You should write down your story

For six weeks (the season of Lent), I decided to write and post a blog every weekday. Most people remove something from their life for this time. They go without in order to make more room for prayer or reflection, or they want to trade in an old habit for something better.

I’ve done that. It’s what I usually do. But it doesn’t give me enough structure to come out the other side of 40 days feeling different.

Ironically, the beginning of Lent coincided with the beginning of this COVID-19 crisis. Just a couple weeks after Lent started, we began sheltering in place here in the U.S., and it was the perfect time to start documenting what I was feeling and thinking on the blog.

We’re living through history. At least that’s what I keep hearing. In 30 or 40 years, people will ask us what it was like to be alive in 2020. And we will either pull all of this from our dusty memories, or we can point them back to the scribblings and videos and journal entries from 2020.

This year, I’ve been working on a research project for the 100-year anniversary of my alma mater. I spent hours in the library, digging through boxes of old photos and documents, searching for the bigger story. The breakthrough moment was when I discovered diary entries from a former professor who was at the college through the Great Depression. That’s when I started to see the fears and hopes and challenges of people. I saw the story arc clearly for the first time.

I want someone to discover my words in a few decades, but I’m just a writer sitting at home, waiting out the stay-at-home order. Wouldn’t it be great if you work in healthcare or food services, on the front lines right now, and in 30 years, you hand your journals from 2020 to your kids or grandchildren?

My journals are some of the most valuable items I own. They’re time capsules to a former me, to an older time. If all you do is sit down and write a few bullet points every day about what you’ve heard and what you’re feeling, you’ll get to process what’s happening and put those memories in a safe place.

So Lent is over now. Easter is coming on Sunday. What happens next?

I’ve really enjoyed blogging again, but all of this was intended to help me develop a writing habit I need for a bigger project in the works. But don’t worry – I’ll still be here. Just not on the Lent schedule.

All that being said – if you are working on the front lines or you have a unique perspective on this crisis, and you’d like someone to help you tell your story, I’d love to feature your story here. Please reach out.

Thanks for reading, subscribing, liking, engaging, being a friend.

Rachel

Letter to a lost friend

It’s been a while. Years, likely. I’m sorry you haven’t heard from me in so long. I’ve written a few things I intended to send, but I never got around to it. I do that often. The words fall out onto the paper (or the screen) and catharsis comes, and I realize I never needed to send anything in the first place. I just needed to get it out of me.

Sorry.

I’m trying to break myself of saying that word. It falls out as a catch-all and a shield, or perhaps as a way to portray myself as a nice person to someone I don’t know very well.

You know me, although, like I said, it’s been a while. Years. It’s likely you might not recognize me now. So much has happened, but we can get to that later.

I know it’s been a hard year for you. I know about your living situation and the family stuff. I know you are making breakthroughs, but not without some serious discouragement. I won’t bring up the details here. I just wanted to tell you something very important, something I would not learn myself until I was older.

First, all relationships are hard, but they are much harder for you. You have lived under the pressure to please people who should have been looking out for you, what you wanted and needed. You only know how to do the safe thing because no one threw out a safety net for you to be brave.

At some point, it might feel like alone is the new standard. It definitely can be easier and safer that way. But you can’t isolate yourself from everyone because of the bad behavior of a few others. You need a buddy to watch your back when the territory is uncertain and the enemy is at large. You don’t need a BFF… just a helper. Sitting at lunch alone every day, writing sad posts on social media hoping someone will notice is only going to drive home the story you’re already telling yourself: no one wants me. No one can know you enough to empathize when you keep everyone ten feet away.

Second, your peers aren’t saying it, but they’re a lot like you. They are trying to figure out who they are and what life will hold. They don’t know what they’re going to do after this, and probably a lot of them will talk a big talk and never actually make it happen. Remember to give as much grace as you need in return every day, even when it isn’t handed to you.

Third, stop obsessing over what people in authority think about you. One day, you’ll have a choice to make. You’ll either be tired of following incompetent authority or you’ll have to make an ethical decision to stand up to someone who asks you to do the wrong thing. At that point, you will no longer be liked, and you will no longer be consulted, and you will be shut out. Your opportunities may dwindle, at which point, you might need to close the chapter even when it feels terribly unresolved.

The years will give you wisdom. It’s a trade-off. The more you learn, the harder the lessons will get. And Ecclesiastes wasn’t wrong. With wisdom comes sorrow; the more knowledge, the more grief. You comprehend it now, but you will know it intimately in the coming years.

And listen, you’re young. But you don’t have as much time as you think. Please don’t spend your days being a reasonable, cautious, conservative citizen and hope you don’t regret it at the end. If you want to try something, if you want to meet someone, if you want to move or learn or become someone, just do it. Take it from me – tomorrow someone might call you and end all hope of completing all your hazy, distant wishes.

Wow, I’m sorry. This was heavy stuff. But these are things I wished someone had said to me. And the day I thought my time or my life might be limited, I realized I needed to live it in a totally different way, starting with forgiving myself for taking so long to learn these things.

You’re not alone. I’m sorry it’s been so long, really. But it’s all going to get better from here.

Sending my love.

A different (better?) kind of Easter

As a kid, Easter was always the end of one season and the beginning of another. It marked the day I checked out mentally for the rest of the school year. The days started getting warmer and longer. The pool would open soon. Everything started waking up from its winter sleep.

As an employed adult, holidays and special events almost feel a little meaningless. No matter what happens on Sunday, I still have to report to work at 8am sharp on Monday. That makes it really hard for me to look forward to anything, but I have long struggled to enjoy and appreciate the 40-hour, five-day work week, even when I like my job. Maybe I should be a teacher.

But this Easter is different. Do you feel it? My mom even sent us an Easter greeting card this year (thanks, Mom – I didn’t even know those existed). Depending on who you are, you might have a drastically different emotional reaction to a socially distant Easter. Here’s what I see.

Simplicity. From limited supplies, limited plans, limited people. We are simplifying our plans because of social distancing, and for some of us, that’s great. Long have I been frustrated with anything you might call a tradition, and that includes the expectation that we make a large meal on Easter, eat a bunch of terrible candy, and buy an expensive outfit just to wear to church and Easter dinner. But some people never had these traditions, so I know this is unique to me.

Shared experiences. It is a rare moment in history when everyone across an entire country is experiencing the same circumstances… in general. By now, many of us know someone affected by the restrictions created because of COVID-19, or we know someone impacted by the virus itself. It transcends time and geography and state lines. Someone in Oregon is dealing with the same challenges as someone here in the Indiana or all the way down in Florida. We’re speaking the same language now, speaking from the same heart space. When we talk about Easter – death and resurrection and new life – these are the stories that are made for us, for all of us. Maybe, just maybe, this year Easter will come with a new meaning because of our common grief, our collective experiences and our shared new language.

What’s next. This year, at least here in Indiana, Easter will not bring change. Schools are already out for the year because of the virus. We’re still under stay-at-home orders. Now they’re starting to shut down the only places we were allowed to go. And when Easter is over, we will rise again at 7am on Monday (or 7:45am), open our laptops, and begin our 8am workday like every other week.

But what if it gave us new lenses to see the world? Maybe then we could see what’s possible instead of what’s been lost. So yeah, I can’t go out and eat at my favorite sushi restaurant. But I could learn to make sushi, be really bad at it, and then give me cravings for the good stuff at Kobayashi that could last for a zillion more months.

My life hasn’t changed much, and I know other people with chronic illness (and introverts in general) feel the same way. They are loving having a good reason to say no and stay home and soak up all the freedom this is giving them. My extroverted friends seem a little frayed at the edges. They walk their dogs multiple times a day, ride their dusty old bicycle down the street just so they can wave at their neighbors who they never knew before now, and love Zoom meetings. This is not freedom for them. It’s a jail cell. It’s strange how varied your perspective on this crisis can be depending on your personality and preferences.

So whatever Easter is for you this year, I hope you can find something new about a day that can sometimes feel a little worn out.

Even now

One year ago today, I woke around 6:30 am to a call from my dad. After ten long, painful days, my beloved granny had passed away.

The sun was just starting to spill light over the horizon on that chilly morning. I crawled back into bed and stared at the ceiling. I had already cried my eyes dry, and, strangely, I felt relief. The suffering was over. The grief would envelop us now. I tried to go back to sleep, but it didn’t seem right. I took a shower and went to church and tried to let the current of a routine carry me forward.

I had so many questions that would go unanswered, questions that maybe never needed answers for my sake. I was wondering if I could have done more for her, mostly.

Four long days

There’s a story in John 11 about two sisters whose brother died. Jesus was good friends with all three of them. When Jesus arrived, Lazarus had been dead for four long days. Mary and Martha, his sisters, were being comforted by those in the community. But the funeral was already over. Lazarus was in his grave. Jesus was too late to say goodbye.

Four minutes might not have been so bad. Modern medicine can do some incredible things. But I’m guessing CPR didn’t exist back then, so four minutes was as good as four days gone. Martha knows. She tells Jesus if only he had been there, her brother would not have died.

The thing is, Jesus could have been on his way sooner, but he understood what was really going on, and he had a plan. Martha seemed to perceive this, too.

“But even now, I know that God will give you whatever you ask,” she says to Jesus.

Even now.

Even now when I am reaching desperately for the impossible. Even now when I have exhausted all of my options. Even now when I have nowhere to turn, when I am buried in grief.

Even now is in the moment when the sick woman reaches out to touch Jesus’s cloak after twelve years of bleeding.

Even now is in the poor, the hungry, the grieving, the marginalized.

Even now was in the last days of my grandmother’s life.

Even in the worst of days, Martha knew what Jesus was capable of doing. Martha knew Jesus could reverse four days of death. She believed in that kind of power.

Whatever your even now is – whatever irreversible, inconceivable, immovable mountain is in front of you – the same Jesus Martha knew is capable.

Jesus tells Martha her brother will be raised up. I think she holds back a little bit, uncertain of what Jesus will do. She’s like, well yeah, I know you plan to raise everyone at the end of time.

“You don’t have to wait for the End,” he says. “I am, right now, Resurrection and Life. The one who believes in me, even though he or she dies, will live. And everyone who lives believing in me does not ultimately die at all. Do you believe this?” (John 11:25-26 MSG)

A few moments later, a dead Lazarus walks out of his tomb, and Jesus says something truly triumphant.

“Let him loose.”

What happens in the after

I don’t know what happened when my granny passed. I don’t know if she is asleep waiting for the resurrection or sitting on her front porch next to Jesus. I don’t know if she can see what I’m up to or if Jesus passes my messages along to her.

But I’m almost certain in that moment she left us, she heard Jesus say, “Let her loose.”

“So let us come boldly to the throne of our gracious God. There we will receive his mercy, and we will find grace to help us when we need it most.”

Hebrews 4:16 (NLT)

What do you need?

More than once in my life, I have stood before a great need. I have looked at a bill and wondered how it would ever be paid. I have heard a diagnosis and wondered how it would ever be healed. I have cried out over a broken relationship and wondered how it could ever be mended.

Rescue has not always come my way. Sometimes it seems I endure great suffering, loss, and need instead.

Trauma leaves a mark.

Have you ever been in a car accident? Do you remember where it happened, what time of day it was, and who was with you? Did you avoid that road for a while because you remembered the accident so vividly?

I am an obsessive checker of things that can catch on fire. I unplug things, double check the oven, don’t let the dryer run unattended. My house burned down when I was in middle school, and I remember how horrifying it was, even though it was over 15 years ago.

Safety is a priority. I am always asking how and where I can find safety in my life.

Today is Monday of Holy Week – the week leading up to Good Friday and Easter. Many Christians follow a liturgical plan, which is just a way of saying they do special readings and prayers to prepare themselves for solemnity of Good Friday (Christ’s death) and the celebration of Easter (Christ’s resurrection). If you want to follow along, here’s an easy plan our church’s worship arts team assembled.

Today’s reading follows Jesus as he crosses over to the far side of the Sea of Galilee. He has a ton of people following him. He’s done some pretty crazy stuff at this point – healing people and claiming to be the son of a divine being. People want to see what he’ll do next.

You will never be hungry or thirsty again.

Jesus knows the people need to eat. The crowd is so big, it would take months of wages to pay for bread for everyone. A little boy in the crowd has five loaves of bread and two fish (you’ve probably heard this part before), but that’s all Jesus’s helpers can scrounge up. Jesus doesn’t seem worried at all. He tells everyone to sit down so they can eat, thanks God for providing a meal, and starts passing it out. After more than 5,000 people eat, there are leftovers(!). Somehow, they had more than enough.

Naturally, people in the crowd start asking how he did it and how they can do it, too. Think about it: they would be set for life if they could learn to perform that miracle. They could replicate food, medicine, money.

But Jesus knows they’re looking for the wrong bread, asking the wrong questions. They’re after the temporary things. The bread they want will never fully satisfy, never fully relieve their anxiety about going hungry.

Instead, he offers them something kind of crazy. He tells them he’s the “bread of life,” here to give life to the world.

“Whoever comes to me will never be hungry again. Whoever believes in me will never be thirsty,” he says.

John 6:35 (NLT)

How can we ever be safe?

Right now, when we need real bread or medical supplies or our unemployment checks, who will help us?

If you are struggling to answer these questions, you are not alone. So many people have deconstructed this idea of provision, wrestled with it, fought against it. It can be challenging to believe in this Jesus and his claims, even after we have witnessed a miracle.

Instead, he says there’s an order to things.

Cause: Align with me. Believe in me. “The person who aligns with me…”
Effect: Be satisfied. He provides. “…hungers no more and thirsts no more, ever” (John 6:35 MSG).

You’ll go wherever you’re looking.

Jesus says our perspective needs adjusted. When learning to ride a motorcycle or learning to fly, instructors tell you that you’ll unknowingly drift in the direction you’re looking. If you’re too short-sighted, distracted by traffic or by landmarks off your wingtip, you might start to drift off course, which is dangerous both on the road and in the air.

The bread we need is eternal. It comes from a God who is concerned about our lives both in the now and the after. In Jesus, we will find answers to our deepest longing, balm for our most critical wounds, assurance of purpose, love, and belonging within a story bigger than we could ever imagine.

Sometimes, when I read this story again, I wonder if I must look like a child again, asking for things but never understanding what I actually need. In hindsight, I’ve always had everything I’ve ever needed, sometimes so much more. Not by my own hands, but because he provided.

In The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, Mr. Beaver says something profound about Aslan, the lion. It has stuck with me for many years, helped me know Jesus better.

“‘Course he isn’t safe. But he’s good. He’s the King, I tell you.”

C.S. Lewis

Friday, April 3

Today, the sun came out. I opened the curtains and windows, and I did not get a headache for once. It seems lately the headaches come whenever the sky clears. Pollen. I blame it all on pollen.

Jordan and I worked from home yet again. This is the first full week of working in the same space together. He asks me almost every morning how I do it. He wants to know how I can sit in utter silence and type away. He wants to know how I can get moving in the morning when I never change environments.

I do. I go from the bedroom to the shower to the home office. It is a protected space in our home with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, tiny plants and two big windows. When I cross the threshold, I push open the shades and it’s time to get stuff done. But first, I make an Earl Grey tea.

He is learning to make the transition. I think it’s easier for him when I continue to get up at the same time every morning, shower, dry my hair, become human again.

This evening, we stayed outside in the sun and cleaned up our landscaping. I burned a bunch of fallen branches and leaves in our sad little fire pit. We decided not to plant a garden this year. We lost fervor for it last summer. We planted beans and peppers and herbs and watermelon. All we harvested were a few peppers, and when we didn’t end up having a chili cook-off at church, we stopped picking them. Many are still hanging on the plants, shriveled up. One day, when it isn’t so damp, we will get out there and cut it all down. Plant some grass seed. Pretend it never happened.

This is the end of something. For many months, the feeling has crept up inside me. I have a sixth sense for endings. Maybe it is because I am a writer or a reader, a person who analyzes stories for a living, who tries to figure out who the murderer is in chapter 1.

Some other things have ended for me lately. I think everyone expects me to be sad about it. They say sorry, but I’m actually relieved. The emptiness has made space for clarity, and that’s rare.

Clarity helps us move forward. Clarity calls it exactly like it is. Clarity sweeps it all out from under the rug and into the light.

May you find clarity in the chaos. May it help you see a path forward in the fog.

I don’t know how to be helpful here

“We are not going to be the same after this.” – every other tweet for the last three weeks.

Life is evolving every day, and it has always been so. I was just thinking earlier today that I’ve never spoken to my neighbors as much as I have in the last three weeks. There is such a wide variety of circumstances and perspectives in the people I know right now. There are people who are working harder than they’ve worked in a long time, forced to work on Good Friday, overtime opportunities at every turn. There are those of us still hanging in the balance, sitting on a small safety cushion, hoping the next couple months don’t bury us. And some of us have already lost our solid ground. Tomorrow, next month, next year is one giant question mark, and it’s unsettling.

The reality is life is always changing. We sometimes look back on yesterday like it was the better day. The truth is, it’s only better because we made it through. Today is still TBD. A question mark. That’s hard, especially right now when so much is out of our control.

I am not good at being unhelpful. Even when I was a patient, when I was the person in need, I was always thinking about how I could be helpful to the people taking care of me. I can’t turn it off. It’s not healthy, I know.

But I’m not the only one looking at the chaos and wondering, how can I be helpful right now, when my resources are as scarce as everyone else’s?

I get it. Most of my audience is going to say, well, of course you can pray. And I’m not going to get into the efficacy of prayer right here, because pretty much all of my opinions are unpopular in that arena. I hear you, but somehow that doesn’t feel like enough.

How can I do something right now? How can I help someone pay their bills or find a new job or explain to their kids why they can’t go back to school or play sports or go the playground? How can I help someone not feel so alone? How can I do all of that from home?

I don’t know. I wish I had a good answer to those questions. I’m a writer with a lot of unanswered questions. Here’s what I’ve been trying to do in the meantime.

1. Say I’m sorry. I know it’s not enough. But it’s better than comparing my circumstances to theirs.

2. Connect people with resources to people who don’t. Connect with people who are isolated. Connect with the hobbies and activities I like to do that don’t require me to leave home.

3. Make lists. It helps me feel like I have a little bit of a plan. I made a list of things we want to do when this is over. We are adjusting our budget for a worst-case scenario. My stepdad made a Google Doc list for our family so we can share what we need with each other. I’m also journaling what I’m feeling/thinking, because I know in the future I’ll wish I had documented what it was like to go through this.

4. Stay home. Do what I need to do to stay safe and keep the people I love safe.

And move forward, even when the outcome of the day is TBD.

Our semi-disastrous trip to the Florida Keys

Back in 2016, after I was diagnosed with my blood disorder, we decided to take a more extravagant vacation. We went with a couple of friends down to Venice, Florida to hang out for the week.

But like we always do, we couldn’t stay put very long. We booked a few nights on Long Key in the Florida Keys to have a few adventures.

Disaster #1 – The hotel(s). The disaster started when we arrived at the resort. Apparently $179 a night in the Keys is the equivalent of $59 a night in Cleveland (no offense, Cleveland). That place was a dump. Didn’t even have working air conditioning. So we told them we unexpectedly had to cancel our reservations and sat in the parking lot trying to figure out what to do next, homeless.

We ended up booking one night at a brand new, super nice and super expensive (whoops) hotel next to a turtle hospital. It was by far the nicest part of our entire hospitality experience in the Keys. But we certainly paid for it.

The second night, we stayed at the Hilton, but when we arrived to check in, they said we had no reservations. Long story short, we accidentally booked the wrong Hilton and it was a nightmare trying to get our reservation switched. It was redeemed by an actual swimming beach and air conditioning.

Disaster #2 – Expectation vs. reality. You see, I had expectations for the Keys. I had seen Bloodline on Netflix and pictures of Key West and heard about Hemingway’s house. But when we first drove over the bridge and made landfall in Key Largo, we were met with rusty cars and dirt paths for sidewalks, RV resorts and storage units and boat repair shops. We couldn’t find a restaurant that was open or a place to stop to use the bathroom. Most of the time we couldn’t see the ocean, and there were very few actual beaches. It’s not filled with palm trees and coconut drinks. It actually looks pretty run down. Maybe it looks different now after the hurricane.

Disaster #3 – Plans that never happened. We were going to drive down to Key West and see Hemingway’s house. We were going to go snorkeling off of a boat. We were going to spend one of those afternoons relaxing on an actual beach, not moving hotels again. Instead we just worried about where we were going to sleep that night. That is not the way to do vacation, friends.

Theatre of the Sea was the only reservation we didn’t change. When we showed up, I expected a Sea World kind of situation. It wasn’t. The place was absolutely deserted. It felt a little worn out (in their defense, it was right after Labor Day weekend). The water looked like the great rivers of the Midwest – totally opaque – but we later learned that all the water is pulled in from the ocean, definitely not like Sea World. Everyone we encountered was really helpful and accommodating, and the water in the sea lion training area was actually super warm.

Back then I made a super low quality video of our sea lion adventure. It was incredible. If we flew to Florida and did only one thing, I would swim with the sea lions again. Worth every penny.

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