest secondary school - nine hours away on foot. He walked to the school and told the principal he had no money, no shoes, no books, no uniform and no family, but he wanted to learn. The principal welcomed him with open arms.
By now, Kimeli knew the name of the person he wanted to become: Doctor. He started applying to universities in America, and the elders of his tribe got together and raised $5,000 to help him achieve his goal. A Washington Post reporter somehow got wind of Kimeli's story, and came to his village to write an article about him. The article inspired an outpouring of support, including a scholarship offer from the University of Orgeon, a plane ticket from a businessman in Florida, and clothes and other essentials paid for by yet another total stranger.
Kimeli enrolled at the University of Oregon in 1996, and after getting his grades up, was later admitted to Stanford. Kimeli became a celebrity in Kenya. In September 2001 the President of Kenya was scheduled to be in New York and Kimeli was invited to meet him. That is how Kimeli came to be in New York on September 11, 2001.
As a Masai warrior, Kimeli had been trained to run to the scene of a crisis, not away from it. He knew he could not help at Ground Zero, but he also knew he had to do something for the country that had given him so much. So, on a trip home in May 2002, Kimeli asked to meet the elders of his tribe. He told them all about 9/11, which many of his people hadn't even heard of. They could not imagine buildings so tall and had never seen an aeroplane.
Kimeli wanted to buy a cow, the most precious property a Masai can own, and give it to the American people. In Kimeli's tradition, a cow is not only tremendously valuable, but is also thought to bring great comfort to its owner. Kimeli just wanted his elders' blessing, but the elders were so inspired by his plan that they wanted to do the same thing. In the end, 14 cows were pledged to America to help bring her peace.
In June 2002, US charges d'affaires William Brencick travelled to Kimeli's village to formally accept the cows. More than a thousand people were in attendance, bearing messages of support like "We are touched by your loss" and "We give these cows to bring you peace". But logistical and monetary problems prevented the US from taking possession of the cows. It would cost more than the cows were worth to transport them, and African cattle were not allowed in the US. There was also concern that the cows would not survive the journey. The Masai could not understand why the US accepted the gift but did not take the cows away. Washington Times columnist Tony Blankley wondered how the US could get 80,000 troops into Afghanistan but could not get 14 cattle out of Africa.
Four years later, all was made right. The then-US Ambassador travelled to Kimeli's village to strike a deal for the tribe to take care of "America's herd" in perpetuity. In return, and in gratitude, the Ambassador announced the establishment of a scholarship for 14 boys and girls in the village to go to local schools. Those scholarships continue to this day, and the herd continues to grow. Since the original herd was blessed, they and their descendants are considered sacred and can never be slaughtered. Kimeli's tribe lovingly tends 35 "American cattle", all of which have special Twin Towers markings on their ears.
This is my cat - Mao Ze Tung, also known as MZT. The other names I have for him are so silly that even my family give me weird looks when I talk to him. He died today, of kidney failure, after fifteen years as one of the family.
MZT came to us as a stray kitten. He just turned up in the garden one day, and as we kept feeding him, he kept coming closer and closer, trusting us more and more. Eventually, he moved himself into the house, onto the sofa and into our hearts and he just never left. He was always free to come and go, but he chose to stay.
We adored this cat, and my granny spoiled him. He didn't eat cat food, oh no. At 8.30 every morning and 6.45 every evening, MZT would turn up and sit expectantly before the oven in which fresh fish was being grilled for him. On the weekends, he would get fresh grilled prawns as well. If he wanted to sleep in the living room, we had to turn down the lights and the volume of the television so as not to disturb him.
I am so sad he's gone, but I can't be sorry, because I know he was beginning to suffer. All his life, he was in perfect health. He never had to go to the vet until 6 months ago, when old age started to catch up with him. He was still beautiful, sleek and glossy on the outside, but things were deteriorating on the inside. This time, MZT was at the vet, yet again, and we were thinking we might have to put him down. He so hated drips and all the other treatment, and it was hard to watch him losing his dignity. But he just slipped away, before granny could get there to say goodbye, and when the vet called Granny told her not to revive him. It hurt, but it was the right thing to do. You can't hold on to something and make it suffer; because we love him, we had to put him first, and that meant letting him go.
So he's been buried under lime tree he loved to laze under, surrounded by the best flowers in the garden. And although I want to cry for my loss, I am so thankful for the fifteen years of love and laughter MZT blessed us with by choosing to stay, for as long as he could.
I was at a friend's birthday party when the call came at 7.30 pm last night. My friend, R, was in labour. It had started around noon and now the contractions were getting closer and stronger. Much stronger. It was time to rally the troops.
My supremely understanding friend, A, was lovely about me bailing on the rest of the night. Her unselfish response was, "Oh my god, you're friend's in labour, you *have* to go!" followed by advice about the best bus to catch to the hospital. So off I went, honoured to have been asked to hold R's hand at this special, special time.
Let me tell you a bit about R. She married J when they were 20, and they've been trying for a baby for the last 20 years. They have tried everything, including as many courses of IVF as they could afford. The money ran out, but the hope didn't. J in particular has been a rock, supporting R through every up and down, every twist and turn of the emotional rollercoaster you ride when you're desperate to have a child and it's not happening. These people would have loved any child that came into their lives, biological or not. And over these last 20 years, they have fostered a number of children. They have never adopted because J is a soldier, currently on active duty, and his being away so frequently and unpredictably has made adoption difficult.
R and J have wept over this, and their hearts have been broken, and R, certainly, has seriously questioned her faith. She has found it hard to hold on to a God who has not seemed to hear her plea, who has not seemed to heal her broken heart, who has seemed so far away for such extended periods of time. But she knows that God has been there for her, especially through J, who for so long carried his own sorrow so bravely, making it his priority to be strong for his wife. You only need to be around R and J for five minutes to know that if he could, he would carry all her pain for her.
Anyway, about 10 months ago, it happened. Just like that. Out of the blue. At the age of 39, R conceived, naturally. She didn't find out until 8 weeks later, when J had left for another tour of duty. And so we come to last night. This long-awaited miracle was taking place, and J was not there to see it. He was not there to rub his wife's back, to pace the hallways, to ask silly questions, to have things thrown at him by a woman who really wants some painkillers NOW.
At 11.28pm, 6 lbs 9 oz of kicking, screaming life finally arrived. And J wasn't there to welcome his daughter into the world. He should have been the first person to hold her, but instead, he is in a war zone.
This baby didn't get a name until we could get hold of Daddy on the secure satellite phone, at about 6 am this morning. J said he had the perfect name for her, but he wasn't going to tell anyone until she got here. J has been allowed to get away with this because he generally has good taste, and it was felt he could be trusted not to name her something catastrophically awful, like Fifi. He wept with joy for this child, so longed for, so loved for such a long time, even before she got here.
She has been named for what she represents, for what sustained her parents while they waited for her, for what they hope will guide her through her own life.
