My friend Sarah and I had dinner last night in a local Indian restaurant Mike loved. I'd missed her something fierce during my time on the other side of the Red River; hours felt like minutes while we talked. And we talked about everything - God, sex, love, death, taxes, gluten free pancakes.
Somewhere between the pakora arriving at the table and the restaurant closing, we delved into the idea of how some life events affect such profound change, it takes a bit to adjust and find all the edges. Feeling out the new pieces and curves, a fear slithers in that the new normal, this new present's all temporary; it won't be strong enough to stay. Like unset glue, old habits will tug, sliding back into place, and all the work done to process will give way. And you find you didn't really learn or grow or benefit from this horrid experience at all.
You'll just have failed. Worse, you'll have almost succeeded.
Something dear disappeared; a love dies, a parent disintegrates, a dream job becomes a nightmare. And the only possible redemption rests in the lessons learned through the process. And the hope that they stick.
Christianity presents suffering as a virtue, a unique and challenging concept among most faith traditions. But tell the truth and shame the devil, suffering blows. Suffering connects the proverbial door God closed to the window He's in the process of opening, forming a hell of a hallway.
And although life can bloom there, that space is nowhere to live.
Sarah has already seen good flow from her suddenly slammed door. Her eyes watering beatifically, she shared stories of faith, of deepening relationships with her sister and tribe. The grace with which she holds these moments floats like silk and exotic spice.
It's a honor, humbling, to walk this hall with her. But I have to confess, the glue holding my pieces together chips, too.
See, Sarah's got this. She is the rock star version of the little china girl from Oz, all of her pieces cracking delicately. Her tribe supports her, is present, inviting her to parties for friends who have been present for decades. She talks with her counselor when she has a need; her job understood and supported her, even though their relationship with her is still relatively new.
While I am living out of a suitcase on a friend's couch, unemployed, having uprooted almost all intimate ties 6 months ago; feeling guilty because I can't offer my mom even a fraction of the care Sarah offered Mike.
I'd own to being covetous if I had the energy, and thought it would do any good. Instead, though, I work on applications for jobs and wrestle with things I'd rather not admit to on my blog.
Talking with a friend online about how we define success, I said I'm not completely sure. Living a good life and telling a worthy story definitely ranks, but so, too, does contributing to my job and community at large. And I'd like, too, to be able to communicate my mom's story in such a way which would ignite change.
Leaving the world a better place than how I found it would mean I lived my life well; that would make me a success.
The challenge of how do I get from here to there makes all the best stories great, as the characters move from what they were given to who they could be. Hobbits bringing Kings to mountains and destroying rings; Luke lifting ships and finding his father to be human; all the toys finding a place to be loved even if it's no longer with Andy; these are tales from the hallway, noble and worthy of attention.
But hallways present complex decisions because they're not as clearly defined as they seem. They have options and rooms to turn around in, different paths to follow around blind corners, choices with consequences not laid out or easy to spot. And if you're standing in a Matrix of a hallway, as anyone other than Neo, all the doors look the same.
Or if you're sleeping on a friend's couch, haunted by ghosts of those nearly and those dearly, recently departed, surrendering what can't be carried with you to gain what you really need, sometimes turning a knob looks a lot like a long talk with a friend and lamb korma.
Somewhere between the pakora arriving at the table and the restaurant closing, we delved into the idea of how some life events affect such profound change, it takes a bit to adjust and find all the edges. Feeling out the new pieces and curves, a fear slithers in that the new normal, this new present's all temporary; it won't be strong enough to stay. Like unset glue, old habits will tug, sliding back into place, and all the work done to process will give way. And you find you didn't really learn or grow or benefit from this horrid experience at all.
You'll just have failed. Worse, you'll have almost succeeded.
Something dear disappeared; a love dies, a parent disintegrates, a dream job becomes a nightmare. And the only possible redemption rests in the lessons learned through the process. And the hope that they stick.
Christianity presents suffering as a virtue, a unique and challenging concept among most faith traditions. But tell the truth and shame the devil, suffering blows. Suffering connects the proverbial door God closed to the window He's in the process of opening, forming a hell of a hallway.
And although life can bloom there, that space is nowhere to live.
Sarah has already seen good flow from her suddenly slammed door. Her eyes watering beatifically, she shared stories of faith, of deepening relationships with her sister and tribe. The grace with which she holds these moments floats like silk and exotic spice.
It's a honor, humbling, to walk this hall with her. But I have to confess, the glue holding my pieces together chips, too.
See, Sarah's got this. She is the rock star version of the little china girl from Oz, all of her pieces cracking delicately. Her tribe supports her, is present, inviting her to parties for friends who have been present for decades. She talks with her counselor when she has a need; her job understood and supported her, even though their relationship with her is still relatively new.
While I am living out of a suitcase on a friend's couch, unemployed, having uprooted almost all intimate ties 6 months ago; feeling guilty because I can't offer my mom even a fraction of the care Sarah offered Mike.
I'd own to being covetous if I had the energy, and thought it would do any good. Instead, though, I work on applications for jobs and wrestle with things I'd rather not admit to on my blog.
Talking with a friend online about how we define success, I said I'm not completely sure. Living a good life and telling a worthy story definitely ranks, but so, too, does contributing to my job and community at large. And I'd like, too, to be able to communicate my mom's story in such a way which would ignite change.
Leaving the world a better place than how I found it would mean I lived my life well; that would make me a success.
The challenge of how do I get from here to there makes all the best stories great, as the characters move from what they were given to who they could be. Hobbits bringing Kings to mountains and destroying rings; Luke lifting ships and finding his father to be human; all the toys finding a place to be loved even if it's no longer with Andy; these are tales from the hallway, noble and worthy of attention.
But hallways present complex decisions because they're not as clearly defined as they seem. They have options and rooms to turn around in, different paths to follow around blind corners, choices with consequences not laid out or easy to spot. And if you're standing in a Matrix of a hallway, as anyone other than Neo, all the doors look the same.
Or if you're sleeping on a friend's couch, haunted by ghosts of those nearly and those dearly, recently departed, surrendering what can't be carried with you to gain what you really need, sometimes turning a knob looks a lot like a long talk with a friend and lamb korma.
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