today at arts and services, as i was chasing my favorite student around the program, trying to stop him from breaking every instrument in sight, i had a thought:

this guy has the sweetest life.

sure, he's got down syndrome. sure he'll never fall in love, or get married, or become a parent, or own his own home, but he has people who love him (including me), a home cooked meal in front of him thrice a day, clothes on his back, and a smile on his face. the best part of his day is when he gets to take a walk and play on a jungle gym. every new thing is a wonder to him--every rock, every sandwich, every smile and every new song he hears on the radio he seems so intent on breaking. he's peter pan; he never has to grow up.

i'm not saying it's preferable; i know that not all people like him are as lucky.
but maybe he's the recipient of a specific type of grace. i can only imagine the types of interactions he has with God. those are conversations i'd love to hear.

phos hilaron

i've begun a new tradition. anybody who knows me knows i'm a sucker for ritual. i find repetition very sacred. for many, routine can breed a sense of disconnect and boredom, especially in their relationship with Jesus. i know plenty of people who attest to variety being the spice of their spiritual life, and that's perfectly fine. but, in a society that is crazed with a constant, unsatiable desire for stimulation, i can't help but wonder if we're always approaching God with a sense of of hyper-expectation. it seems as though we, as a collective, are always waiting for Him to blow us away with undeniable, cosmic signs and wonders. we're waiting for Him to part the red sea. to show up as a pillar of fire. we want manna from heaven. although, to be quite honest, we'd probably prefer if it was something a little more up to date, like eggplant parmigiana or california rolls.

now, i'm not saying that God couldn't drop us some sushi from on high, but when i think about the circumstances surrounding the whole manna situation, (while wandering alone in the desert, waiting on a promise that seemed completely improbable, the isrealites find themselves embroiled in a  rivalry with some crazy guys who seem to be the biblical equivalent of the wildboyz) i see how appropriately God intervened. His actions fit the situation. the situation was big and uncomfortable, and He acted in a big, uncomfortable way. i mean, it's pretty clear that the whole manna situation was not something joe isrealite was particularly pumped about. i think God provided in this way so that His people would learn to rely on Him, rather than His actions or His gifts. and in the middle of all the madness, God was being a stickler for tradition. the tabernacle was no small thing. so much of the establishement of God's relationship with His people was rooted in routine and procedure. God knew that everything going on outside of the tabernacle was a threat to His interaction with His people. they got caught up--we get caught up--with all the semantics, worries, and pitiful drama that define being human. it's like God knew we wouldn't give Him the time of day unless He explicitly commanded it.  but, as usual, i've (sort of) meandered away from my point, so i digress...

back to my new tradition.

like all the ascetics i count among my heroes, i've decided to commit to my own sort of daily church service. i've found a secret spot where i can watch the sun sink behind the mountains. i've developed my own sort of liturgy, with readings from some of my favorite authors including merton, st. teresa of avila, and st. francis.  i'm going to do the same thing every day. i'm going to say the same prayers in the same spot at the same time every day and i'm going to see what God will do when He's given a definite, unhurried chunk of alone time. i expect to be bored, frustrated, surprised, and encountered. here's my favorite prayer from the bunch. it's called phos hilaron, and according to wikipedia, (super academic, i know) it's the earliest known hymn recorded outside of the bible that is still around today.

song of the light

joyous light of glory,

of the immortal Father,

heavenly, holy, blessed Jesus Christ:

we have come to the setting of the sun,

and we look to the evening light.

we sing to God, the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit.

You are worthy of being praised with pure voices forever.

O son of God, O giver of Light,

the universe proclaims Your glory.

phos hilaron is sometimes translated as--'gladdening light.' gorgeous.

one thing i really don't like about moving is finding a church.  simply because there's such a buffet of churches from which to choose: think dancing is from the devil? try a baptist. need to get your God-fix without the pesky fellowship and obligation to a 'church family'? a mega-church it is! desperately trying to hang on to relevance? find a church with a televised service and a choir made up of 40-somethings.   fed up with 'church'? find yourself a new church plant that's 'breaking the mold.' they're everywhere...just follow the college students. i should know, i was one of them.

not that each of these places can't be legitimate in their heart for Jesus and mission for a hurting world, but it can be quite daunting and exhausting to find a place that resonates. it's especially hard for me, because my home church is my home. it's comfy when your dad is the pastor and you don't have to worry about introducing yourself to people.

but this whole colorado experience has been about taking my faith out of its comfy context and making it stick, like when you throw pasta on the wall to see if it's finished. can my relationship stick despite the distance from its childhood home? is God still God here, so far away from the sea? do i love Him as freely and as recklessly when everybody around me doesn't have all the background information?

now is the time when pushing comes to shoving.
but this whole colorado experience has been about taking my faith out of its comfy context and making it stick, like when you throw pasta on the wall to see if it's finished. can my relationship stick despite the distance from its childhood home? is God still God here, so far away from the sea? do i love Him as freely and as recklessly when everybody around me doesn't have all the background information?
now is the time when pushing comes to shoving.

a little peace and quiet, please

faith left me staring at the ceiling through the night.
it's freaking me out.--copeland

my grammy died today. with the sun shining on her face and her first and only love curled up next to her. she lived such an unabashed, courageous life. she was the bravest person i'll ever know.

i was able to go home on friday to see her. she looked so beautiful. more beautiful than i'd ever seen her. her skin was glowing, and her eyes were the brightest, clearest blue. she looked like the light of heaven was already shining on her.

we all sat with her. we sang with her. we hugged her, and kissed her and told her how loved she was. we told her that we'd take care of papa.

i slept right beside her on sunday night. i pulled my bed up next to hers and held her hand until the sun came up. i don't think either of us really slept. we just layed together, and i tried to articulate my love to her in little whispers. i told her that any good thing in me is from her and papa. i thanked her for teaching me to love with abandon, and how to choose the right shade of lipstick for my skin tone. i told her she was my hero, and that i always knew how brave she was because i watched her battle her disease for my entire life.  i just told her who she was to me. and even though she couldn't say anything back, i know she heard me, and i know she felt the real hope of heaven.

when i was saying goodbye to her yesterday, i sang 'you are my sunshine' to her. it was the last song i can remember hearing her sing in her sweet, high voice. i kissed her over and over again, and when i pulled away to tell her i loved her and i'd see her soon, she had one big, crystal clear tear sliding down her cheek. down to her last minute, she knew how to love me.

and now i understand what paul meant when he said 'where, o death is your victory? where, o death is your sting?' the pangs of grief i feel are for those of us grammy left behind. but my sadness cannot long linger, because i know that she has already seen Jesus. she is already restored to her full, intended self. the self she should have been, that was paralyzed by sin. she is singing with her mother, she is praising God with all those who came before her.

she is looking into the full face of glory, and she is free.

much farther to go

i have much farther to go
i'm so confused i know
i should just kick my heels together and go home
but i lost my way when i lost you--Rosie Thomas

this past week, our newest resident--we'll call her agnes--and her family came for their first care conference, which is a quarterly meeting where we discuss the health and happiness of our residents. until she moved in, agnes lived at home with her husband, who cared for her. when agnes contracted pneumonia last month, it became clear that her husband would no longer be able to provide all the care she needs.

they've been married for 64 years.
that's roughly three of me.

and now, they can't be together anymore. i watched him as the doctors and nurses and social workers explained that she's safer and healthier at our facility. they told him how much better her quality of life is now that her time with her husband can be spent enjoying one another. they told him they understood how difficult the transition has been for him.

but i looked at him--at his weathered, compassionate face. his small lips and big eyes. i wondered if he and agnes were high school sweethearts. i wondered if he was ever in the military, fighting to keep her safe like so many other young men of his generation. i wondered how hard he worked to give his wife and daughters the type of life he thought they deserved. i wondered if they traveled much after he retired. i wondered about their first kiss.

and i thought: 'how could any of us possibly understand how difficult this is for him?'
he has fallen asleep next to her more nights than he ever has--or ever will--alone.
he has woken up beside her more mornings than he ever has--or ever will--alone.
how is he suddenly supposed to release what he has fought so hard to keep hold? because, no matter how melodramatic it sounds, it is a battle to make it through 64 years with your love intact. and theirs very clearly is. all he wants is to take her home. a large part of me feels that he is entitled to that. but as the staff gently told him it simply isn't possible, i swear i saw his heart break in two.

and, for her part, agnes was able to comfort him in a small way, but she has dementia, so she isn't able to fully grasp the pain her husband is enduring. she isn't even capable of experiencing her own sadness at their separation. and while that is arguably a blessing for agnes, it means her husband is truly alone--for the first time in 64 years.

and then, my thoughts turned to my own grandparents.
to my own grandfather, who is caring for his high school sweetheart of 64+ years.
she is slipping away from him now, but she still wakes up and falls asleep right next to him.
and i swear, she still lights up when he enters a room.
and he still gives her reasons to.

when you see people like agnes and her husband, or like my own grammy and papa, it's impossible to deny the necessity of togetherness. of connection. of the sweetest type of community.
when i get my chance, it's going to be like that.

15 days from the sea

today, out of the blue, i got this overwhelmingly frenzied desire to be driving up pch right along emma wood beach between ventura and santa barbara. in my mind, i can hear the rumbling of corey's 4runner trying to drown out mason jennings blaring through fifo's crappy old speakers. it seems i always have to pee at this point in the trip, but it's only 45 more minutes to our starbucks in montecito, and as soon as we pass santa claus lane, i know i'll be able to hold it. katie's waiting for us in san luis obispo, and we can't wait for bali's frozen yogurt. i'm only going to get strawberries and chocolate on mine, but corey's going to end up getting heath bar, brownies, hot fudge and cookie dough on hers. okay, maybe i'll get some brownies, too. sarah is in the backseat thinking up minor plagues and singing along to matt costa, and we all sigh as we watch the sun begin to sink behind the island, which is so clear this evening, it's like you could just swim over. and it seems the our only care in the world is whether or not to take the route over lake cachuma or to just stay coastal the whole way up.

'you don't have a soul, you are a soul. you have a body.'-cs lewis

i just found out that one of my favorite ladies at the nursing home passed away on friday evening. her name was gladys. she didn't have teeth, which sounds so incredily unappealing, i know. but it gave gladys a sort of charm, because she had the most sweet, pleasant mouth that somehow became more pronounced when she didn't have her dentures in. she also had these enormous, young eyes. they were green and had such a sweet glimmer to them. she was like a little sprite...with a twinkle in her eye and a most mischevious smile.

gladys loved music and hats. she was always chilly, so her family would bring her lots of felted beanies to keep her head warm. every friday she wore this ridiculous purple hat with huge red and green music notes on it to our music group. she loved that hat. and every week i'd say 'why gladys! you're all dressed up for music today!' and she'd say 'i know! i thought you'd like it.' sometimes we'd joke about her having a song stuck in her head.

she had been living at exempla for years. and about two weeks ago, she developed a very high fever, and went into a bit of a comatose state, which is a pretty clear indicator that a person is actively dying. that's the clinical term: actively dying. seems sort of oxymoronic to me...but it indicates that a person's body is about ready to quit.

so gladys was moved to the family room, which is set aside for residents and their families in a resident's last days. it's private, and has sofa beds, etc...so the family is able to spend as much time as they like with their loved one. gladys' whole family came, including a daughter, judy, who hadn't been visiting very much in recent months, because she suffered the loss of her own daughter as a result of huntington's disease. i suppose it was just too hard for her to see gladys. i never heard gladys talk about it...(i'm not even sure how aware she was of the situation, what with her dementia and all...), but i know it was quite tragic and absolutely painful for judy.

when gladys was moved into the family room, we all expected her to die pretty quickly. after all, her body was quitting on her pretty fast and she was basically unconscious, but when i came into work last monday, gladys (as well as her whole family) was still there. she was hanging on for something.

i've realized that when working in a nursing home, with people who are pretty much all over age 75, one has to come to terms with death as a natural, expected occurance. i don't want to say that the residents at my facility are there to die, but they are there to enjoy their last years, or months, or even just days, in safety and peace. the eventual-and natural-outcome is death and it's got me thinking lately.

i don't really have a relationship with death. all my relatives are still living, the losses suffered in my life haven't been devestating. sad, yes. tragic, in some cases, yes. but those who are closest to me and most loved by me are all still toiling under the sun with me. (thankfully.) so, working at exempla has brought this part of the living process into a new light for me.

when it is not hurried, when it is merely the physical shell's natural wearing out that is the cause of death, it becomes an incredibly holy time. it is amazing how present a person can be in the midst of their death. i said that gladys was staying around for a reason. well, on wednesday of last week, judy got the flu and wasn't able to come to the nursing home, because she didn't want to spread her germs around. she didn't show up on thursday or friday either; she was too sick. gladys died on friday night. she simply wanted to soak up the uninterrupted time she had with her daughter, who had been so distant and so sad in recent months.

and even though her mind had slipped away, and she didn't have an understanding of judy's situation, gladys' spirit loved her daughter, and missed her daughter. so, when she had the opportunity to be with her--in whatever small, small capacity--gladys held on and treasured every minute of it. it wasn't until judy had become distant and somewhat unavailable again that gladys felt it was time to leave.

it's incredible, isn't it? our spirits connect, our spirits are present, our spirits are our true selves. and when they need something--to give love, to recieve love, to bask in the beauty of love--there is no physical thing that will stop it. that is who we truly are. that is where we are made in the image of God. and i wish that so many of us didn't wait until our deathbed to live inside of that truth.

here's the thing:
it never works out the way you think it will, but that doesn't mean that it doesn't work out right.
just because you spend your days alone doesn't necessarily mean you're lonely.
and even though the date says it's springtime, snow can still fall on corey's birthday.

it's 7 degrees in colorado right now. i actually might freeze when i move.
to say i am excited might be an overstatement. but then again, to say i'm afraid would be untrue as well. i'm hopeful.

the last 3 years have been wilderness years for me. my own exile from--what?  naively made plans? stubbornly held expectations? i did the work set before me---collegiate and cosmically spiritual alike, and i found myself in a comfortable, slow-motion routine of emotional and spiritual bulimia: starving for some peace, some promise and binging on the bites sent my way. but somewhere along the way, i realized that i was only kidding myself thinking that this life, this Love, this journey to the future was a sprint.

i know it's cliche to say so, but i've changed. and it's been hard work, changing has. it's hard work to let go of love, to face your wrong choices, and set free every last thing you thought you knew for sure. but i jumped in. i always do. and He met me like He always does--with equal parts question and answer. with an overwhelming message: 'look around.  understand to be understood. let me pave the way for you. but be sure follow where I lead.' i didn't think i was to take the last part literally. and yet, in a week and half i go.
how will he find me?