Prayer requests

I’m always impressed and honored when people that don't know me that well say they will pray for me.  It feels thoughtful, devoted, and even responsible as the collective body of Christ.  I don’t pray for people I don’t know all that often.  I do –after a natural disasters, perhaps from something I’ve seen on TV and I sometimes pray for my elderly neighbor that I pass by during my morning walk with Mother Teresa, (these leisurely walks with my dog often pass as my “quiet time”) but most often these shout-outs to God are sentimentally induced. I feel “moved” by something or someone and have a compulsion to pray for that person, that country, that tragedy, that ambulance passing by, in that moment.  Emotional dirges often morph into God moments for me.  And I usually land on a little phrase/prayer that I’ve borrowed from Richard Rohr:  On a radical level, it’s all okay.

My prayers, or my God solstice has, for the most part, boiled down to this double-entendre, that I usually encounter in one of two ways: I feel inspiration in my it’s all going to be okay prayer, feeling the hopeful, loving presence of both God and gratitude.  Or I find myself hanging out with the pestering little demon I call Stupid, Menacing Anxiety, and try to deescalate with the same words, it’s all going to be okay, the soul-calming mantra that I chant, in an effort to not freak out.  I feel this when the weight of the world, or my office, or sometimes my life, feels heavier than my little spiritual muscles can handle.

But overall, I am not all that disciplined and conventional when it comes to my spirituality.  I used to be.  I used to be obliging, having my perfunctory prayer journal with names and requests scripted dutifully inside.  I would pray thoughtfully through the inked concerns, try and keep up with “answered prayers,” although I’ve never really understood this contract with God.  Even from a young age I’ve always wondered what this means –if you pray for ailing health and your respected loved one doesn’t get well, do you check it off as unanswered?  No God fearing Christian I know (including myself) would be that brazen with God.  I remember as early as junior high I would often negotiate the dogmatic prayer requests that came my way, in an effort to not set God up to fail.   I might say “Heal him, LORD” with the emphatic gusto passed down from the prayer warrior that I hailed at the time. But since it was actually me praying, and I’m pretty practical and somewhat of a people pleaser, I would usually have a “well, I mean if you’d like…” caveat somewhere in the request, my effort to let God know “it’s all good.”  That said, my prayer time, or maybe my prayer moments, are really lovely.  They are like little butterflies in the open air of time and space and life, reminding me-whether it's summer or winter in my little vista of reality-that it really is all good.  And it's radically okay.  And it's funny, as I edge up to my 36th birthday, that my God talk would would find it's solace in such simple truths, because for so much of my life I've reveled in big, deep, esoteric, mysterious, multi-syllable truths.  I'm learning that the more we learn, the more we un-learn. (Say that fast 10 times.) Such is life, this learning and unlearning tight rope that we find ourselves on, when age and maturity coalesce. It's actually pretty cool.

(This ends the section of my deep thoughts.)

Hi friends.  These, and other things, have been on my mind lately.  So what up? The picture I've posted, although it looks like the prayer journal print that opens our cozy hearts and thoughts up to God, is one I took last week in my home town of Twin Falls, Idaho.  It's Shoshone Falls.  It's also a hop, skip and a 3 mile run from my parents house.  And that rainbow is a perma-bow.  I swear, everytime the falls are running, it's there.  And the falls are so beautiful on their own, we hardly need God's little colorful smile of hope to seal the scene.  God - that crazy glutton!

This is part of Watercooler Wednesday!!

Dear Blogfriend(s),

Well, um...we kinda need to talk.  I've been thinking a lot lately...   And things have been so great and I have grown so fond of you, really (!!), but, well, I think I need to take a little time off.  It's not you, it's me. I like you -ALOT- but I've sorta got a few things that need my attention right now and well, it's just not fair to you. I just can't give 100% right now and...okay, I'll just cut the crap and give you the straight talk:   there's another blog.  Well, not really a "blog" per se, but another "writing gig" and -for now- it needs ALL my creative focus and  flo-jo.  I know, it doesn't seem fair; someone always gets hurt. Trust me, this hurts me more than it hurts you. I really want to be friends though! I'm thinking in about a month or so, if you don't hate me, we can meet up again, same place, same time - take it from there?  I'm not really breaking up, honestly...I just need a little space.   But I understand that you gotta do what you gotta do.  So if you find another blog, or just decide to blog around for a while, I totally understand. Truly, I do.  I wish you well. I've always liked you. And I trust, if we are virtually supposed to be together, we will.  We'll just be hangin' around the watercooler or lollygagging in the blogosphere and inevitably bump into each other, through one blog or another.  Fate has a funny way of usurping all of our resolutions, don't ya think? So I guess I'll just see ya around? Maybe August or September? Have a great July.  I'll be thinking about you. I'll miss you!!!

Yours (and someone else's) truly,

Ang

PS: I know this is like sooo 10 days ago, but I, along with many of you, am freaking over the new Coldplay album.  Chris Martin has a certain je ne sais quoi that gives a total rush of blood to MY head.  His sex appeal is only trumped by Bono, who is...  Wait. Wait a second. I see what you're doing.  You're trying to seduce me, aren't you -because you're still reading. Even though I've already signed off, you're still here; I'm still here...blogging.  I see what's going on here. Let's not make this harder than it is. Goodbye my Yellow Brick Road.  I really must go off into the woods for a bit, but damn, you don't make it easy!

Baby Got Bible

Just happy to be nominated

The great thing about being a therapist:

Sometimes, when you are hung-over from a sleepless night, feeling a little vulnerable and guilty that your clients may suffer your inevitable fatigue, they surprise you.  They string words together about their own lives—so rich in insight, wisdom and judgment—you are left wondering how it is that you’re the one getting paid in the transaction.  And surprisingly, you don’t feel tired, even though you are.  Rather, you feel honored that they picked you to be on their team.  And you revel in the reality that you actually get paid to go into the recesses of humanity: excavating messes, aiding in tears, exposing vices, naming weighty patterns, giving new words to tired desires, preying on truth, forgiving the bad, plucking out the good and laughing at what’s funny.

And you have days when, one by one, people enter your office, share [with you] their beautiful and profound “ahha” moments, marvel [with you] in the many paradoxes, and laugh [with you] about their own playing field and the universal playing field (and plight) that connects us all. 

On those particular days you have your own private moments in-between clients or at the end of your work day, when you feel like you could actually burst open with all the gratitude you've gathered in the course of a day.  And you feel thankful for a job, and really a God, that carries you along, even on days that come after sleepless nights.  You feel happy and sleepy and you impulsively want to hug a tree or listen to a praise song or something, even though you're not really the type that's inclined to do either. 

You settle in on a nap.  And a smile. And a sleepy thank you for this day prayer, where your mind wonders around, but knows God is present all the same.

The Journey

I’ve been on a poetry jag lately, feeling the emotional dirge that comes when a poem calls shotgun on your voyage, whispering a subliminal truth in your ear the way the answer to a crossword clue pops into your head when you’re not looking at the puzzle.  Here’s my most recent clue, by Mary Oliver:

The Journey

One day you finally knew

what you had to do, and began,

though the voices around you

kept shouting

their bad advice--

though the whole house

began to tremble

and you felt the old tug

at your ankels.

"Mend my life!"

each voice cried.

But you didn't stop.

You knew what you had to do, 

though the wind pried

with its stiff fingers

at the very foundations,

though their melancholy

was terrible.

It was already late

enough, and a wild night,

and the road full of fallen

branches and stones.

But little by little,

as you left their voices behind,

the stars began to burn

through the sheets of clouds,

and there was a new voice

which you slowly

recognized as your own,

that kept you company

as you strode deeper and deeper

into the world, 

determined to do

the only thing you could do--

determined to save

the only life you could save.

This post is part of Watercooler Wednesday.  Go check out how other people are finding their way.

Question of the Day:

What are the fruits of your being?

Humans do not have the patience or the humility of God. We want things done tomorrow, today or yesterday to achieve our immediate goals.

Spiritual power, however, is the ability to influence events and others through one's very being. 

Evolved people change others interiorly through who they are, and through their sharing of wisdom, but not through mere external pressure. It is a slower process, but much more long lasting. 

-Richard Rohr, Bias from the Bottom

Going Green

Let’s dish on social consciousness, spiritual integrity and intellectual discernment with a side of good judgment and common sense, shall we?  There are some great books I’ve been perusing lately, that I'd like to share:

Serve God Save the Planet; A Christian Call to Action by J. Matthew Sleeth, MD

Sleeth does a fabulous job outlining scriptural lessons of personal responsibility, simplicity and stewardship that we can apply to modern life.  He lays out the rationale for environmentally responsible life changes and a how-to guide for making those changes.  This book is both inspiring and convicting.

Food & Faith; Justice, Joy and daily bread with Wendell Berry, Thomas Moor, Elizabeth Johnson, John Robbins and others

This book is a great resource examining food choices through the lens of faith.  It explores the meaning of our meals: sacramental characters, connections to health, the demise of the family farm, organisms and world hunger.  It’s more of a resource book than a page-turner, but I’ve found it to be very enlightening, especially in relation to animal cruelty and genetically modified food.  Also, it’s more reflective than preachy in tone.

The Gospel According to America; A Meditation on a God-blessed, Christ-haunted Idea by David Dark

A good friend of mine wrote this book.  After spending the day with him and his lovely family at my pool yesterday, I plucked it off the bookshelf and began a journey with David into the modern-day culture of Christian America.  David is an unassuming sage, providing fodder for lively conversation about what it means to be Christian and American in this “weird moment” in which we live. 

He writes in his introduction:  In my own media consumption, my desire for a good story or a truthful word isn’t divided between the entertaining and the informative.  It’s the truthful that I’m looking for… and the truthful account, comedy, celebration, or lamentation is good news because it acknowledges the beautiful or the tragic of lived human experience.  It’s gospel, because it’s true.  And of course, learning to desire truthfulness more than self-assurance or the facts-on-the-ground more than what would suit our preferred versions of reality is an ongoing work of prayer and confession never unrelated to listening and watching well…  It’s a great dose of intellectual acumen and culturally iconic moments and meanings—all laced with spiritual reality and integration.  I’m looking forward to reading more.

Happy socially conscientious reading my friends.  Remember to recycle, conserve energy and water, consider others, waste not and just think before you do things. (Do you really need a bag to carry that book home from the bookstore, that you'll most likely just throw away ?) It's the little things my friends, that make the bigger differences -in both our social and personal economies. 

The Three (lost) Little Pigs

Okay.  You often hear that when you run a lot you may end up sacrificing a toenail, perhaps a rite of passage into the world of sport.  I do not like this reality as I like to keep my feet relatively manicured, but okay, I’ll take one for the team.  I'll sacrifice A toenail to the running gods. I’m reasonable.

So I just came home from a lovely summer party, shucked off my sandals and looked down—another naked piggie! It’s strike three; I just lost my THIRD toenail. This is getting out of hand! One more and I may need to bid farewell to this sport because the girl in me still trumps the athlete in me and I simply cannot imagine a life without toenails.  Can you? Of course not.  It's gross.  I know.  Trust me!! 

Obviously,  this post won't get me dates but I am all about keeping it real and this is the sad, pathetic reality of my little piglets.  Notice in the picture the fourth toe over --how the paint job looks like I was on crack.  No toenail there my friends.  I've painted my skin.  And in the morning I will do the same to the Waldo standing there naked, next to my big toe.  And I'm out one on the other foot too. Again - painted skin.  This is post the 4-6 weeks of dealing with black (bruised) toenails. I don’t have great toes to begin with so this is a definite addition of insult to injury.

What the freak?  

1:01 A.M.

It is late and- like I do on too many Friday nights -I bailed ship earlier than my friends. They are still out carousing; raising some roof I’m sure.  Hopped up on a few glasses of wine (that would normally make me sleepy) I stopped by my computer en route to my bedroom, to check the things I check when tooling around on the Internet.  Today I became a subscriber of Writer’s Almanac. It gives a daily dose of poetry and literary gossip, as in today is Amy Bloom’s birthday.  Amy Bloom is an author and a psychotherapist, a natural point of interest for me. 

I've had a big day: some good news and a carnival of thoughts and ideas spinning right round baby right round, like a record baby...in my little noggin. Do you know those days?

I’ll bid goodnight with this resounding quote from Amy Bloom:  "Some of the traits that led me to be a psychotherapist are the ones I find in myself as a writer. I've spent a lot of time listening to people, and I am endlessly intrigued by relationships, particularly by the gap between what people say and what they truly feel, and the gap between what they do and what they really want."

Ms. Bloom, I concur.

More to come on some fabulous books I’ve recently read and others I currently have on the drawing board.  Yawn. (Anybody want to take my dog out?  I is tired.)

Hot Chicks with Douchebags

I could count the ways that I love and cherish my Rebecca but I’ve already done that here.  So I just have one thing to add to the list: she has introduced me to my new current favorite blog, Hot Chicks with Douchebags, which speaks to the cultural train wreck of hotties and douchebag guys commingling.  This may be my favorite blog ever. (Not really.) I encourage you to spend some time on this site; hark back to your own chick/douchebag story.  And then take the challenge: were you the chick ...or the douchebag?  

The 2008 summer running mix

After much tweaking, skipping, replaying, organizing and, most of all, listening while pounding the pavement, I do believe this is as kick-your-ass-good as running mixes get. I’ve been running to it for the past two weeks and felt like I should share the love.  It has been tested and approved by yours truly.  Predicted to increase your speed and enhance your mood with repeated plays.  It can even double as a dance mix.  It’s all love my friends.  Indulge yourself in some iTunes downloads; I even made an iMix called Run Baby Run. Check it out here. (But beware, it left out a few key songs, namely: U2 and the 80's hits I put on there.)  This is about 8 miles of running mojo.  Enjoy.  And add on.  What do you listen to when you run? 

Fighter:  Christina Aguilera

Stars:  Switchfoot           

Vertigo:  U2  

Paralyzed: Sixpence None the Richer         

Tatoo: Jordon Sparks    

The Way You Move: Outkast

Little Black Backpack:  Stroke 9

Low (feat. T-Pain):  Flo Rida           

I'm Not Afraid:  Fleming & John           

Without Me:  Eminem           

Jessie's Girl:  Rick Springfield           

Centerfold:  J. Geils Band           

Ain't No Other Man:  Christina Aguilera

Yeah:  Usher           

My Humps:  Black Eyed Peas                    

Love Song:  Sara Bareilles           

Lose Yourself:  Eminem

Ignition:  R. Kelly

and, for those of you that have a little nostalgia with punk rock:

Add it up: Violent Femmes

Blister in the Sun: bLunder

(Warning: these two songs are a little dirty, even the clean versions)

Celebrity wedding musings

I went to a second wedding the other night.  Both bride and groom have been married 10 plus years to other people, as evidenced by the seven children they brought to their union (bride –three, groom –four).  The experience was a first for me.  Being a star-studded wedding –the nuptials of country singer Sara Evans and former Alabama quarterback Jay Barker—it was my first “celebrity wedding.”  But even more curious was the fact that, if my memory serves (which it often doesn’t), I think this might be the first wedding that I’ve been to where both parties have been divorced.  There were many beautiful elements to this experience, namely: the venue (a farm on a lake close to Leiper’s Fork), the mint juleps that were served as we stepped off the shuttle (we were shuttled from Cool Springs, TN), all the sassy black dressed ladies and sharp suited men (invites requested all black), the elegant décor and ambience of the open air barn, doubling as a cocktail hour suite; I could go on.  The night was both eye-catching and fabulous.

That said, what has lingered in my minds-eye is the actual ceremony. The groom was courted to the front of the outdoor alter by his three gorgeous children, no groomsmen.  Sara, a stunning bride, was walked down the aisle by her son, and greeted by the groom, her other children, and his children, her loves—old and new.  It was a family affair; the vows and ceremony took on an air of reality, in turn making everything that followed thoughtfully devoted, honest and real.  I have never been married so I can’t say, from a visceral perspective, that I understand what it must be like to promise life and death and then live an in-between that ultimately serves divorce papers. Nor do I know the weight “I do” takes on a second go ‘round. I can connect in small ways: I have the soul-window of my therapy office to inform me how long-suffering a hard marriage can be; I have my own experience of men and dating, narrating my desires and reservations about giving myself forever away to someone; and I have divorced friends, with whom I’ve walked intimately, trekking their own harrowing paths of failed marriages and second-chance, grace-driven dreams.  Jay and Sara’s ceremony was not embellished with early life idealism and hallmark moments.  I was struck by the humility portrayed in the hand-written vows: I will do my best to love and respect you; I will love your children as they are my own; I will listen and do my best to understand your dreams; share; be faithful; pray; be thankful.  Everyone, including myself, was holding back tears—an intuitive response to the truth, vulnerability and mindfulness to how hard life can be, yet we still love, we still hope, we still believe, we still laugh; a soft spiritual sobriety echoed through the picturesque backdrop of twilight on a tranquil lake and gently sloping farmland, God’s merciful embrace.  More than a sentimental moment it felt awe bearing, perhaps even sacred.  It was as if the couple, with fear, trepidation, wonder and mercy, was bartering with the gods: We know how hard this is.  We won’t take it for granted. Thank you for a second chance.  Thank you!

There is something beautiful about getting married young.  With a life ahead of you and a partner with whom to share and experience, there is a vitality, vigor and youthfulness that infest the wedding experience.  The promises are made with hyperbolic excitement, a sense of: this will be perfect and amazing! Most young couples with whom I’ve worked or lived life clutch to a strident optimism that they will beat the odds.  And it’s good.  I’m sure I would have been the same way.  I was the same way. At a time, early in my life and closer to a marriage possibility, I was that bright-eyed, romantic girl, believing I—or we, rather—had the edge on all aspects of communication and connection: verbal, spiritual, mental, physical. 

At any given age, you only know what you know. 

That said, there is something equally as beautiful, and perhaps, as we get older, even sweeter, about second chances.  Seeing a couple give it a go again—you know they’ve had their share of suffering, which we know builds character, temperance and perseverance.  The vows take on a different dimension, a melody of sobriety, hope, humility and gratitude.  We (wedding party and guests) have the opportunity to understand something of God’s true character.  God really IS the God of second chances, and third and fourth.  God doesn’t run out of grace, hope or patience with us.  God really is good.  And we experience God’s goodness through our humanness, not our super-humanness.  He or She comes around and makes things good again, even after we eff things up.  He forgives and heals.  She loves with mercy, without shame. The Blood and Body make us whole.  The Spirit sets forth a path where we can find our rhythm. Dance. Play. Move forward. And relax.

A celebrity wedding has its obvious perks.  The music was outstanding.  Marcus Hummon, who penned the Rascal Flatts song God Bless the Broken Road, played a baby grand piano and sang his very apropos song.  The reception was a blast.  Celebrity or not, I love, love, love a good dance party and a rocking DJ.  Sheryl Crow was on the dance floor, dancing with me, and the gaggle of hip-hoppers, with whom I aligned myself. Trumping our polite small talk bonding, “I know so-and-so, do you know…bla bla” was when Peace Up, A-town blasted through the airwaves and Usher’s song Yeah started in. Auhhh yeahhh was my m.o. We were all, stars and lay-persons (aka me) alike, on the barn-made dance floor shaking our 30 and 40-something year old booties. The music was the perfect blend of classic rock, 80’s hits and current hip-hop.   I danced, with and without my date, until our respected shuttle picked us up, and I was reminded of the truism that Prince pointed out in his classic hit, 1999: Life is just a party but parties weren't meant to last.  We were given a down-home cherry pie as a party prize, and then, shuttled back to the Hampton Inn, we got in our car and turned on the radio.  Party over.

I went home that night, splayed out on the grass with my dog and sussed out the constellations while chatting up the night on the phone with a friend.  I came in and read this quote before I went to bed:

At the heart of any real intimacy is certain vulnerability. It is hard to trust someone with your vulnerability unless you can see in them a matching vulnerability and know that you will not be judged.  In some basic way it is our imperfections and even our pain that draws others close to us. -Rachel Maomi Remen, M.D.

Then I washed my face, brushed my teeth, put on my pajamas, fell soundly asleep and missed my bike/run race the following morning.  It's hard feigning the life of a rock star and a quasi-athlete; late night fun and early morning exercise calls don't really go hand in hand.  Unfortunately.  But that, my friends, is another blog.  

This is a part of Watercooler Wednesday.  Check out other creative musings!

The moment a little boy is concerned with which is a jay and which is a 

sparrow, he can no longer see the birds or hear them sing.

Decisions, decisions

Amsterdam

About a decade ago, age 25, I found myself tooling around Amsterdam in the freezing cold December winds, with two male friends.  We had just spent six months working in England at L'abri, a Christian artist retreat center. We went to Holland for a last little hoorah before heading back to the states. On this specific night in Amsterdam we were lost, I was cold, and being cold and lost is the perfect brew of crank for me.  Oh yeah, and somebody spilled a beer on me earlier in the night as well.  Cold, lost, crank and wet. Good times. I think I was complaining about something or other when Sam, my friend, stopped in the middle of our aimless amble in the red light district, weary of my whining, took my hand and said, “Ang, Be. Here. Now.”  

“I don’t want to; that’s the problem,” was my curt response. 

He smiled, comfortable in my honestly, and gave me a well you are so deal with it look. I knew he was right. And, of course I didn’t WANT to; I’m justified, right?  I mean who wants to be in the skeezy red light district in the middle of winter, with soul-searing shamelessness (which dials in as sadness for me) all around: pimps, prostitutes, drug dealers, peep shows, a sex museum, a torture museum--not really the leisurely bike rides through tulip fields stretching out to Anne Franks little attic hideaway that I’d envisioned, when signing up for an Amsterdam trip with the guys.  I wanted to be anywhere BUT that moment.  Strangely though, Sam settled me.  I remember doing a quick self-assessment: I was pissed at no particular somebody, just the dangling carrot of my tulip expectations.  I remember challenging myself to stop complaining. My mental check-in went something like this: I’m cold.  Okay.  My pants are wet with a beer stench.  Okay.  I’m with two young guys hopped up on all the red light decadence and perversion. Okay.  What else? It was as if there was some clever mastermind behind my protests, not even willing to settle on a check mate.  It was all true and still God gave me the big so what back.  Not a so what, I don't care but rather a so what about this can we not handle? Or perhaps a so remind me again about your entitlements? 

Slowly Sam’s words morphed into a lovely nugget of wisdom that I’ve since remembered.  He wasn’t suggesting that I pay for a peep show and get stoned by virtue of “when in Amsterdam” rhetoric, consequently being someone that I’m usually not.  But rather, he challenged me to just relax and let go of that which was out of my control.