The Path of Friendship

 

We met in the middle of a hot July. Both in our early twenties, married a day apart, same flippy blonde hair, and beginning our jobs at DaySpring.

I remember taking a walk in the park a little bit later. It seemed that early awkwardness of building a relationship was never there for us. We just started talking and haven't stopped since.

I also remember the moment, briefly after, when she said something and I thought, "We're friends."

We shared our hearts over coffee, almost fell on the floor laughing as we sang old Amy Grant songs, played cards with our husbands until late, late at night.

For so long, our lives were so very similar. Our paths, parallel, seemed destined to keep us in the same place always.

God had His plans. I struggled with infertility. She had two kids. My career ramped up. She felt the beautiful calling to stay at home. We both wondered, silently and out loud to each other, about the changes in the roads of our lives.

Today is her 32nd birthday. This morning we had an early breakfast and talked on the shaded patio of a local cafe. Her little boy giggled while her sweet girl slept.

We shared about what was going on in our hearts, what our families did to celebrate birthdays when we were kids, and what the future might hold.

I looked at my lovely friend--full of light and life, so kind, talented, good and true. And I felt so glad just to be there.

When I hugged her good-bye in the parking lot, I cried. Those tears surprised me because they don't come often. And as I got back in my car I considered them. 

I realized they were tears of gratitude. Because almost ten years later our paths may have gone in different directions yet we will always find our way back to the place where our hearts intersect.

And this, for me, is the meaning of friendship.

Happy Birthday, sweet Heather. It's your day and yet I feel as if I'm the one who has been given a beautiful gift.

Welcoming a New Week

Swirling around me are sounds of a new week beginning. I hear the whoosh-whoosh of the dishwasher, the tumble-tumble of the dryer. Outside twilight descends and closes out the weekend like curtains on a stage.

Already I feel the rush, don't you? My heart beats faster, my mind races, my hands move from one task to the next. This is to be a day of rest and yet by the end of it I'm usually pushing the pedal to the floor and zipping into another week.

I look out my window and see my trees are also getting ready. One has a calendar, another a Blackberry, a third is already checking e-mail.

"No, no," you say, "such foolishness!" And of course it is, because trees don't plan their days. They don't stress out about meetings. They don't worry over their limbs.

And, I'll let you in on a secret, they grow anyway.

That is what I fear, I think--that if I stop all this madness, this rushing, that I will become small and stale. I will stay the same forever.

But this is not true, the trees know. For growth comes from roots and not leaves. It comes from being grounded firmly in the soil of God's love and then clinging to Him, drawing from Him, dwelling in Him each day.

So I pause, whisper a prayer, and begin anew. Surprised, I find that when I empty my heart of all I carry I'm free to lift my arms toward heaven.

We stand there for a moment, the trees and I, hands raised in welcome and feeling as if this week we might just touch the sky. 

SI(g)NS on the Street Corner

Zipping home from the farmer's market this morning we pause at a stoplight on the corner of a well-known street. It's lined with the typical college town fare--restaurants, a few bars, some clubs. I notice several people with signs strapped to their backs.

Looking closer I realize the signs are telling all of us where we will go for eternity and the sins that will take us there.

Immediately my blood starts boiling. "That is such a cop out!" I yell to my startled husband. Once he recovers, he gives me the grin that says here comes the sermon.

So I rattle on for a few moments about how Jesus would be in the bars not on the street corners, truth travels best on the road of relationships, and what kind of sign I'd like to make for those particular people.

"And," I huff, "They didn't even spell some of their words right." If you offend me as both a Christian and a writer all at once, boy howdy, you better watch out. (Normally I'm not such a stickler but if you're going to threaten me then I think I deserve the courtesy of spell check.)

Finally I say, "What I think it really comes down to is this--sin has always been secondary for God. Yes, He hates it but the reason He does is because it destroys our relationship with Him, each other, and ourselves. So trying to correct sin in a way that doesn't involve any sort of relationship just seems, well, wrong."

There are two kinds of counseling clients I see. The first makes wild and crazy choices that eventually separate them from God and those who love them.

The second never makes any wild and crazy choices. They are terrified of doing so and try so hard to be perfect that eventually the fear separates them from God and those who love them. 

Two different paths but the same end--shame and isolation. (I've gone down both at various times, by the way.)

So by the time I arrive at home, I've decided the sign-bearers must belong to the second group. And that makes me have compassion on them...a little. 

But there's still a part of me that wants to go after those signs with a chainsaw and a big red pen. 

Note to the sign people: Since you've decided to set the world "strait" you might want to take a long, hard look at your words first. And just in case you've been searching for a slogan, here's a new idea for you...We're all just signers saved by grace.

Come and Listen, Sorrow is Singing

Grief Group came again last night. This is the hardest one, the day when they tell their stories. You can see it in their eyes as they walk through the door, how they have been turning their words over and over like rocks, sifting and sorting, trying to find the right ones to tell of love and a lifetime.

How do you do this in a room full of strangers and only a few moments? But they do, brave souls, they do.

In the telling there is pain, yes, but also a striking beauty. Because although they speak of death, they mostly speak of life. They tell stories--funny ones, sweet ones, long ones, short ones--about the brilliant moments shared with the ones they love.

What strikes me about these stories, always, is that they are so very ordinary. They talk of things like fishing, friendship, building a family. Last night several of them said with voices full of emotion, "They taught me so much of what it means to live life."

That sentence swirled around my heart long after I got home. There is such glorious simplicity in it. Because this teaching comes not through grand accomplishments, fame, or fortune. No, the lessons come in quiet moments, the touch of a hand on a shoulder, a long laugh with a child.

Really, learning life comes so much more in being than in doing.

I needed to be reminded that although love is a verb it's not so much about action--at least in the way we tend to think. More often it's about stillness, togetherness, sharing life that seems insignificant but turns out to be the very best of what's left behind when we're gone.

Those stories blended together and sang my heart a song. Some high notes, some low, all having a place and purpose. And if you were listening I think this is the chorus you would hear...

Live well

Die well

Most of all,

Love well

Sweet Freedom

Update: The winner of the Set Free necklace giveaway is Abra! If you still want one for you or someone you love, you can find it here on DaySpring's site. Enter coupon code holley20 for an extra 20% off! 

I am feeling freedom today...do you know that weightlessness I mean? The sort that makes your heart feel as if it can fly. The kind that makes you laugh on the inside and cry on the outside because it's such a sweet relief. I have learned these last few weeks that guilt weighs much but grace is lighter than air.

My lovely friend Heather Steck designed this Set Free necklace for DaySpring about a year ago.

 

It comes with this beautiful card featuring a message I wrote...

I am set free—
Released from the past
and all that held me captive…
welcoming each day
with my wings spread wide…
Soaring into the future
and all God has for me!

I cried to the LORD,
and He answered
by setting me free.
Psalm 118:5 NIV
 

When I put those words on paper I had only begun to understand what freedom meant. I was more like the baby robins hopping about my backyard with fluttering wings. Now I feel I know so much more of what it means to have your spirit soar.

To celebrate my newfound freedom I'm giving away one of these necklaces. Just leave a comment by midnight on Thursday (and if you're a subscriber remember to click here rather than replying to the e-mail).

Sweet Freedom, you were not free at all...Love bought you and will not let you go.

A Note to Quiet

Dear Quiet,

We've been friends since before birth, I suppose. I imagine I first heard you in the swoosh-swoosh of my mother's heartbeat before I ever saw the sun.

Then you came to my crib, rocked me to sleep at night, lifted me into a new morning each day.

I liked you very much as a little girl. I sought you out by climbing high into a backyard tree. The curve in that limb made a seat, remember? You and I would sit for hours with only the song of the wind swirling around us and the words of a book to keep us company.

But then I grew and people began to tell me things about you. Not directly perhaps, but still they did all the same. I learned that the world thought a lot more of your cousin Noise, for example. You seemed soft, shy, a silhoutte on the backdrop of life. Noise was center stage, bold, brash.

So, I'm ashamed to say this now, I started spending less time with you. Maybe it wasn't cool (and I so wanted to be cool). Maybe I feared being left out as you often seemed to be. Perhaps you even made me a little uncomfortable.

Whatever the reason, I drifted away. You, sweet Quiet, remained loyal and sought me out–as I was driving, taking a vacation, welcoming a new day. Often I simply overlooked you, choosing instead to turn up the radio or fill my schedule with Noise.

But lately, Quiet, I've been missing you. You feel a bit like an old friend who has popped into my awareness again and I find myself thinking, "We used to be so close. What happened? I really liked her."

And I've realized no one ever took your place. Even now I'll be standing in the middle of a party, going to a meeting, or ending a busy day and I'll catch myself thinking, "I wish Quiet could be here."

Then I feel a dull ache in my chest, a hunger almost, and I remember what it's like to be together. I think of your gentleness, the way you open up the closed doors in and around me, how the world feels brighter–as if all the colors have been turned up–when I'm with you.  

And I recall, Quiet, how you hardly ever come alone. First it's you and then not long after it's Him. Your silence is like a red carpet laid out for His presence in my life, my heart. At some moment you are there and then you fade without me even noticing and it's the two of us, my Love and I.

It has taken me a long time to realize but now I know...when I'm missing you, I'm also missing Him.

So, dearest Quiet, thank you for your persistence. I'm sorry for not valuing you as I should. I know now you are one of the best friends I've been given in this life.

What I'm trying to say, trying to ask, is "Will you please come back to me, lovely Quiet?" 

I'm here, at last, waiting for what you have to say...

Holley

Joy the Color of Fireflies

The sky is inky blue, a swirl of dark and light. Day and night do a slow dance before the moon rises high above the trees. The music we can't hear beckons the fireflies from their hiding places. One by one they appear, little lights twinkling against the backdrop of an early summer evening.

I first caught fireflies as a girl of seven or so. Taking my brother and I to the porch, my grandmother handed us a mason jar. "Be gentle," I'm sure she told us. Then she watched and smiled from the edge of the flowerbed in a wheelchair. (She had polio at age 29, younger than I am now.)

I don't know where these creatures live, what they do in the winter, why they come again...but I do know each one is like a bright and beautiful memory floating through the air.

And, because of this, I still catch those flickers of brightness even though childhood has long gone. I place them (gently, yes) into jars, water bottles, whatever I can find. When I have twenty or so I let them go and watch the homemade fireworks display.

Saturday I did this for the first time of the season. Our dear friends, Sean and Kim, were there. We sat on the patio and as the fireflies appeared, I begged my guests to go with me. Sean joined the chase while Mark and Kim watched from the patio at our crazy zig-zags across the yard.

In my firefly moments I feel more alive, happy, and closer to heaven than I do almost any other time all year. It's as if everything that's sweet, good, and right is made real in tiny flashes of light as I think of my Grandma and all she taught me of joy.

In the hospital after being told she would never walk again, her pastor said, "Frances, you can choose to let this make you bitter or better." She would tell me again and again with a twinkle in her eyes, "I chose better."

My Nana knew joy, like a firefly, flits about you. But if you are serious about it, you must pursue it. And she knew joy, like a firefly, often comes surrounded by darkness. Perhaps that is what makes it so brilliant and beautiful.

Yes, on the porch beneath a summer sky I still sense my grandmother's smile. And as the last lingering firefly disappears into the night I smile too...knowing I will find it again some other evening or, when least expected, it will once more find me.

The Choice

Grief Support Group began again last night. We have one, fittingly, once a season. I help as part of my counseling internship.

The first night for me is always the same. I pull into the parking lot and think hard about staying in the car. I look at the building, whisper a quiet prayer, grip the steering wheel, and glance at the "R" that stands for "Reverse."

Eventually I go, feeling inadequate, wondering who I am to think I can help. The other leaders, so brave and beautiful, welcome me and make me feel as if perhaps I have something to offer after all.

Then the people come one-by-one, drifting through the door. They are silent and scared. They look at the floor. Then someone catches their eyes or embraces them with an unexpected hug and they smile before they can stop themselves.

From there we eat, share, begin to enter into each other's sorrow. We feed ourselves with the bread of brokenness. Drink the wine of tears. And somehow, we are nourished enough to face another day.

Yet always, still, there is this moment when I must choose. Because our humanity shuns loss. We fear it, misunderstand it, pull back and away. My heart begins to pound and the walls start to go up. It's as if a security alarm has sounded--the kind in movies--and everything within me is shouting, "Shut down!"

I stand, paralyzed for a moment because I know what this choice means. If I listen to the warning bells and let the walls go up, I will be safe. But I will be alone. And those who need my help will be on the other side.

But if I ignore the sirens and surrender to the sorrow then I will be hurt. Yes, as a counselor I'm trained to find balance but I'm not a robot. And if I don't stop now my tears will mingle with theirs, a bit of their burden will be mine to carry.

We all have this choice a hundred times a day. Do we feel or deny? Do we see or ignore? Do we hear or shut ourselves away?

I have done all of the above. But at Grief Group this night I suddenly see in my mind's eye a road stretched before me. I know it's the road that leads to shared sorrow. And as I stare at it, considering, I see footprints along the way. They are familiar and, gradually, I realize they are His.

The One who could have locked heaven's doors chose instead to step outside and come alongside us. He could not have done more to become part of our suffering. And in that moment I know I can do no less.

So I silence the alarms and move forward, tentatively and with trembling, until I feel His hand in mine and His voice whispering in my ear. "Peace, daughter, I have been here before. I will show you the way." With my hand cradled in His, I find the courage again to reach out for the hand of another.

I have chosen. We will walk this road, so broken and beautiful, together...until it leads us back to joy.  

A new place of Grace...

One of the first bits of wisdom imparted to a novice quilter is that the Amish, who make some of the most simple but exquisite quilts in the world, purposely plan a mistake into each of their projects because they believe attempts at human perfection mock God. Of course, any quilter knows that you don't have to plan for imperfections in your work; they come quite naturally on their own, so I don't know if this bit of Amish folklore rings true or not, but the idea does. – Marie Bostwick, A Single Thread

I'm finding grace keeps slipping into what I'm reading. It was woven all through the pages of He Loves Me! (the last nonfiction book I read). And it is also here, unexpectedly, on the pages of a novel called A Single Thread.

The night I finished He Loves Me! I drifted off to sleep. Somewhere around 3am a noise startled me awake. Opening my eyes two questions instantly ran across the blank page of my mind...

Does your way work?

Has it ever worked?

These questions did not feel condemning. Quite the opposite–they felt like a caress of my soul, as if Someone who loved me very much was running their fingers down my cheek, looking into my eyes, and asking me what needed to be asked because that's what love does.

I answered "no" to both questions, of course. My way–so often full or works and weariness–did not and had not ever worked. Then I slipped back to sleep in the quiet stillness of a new beginning.

When I awoke, I felt different somehow–lighter, freer. It was if someone had moved my heart to a new place while I slept. It still feels unfamiliar at times. I occassionally stub my toe on the corners, or forget where a particular room is. But even if I don't know all of its ins and outs yet, I do know the name of this place of grace. My heart told me the first moment I arrived.

Its name is Home.

An Open and Opinionated Letter to Guilt

Dear Guilt,

You and I have known each other for quite some time now. My whole life, really. We've been close at times. But most often our relationship has been challenging.

For one thing, you're unpredictable. You show up at parties unannounced. You wake me up in the middle of the night. You sit down by me at awkward times when I'm trying to have a conversation with someone I love. 

And you're sneaky. You wear all sorts of disguises--humility, concern, even godliness. Just when I think I recognize you I find you get a new haircut, throw on a pair of shades, or dress up like someone else.

So, here's what I'm saying. I think it's time for us to part ways. Because really, Guilt, we aren't doing each other a whole lot of good. You push me around. I enable you. It's not healthy.

I read this passage from a fabulous book called "He Loves Me!" by Wayne Jacobsen. Here's what he had to say about getting rid of you...

Until God disconnects you from the guilt and fear that drive your own performance, you will miss His love for you. How do you let guilt die? Endure it in His presence. I know that doesn't sound like much, but it will be enough. Stop doing what you do because you'll feel bad if you don't. When you feel guilt and condemnation roll over you like a late-afternoon thunderstorm, simply acknowledge that it is there and offer it to God."

My very wise friend also said this in an e-mail to me when we were talking about you...

Guilt and shame are not tools that God uses to get us to do something He wants us to do, but they are instruments Satan uses to move us away from truth. I think because they mirror conviction (which is a good thing) we think they are of God and that He must be trying to tell us something. But guilt and shame do not match up with the character of God. Conviction does.

I think what she's saying is that you're an imposter. And I've got no time for that sort of thing in my life. I want the real deal--real love, real peace, real joy.

So, Guilt, this is good-bye. You may try to visit but I'm letting you know the welcome mat is officially gone. And when you come you'll find your room is occupied by someone else who is much more loving, kind, and committed to my growth than you have ever been. Actually, I think I'll introduce you now...

"Guilt, meet Grace."

That should have happened a long time ago. It's really been the Father's plan all along.

Sincerely,

Holley