If there is anything the last few years have taught me, only One remains. When it all falls down, only Christ. When the storm rages, only the Rock. All else will come and go, but the Word does not fail.
As my father-in-law struggles with grave illness, knowing that he is not long for this world, this arrangement from Josh Garrels has been much on my mind. Death has no sting. In Communion, we remember this; that He has conquered death, and that Peace is with us.
Photo: ©MemoriaArts Quote: J.K. RowlingA few late nights ago, buried by work and stress, I happened to click on some iTunes extras that come with Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, selecting “J.K. Rowling: A Year in the Life” filmed by James Runcie.
I have been a somewhat passive fan of the series over the years- never having read the books, and (up until last week) have only viewed two of the movies, the very first two- before life took over. As a matter of fact, Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets was one of the last movies I ever saw in a theater on the big screen, years ago. Harry’s journey was just beginning as I was getting married and having my first children. And now, a decade later, the books and the movies have finally come to their fitting end. I don’t know what inspired my sudden binge upon the movies in the last few weeks- but I have now watched all the way up to almost the end- and am patiently waiting for Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part 1 and 2 to arrive via Netflix. I haven’t stalked the mailbox like this in ever so long. Oh, I could easily find out the ending, read the books from the library, but there is some deferred gratification in waiting.
Anyways, James Runcie and JK Rowling. I would never have imagined that a documentary like this would leave me so moved, but it truly did. I don’t know how much of that had to do with having Harry’s adventures so fresh in my mind as I watched; but move me it did. It’s been on my mind ever since. There’s a particular spot where she is sitting in St. Matthews, the Anglican church that she often cleaned as a young girl…Mr. Runcie is asking her some questions regarding Harry and her faith, and I found so much within what she says that truly resonated with my own journey. But perhaps the part of the documentary that affected me the most was her description of the dementors and how they related to her clinical depression- and a few moments later she says the quote above. At this point, I was fighting tears. Not in sadness, but in hope; I am at year three of her twelve, and look, look, where adventure has taken her!
It was a fitting closure to a long three years I have faced, I believe. I could not have chosen a better companion in it than to watch this documentary, to help me close the chapters, move forward. Things are not so dark now, as they were; although I think JK has nailed it well in that the dementors always leave a mark upon you, and you’re never quite the same…things for me will always be colored by the battles I have fought in the last few years. But I hope the true benefit in it all is that I have truly torn back to rock-bottom, learned to build on the Rock…my faith is not a faint thing for me now. It pulses through my veins in a way it had not and perhaps could not before the storms began.
It’s interesting, standing here, looking up. I wonder what my next decade will look like. I used to regret the loss of a near-decade to immaturity and depression; now, I understand it was necessary for the foundation to be rebuilt, and that is a worthy cause, not something to be shunned. In its truest sense, Runcie’s documentary of Mrs. Rowling left within me the question of what I really loved, what I really wanted to pursue, what I keep feeling called to, where my heart turns. It clarified some of the stress I was facing. Noted what was worthwhile, and what was not. It was not all the documentary, I must say- the documentary is a corollary to a lot that has been going on within my interior life, but as sometimes happens, the visual brought to life the thoughts and dreams, and crystallized within me thoughts that needed clarifying.
And now, there is the onwards and upwards. I’ve been crawling towards it, desperate like, and ever so slowly, I’ve found my feet again…and now, to run. May I run well.
I’m sorry friends, that I go so long in posting. I thought a six month break was long enough, but I am beginning to discover that maybe it wasn’t. A friend of mine tells me that I need to write from where I am, but how do you scribble in the dark? I’m afraid of words that go flying like shards. It’s just been a tough year, no two ways about it; lots to process and think over and mourn, grieve, accept, move on….I used to be able to process that here. I felt free enough to, I guess. And now, my words are constrained- nothing has changed- you all are the dearest, most understanding readers, and I’m sure that if I felt free enough to share the struggle, you’d understand and sympathize. It’s more internal than that. There are questions that need to be asked and answered here in the darkness, pinpoint lights of truth. I would not, for all the world, want to cause you all pain. And so I go ‘radio silent’ as it were, and try to pick back up on the blog when things are ‘better’. But that definition rings hollow many days.
All this to say, I’m not sure where I am at, to know where to write from. In the past I have been a grasping, cornered animal whipping out in pain at anyone who draws near, trying to prop up this tent of skin with pride and ridiculousness. I find the silence a friend these days, praying to keep to the ‘windy side of ken’, to keep the pain and the thoughts in the wind with the Spirit and the Lord who loves me and hears my cry.
I needed to read this today. Maybe you do too.
I write from the thin places some days, where the veil is not so thick and might just tear a little if attention is not paid. So it is today.
I’ve always been one to live as half-spirit- there is a part of me that is always listening to the whispered hush of the church, moving through the day- ever the more so since I began to attend to the hard stops of fixed-hour prayer. I used to think I was strange, in my heart and my passion- that I could not wrest twain my one-piece life. My faith has always formed so large a part of myself that to be hidden from it is like dying a living death- I feel empty and shell and lost. It is an awkward gift He gives in this, that I cannot separate my two lives; because when I fail to acknowledge one side or the other, the burden of conscience seems all the more heavy. I’ve only met a few kindred spirits over the years that seem wired the way I am, who think in colors and images and song, so affected by what is not as by what is, who feel so very deeply in passionate purple and golden yellow the mosaic of life. The fracture of it all hurts profoundly in ways few others can understand. I can only imagine that the Lord of life forms us this way, our artist souls, to reflect His heart, so that we see just how dreadfully the curse has fallen, so that we speak to it, so that we never forget it, so that we tell of His glory, give of our gifts to the Body, just as the Body ministers to us and sustains us when we faint from the pain.
There is a dangerous shard of blackened red that can run through our days- and I suppose, runs through all of our days and not just those of us who see the colors- that can threaten to overtake the entire vision of life if we do not attend to it. But in this, because every color is so deep in hue and cast, we who see colors often miss this rent in the tapestry in a way others can see clearly. We call it by different names- depression, sadness, melancholy- (and sidebar, here, some depression is caused by chemical and hormonal imbalance- that is not of what I speak here). I’ve begun to call it the visitor in a sort of tongue in cheek, Stephen King-esque sort of way, with a slightly scary soundtrack accompaniment. But I don’t think that name is too far off, to be frank. The enemy of our souls does c0me for a visit when the colors run black…when we muddy the colors of our lives with trouble.
I’ve been living with the visitor for a while now. Years stretch backwards, and I tremble in the strangeness. Saturday last, I was near shaking with panic and worry. And I kept peering across my life then and my life now, and the only thing I knew- the only thing I could describe- was the fact that I was fractured in faith. Because I’ve always been half-spirit, prayer is precious thing to me. To be so tormented in mind that I could not pray, to be so affected by that which I could not see that I could not attend the words, that everything had become a fight; this is how I knew.
I had become so prideful in my brokenness that bit by bit I had stepped farther and farther down the darkened path and away from the light, I had let worry attend me and fear become my right hand friend, and there I was, collapsed in the living room, with all the wrong companions and the colors running red and black. He spoke to me of worry as sin and I railed, oh how I railed! at what my Beloved was speaking to me, making audible the Father’s desires for me, His dreams for me. I kept rationalizing, kept excusing, kept reasoning away the separation that I felt. I did not want to face the reasons for my departure from His presence, even though I could see and how feel how deep the separation had become.
It is painfully, abundantly clear, though. I got the priorities all out of whack. I began to become consumed by the tasks before me, which I guess is understandable enough- I think we all do that- but then we forget the Sabbath, in a sense, and the fact that God has ordained a time for everything, and we keep trying to push the clock, grab at the hands and stop it, and in our human-strength try to obtain the unobtainable. And of course, we are frustrated, because the Lord made us human and finite. It is no small thing to face one’s limitations and accept them, to let the tasks rest in their days, to step away to the peace of prayer, fellowship. Most of the time I have done the exact opposite- push and push and push to accomplish a task list mired a mile long, to forsake the fellowship of my children and my beloved, to grab at more than I can ever do in a day. I grew frustrated. Then sick in body, trying to ignore the sickness of heart. I gloried in my broken life; railed at all of it, angry that I was miserable—and all the while, failing to realize just whose hands had made it so, grabbing at stuff so hard that I would crack them with my anger and hopelessness. And the forced-ness- it turns to trouble and worry. You think that everything is out of control, so you must think upon it endlessly, ‘fixing’ it in your mind, controlling, pushing. And the mind clutters, and the sleep falls away, and the prayers fall away, as if down a dark tunnel, something you know is there but the light seems so far away…this is captivity.
Confession cracks the gates wide open. When we bring light to sin, when we let control go, there is healing. Why do we so endlessly burden ourselves? I’ve never understood this. It is such a fight for me to let go, but every time I do? I discover peace. I am beginning to think that I need to practice more at it, this letting go, this confession- and find Him more. I’d really like to send the visitor on an extended trip to the underside of hell- where he belongs. For the colors to run clear, we must be washed clean.
So my day yesterday was a bit of this:
And this:
And this:
And kissing these:
And, oh! Do I always feel like I have so many scrambled eggs for brains by the time the day is done! (And I may just have scrambled eggs on my shirt, too, depending on the day.) But, oh! How much fun we have.
There was a time in my life I’d resent this messy mayhem of learning. It went against my Type A personality something fierce. I would never slow down for rabbit trails either. No big, wondering, questions allowed either, like why a butterfly is shaped the way she is, or why Libya is so sad. (Somebody was listening to NPR when I thought he was abed the other night…)
I was by the book, thankyouverymuch. In this unbelievable craziness that has defined my last year or two- I embraced the messy. And let me tell you, mud puddles are worth jumping in! (And baby’s dirty feet to kiss are better than chocolate.)
It never fails to amaze me on a daily basis where God shows Himself in the mess of my life- in those children, and their beautiful eyes, their big hearts, their searching questions- in the grime of dirt and the satisfaction of wiping it away and realizing that is what He is doing for me, every day, second by second, minute by minute, hour by hour- and I am ever thankful that mess of this last year has caused me to learn to weave His ways into our days, the hard stops of prayer, the lighting of the candle, the whispered Word.
So glad that He cares for the Messicrew- (a play on our last name). Do you know He loves your crew too? And that He can clean up the mess?
It’s been quiet here, kind friends.
I am sorry. And yet- it has been right.
November has been a season of change. As I write this, I am sitting in a hospital room, surrounded by children’s drawings and nebulizer equipment. I’ve been stuck in this room since Monday. They aren’t quite sure what happened- it was not pneumonia, but the bottom line- I have spent a week fighting to breathe. Asthma has long been an issue in our house- but never with mama- the last time I had an ‘asthma attack’- paltry at best- was over fifteen years ago. It has been a strange week. I am not sure when I will be released. And I don’t think I’ll ever take the ability to take a deep breath for granted again.
But in the breathe-ing I have been thinking.
I am so grateful for this little space here. I have such dreams for it. But I also feel the need to just be.
I’ve decided to pull down my blog for a while. At least, the day to day journaling part of it (not that it has been day to day in forever, ha!), pull down my archives, just sort of let the dust fall where it may for a bit.
I have been prayerfully considering replacing it for the month of December with some Advent reflections combined with art- which has long been my favorite focus here on the blog anyways. Since it starts tomorrow, I may be a little late in this, if it is truly where my heart lies this season.
I just can’t express how grateful I am for you all- how grateful I have been for this year of learning and stretching and growing- how grateful I am for life, for breath. My heart is full. I send my love to you, dear friends. You are welcome to the archives, but please be respectful. Personal use is fine. The blog itself will probably come down and/or change venues on Monday. I welcome you to friend me on Facebook here: Joy Noel. I am ever so occasionally on Twitter as well: @memoriaarts.
Grace and peace to you from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ.
Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves have received from God.
For just as the sufferings of Christ flow over into our lives, so also through Christ our comfort overflows.
(2 Corinthians 1:2-5 NIV)
(Written in response to a few searching emails regarding the huge gaps of time here with my blogging. I’ve just taken a slower, quieter approach now. I couldn’t tell you my blog stats anymore- I convinced my husband to hide that button in my dashboard and not tell me how to ‘fix’ it. Best thing I’ve done all year!)
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I spend a lot of time looking out these windows.
I’ve watched the sun in its orbit, the shafts of light slow-spin across honeyed wood, cut glass jewels across woven table cloth like a kaleidoscope of gold.
Sometimes the table is all piled over with mountainous collections of laundry, and I’m staring off into the intricacies of the green oak leaves across the way as I flip and fold and hang…Fernando Ortega singing in the background.
Other times the table cloth is hanging dangerously askew, fruit bowl teetering dangerously- slid aside to clear way for messy art projects by boys intent on their work, paint slap dashed, glue tipped sideways, markers splayed like so many colorful pick up sticks…
We don’t gather around the table to share a meal as often as we would like. Sometime it’s just the logistics of the thing: only two of our five children are old enough to serve themselves, so James and I spend what seems an inordinate amount of time shuttling back and forth between kitchen and table, mopping up spilled drinks, catching plate preparing to fly from an over-eager toddler’s hands who’d really rather play than eat. By the time we finally sit, our food is cold and the kids are done eating. It’s a balancing act. We’re getting better at it, and I’d say two or three nights out of the week it all comes together into an enjoyable time filled with laughter and good food.
I spend more time at this table than I do anywhere else. It wasn’t a conscious choice at first. It just happened to be the most convient place to accomplish things- the right height for folding laundry, the right space for schooling (at least for now). I gravitated to the view out the windows in the spring months- I needed the peaceful simplicity of the woods out back to call me back to center. The artist in me has wanted to figure out how to capture the changing moods of light- Kelly would catch it so quickly…but mostly, the parade of color is stored safely in my memory.
I make a very, conscious, sometimes uncomfortable choice to stay here at the table now. Sometimes I would much rather be anywhere but there, anywhere that meant I wasn’t in relationship, anywhere that meant I wasn’t being diligent in caring for my family- curled up with good book on the couch, clicking away at the computer, piddling and playing with my art supplies. This is not to say that any of these things were or are bad in of themselves. In fact, I think they’re all needed in their own measures.
It had become a destructive cycle for me, a wild pendulum swing from hyper-perfectionistic action till I was utterly undone, burnt out, empty. My house may have sparkled, but my heart was dull, my spirit deadened. I would then spin into a downward spiral of depression. It would start in an absorption of all things me- I would laze on the couch, reading book after book, laptop flipped open, surfing endlessly, mindlessly, mind-drunk, gluttonous on information. Oh to some this would sound odd, but this is my way of checking out. When I read, the world around me goes to a quiet buzz. Want to plan my birthday? Talk about it in front of me while I am reading a book, and I won’t even notice purple monkeys flying by. The cycle would circle round until I struggled to make the simplest of decisions, heart, mind, and body sick.
It’s hard to explain depression unless you’ve been there. It is very real, and it is very dangerous. I think I will struggle with it for the rest of my life.
One of the things I have learned to do is watch for the triggers that lead me down that awful path. There’s a lot of stuff going round the blogosphere about the good or bad in blogging, in blog-reading, Twitter, Facebook. Some tend to come off either direction with self-righteous indignation: “You’re not a ‘good’ [fill in the blank] if you do (or don’t do) these things.” I’ve been thinking about it for a while, and I’d like to enter a third opinion.
The blogosphere saved me from myself. Had it not been for honest, faith-filled writing like Ann or Elise, had it not been for the joyful nitty-gritty journal entries of Elizabeth, had it not been for Tonia…had it not been for the cheering and encouragement of Andrea and Aimee…I would have completely shut down, gone off the deep end. Elizabehth’s honest descriptions of post-partum depression helped me to understand what I was dealing with, and her encouragement helped me to reach out and get the help I needed. I am privileged to call of each of these precious ladies friends.
Even today, in a house of toddlers and very little adult conversation, these technologies help me keep my wits about me and communicate with others who understand the situations, who sharpen me ‘as iron sharpens iron’. They inspire me to be a better mama, a better wife, a better cook. (Good gracious, Aimee‘s recipes that she finds and links on Facebook. Yum.) Above all, they call me to Christ. I cannot tell you how many times a week one of them manages to make me cry, consider, confess my need for Him…
BUT.
Because of who I am, because of the way I am wired. Because all these technologies have been part of my cycle of destructiveness, I have made a conscious choice for most of this year to be quiet. I don’t post very often anymore, I rarely Twitter save for a good ol’ fashioned tweet party now and then. Sometimes days go by before I post a status update on Facebook.
I needed to get quiet. I needed to listen. Others may not need the level of separation that I need. Some might need more and not realize it. I don’t know. But my take on the matter boils down to this- when someone asks me how I feel about the good or the bad in the internet, I think we should be, above all, mindful. Not mindless. We shouldn’t just enter into all of these things on whim, and not consider how they fit into our lives or how they affect our hearts and minds. And that goes for a lot of things and not just the internet, of course. But I also think that we should not throw the baby out with the bath water and say it is all bad. Neither is true. There is a middle ground, a thoughtful, mindful approach that means we get the best of both worlds- but we have to stop and consider and evaluate it- sometimes on a daily, hourly basis.
My question to myself is quite simple: Have I come to the table today? If I have, I feel released to enjoy my time online. If I can’t answer that in a positive way, my time online that day is curtailed. It has been a huge burden lifted…I feel I’ve finally found a balance for myself after four years of blogging.
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Ann is getting ready to do a series on Upside Down Kingdom Blogging over the next four Tuesdays. This came out of her talk at Relevant…I hope you’ll join us!
It’s important to tell you where it all started, how I got to that point in front of the washer and dryer- to drop you, mise en scéne, into the flow of time. It is what follows now that my dear friends, online and off, said that I ought to share. But I felt like I couldn’t just hop into March and April and tell you about when the healing came and how it came…it wouldn’t be fair.
And I walk into the end of March and April with a fear of saying too much or not enough. It’s hard to cover two years of emotional backlog and the damage it had wrought and speak about it in an understandable way. It’s hard to talk about depression, and especially postpartum depression, in a Christian blogging community. I don’t know why this is so, but it is so. I go forward from here with more than a bit of trepidation. The early months were easy enough to write; I face off with the Muse on the following posts. It’s hard to open one’s heart in such a way.
…honest, heart-open posts ahead. Please tread gently.
The journey of early Febuary post is coming soon- maybe even today if my writing time is blessed- I just wanted to pop in here and share this. Ann shared this via her del.i.cious this morning…I found it helped me as I approach the months of February and March, because much of what was going on was finally processing through two and a half years of strangeness. Lamenting. I hope you enjoy.
