Breathe Out

 

On Monday, I wrote about showing up.

Today, I’m going to share a practice that I often employ

When showing up for those I love.

 

Whenever I sense that someone is struggling and

I want to help them,

I simply breathe in and breathe out,

Letting my breath be my prayer.

 

Only, it’s not so simple.

 

Upon breathing in,

I imagine sucking in the

Darkness, heartache, pain, loss, and hurt—

Taking it away from them and putting it inside of me.

 

Inside of me is Jesus,

Who then takes the

Darkness, heartache, pain, loss, and hurt

And transforms it into

Light, love, strength, happiness, peace, and everything good.

 

I do this over and over,

Breathing in the dark, stank air,

Breathing out the light, fresh air.

Breathing in what I want to take from those I love,

Breathing out what I want to give to them in return.

 

I don’t know if it “works.”

I don’t have any scientific evidence saying that it does or does not.

All I know is that it “works” for me,

And it helps me sit in the midst of darkness, heartache, pain, loss, and hurt

And not be consumed by it all.

 

Is showing up always easy?

No.

Is breathing in darkness always easy?

No.

Sometimes it hurts.

But Jesus is there.

In my heart.

Working to hold it,

Working to purify it,

Working to transform it,

Working to do what I cannot,

And leaving me to do what I can:

Send out light, love, strength, happiness, peace, and everything good.

 

Regardless of whether this practice works for you,

I encourage you to find something that grounds you

And connects you to your breath, to others, and the

very Breath of Life.

 

Remember:

There is a lot we cannot do in this world.

There is a lot we cannot afford to give.

But just as surely as the sun rises and sets each day,

We can show up for one another.

And we can breathe.

 

Amen.

On Death and Dying

I had a rough night last night. Out of nowhere, thoughts of death and dying descended upon my mind and heart and I couldn’t shake them.

It’s not so much that I’m worried about my own death and dying—other than not wanting to die alone and not wanting to leave behind a mess of stuff for unknown loved ones to sort through.

It’s that I worry about the death and dying of those I love. I think about the holes that will be left behind. I fear the silence. I worry about the gut punches that will land every time a memory appears. I think about going through stuff. I think about holidays. I think about traditions. And I am overwhelmed by sadness.

I don’t know when these thoughts began to appear and sit on my chest like bricks. It may have been when I did my unit of chaplaincy and death and dying became so very real to me. It may have been long before.

Regardless, on nights like last night, when the bricks are piled high, I’m thankful that I can look up and see the image of Jesus carrying a man who is exhausted, worn out, and left with nothing to give. I’m thankful to know that Jesus is holding me, letting me cry, hearing my fears, and reminding me to breathe.

Help us all to breathe today, God. Literally and figuratively. And for those taking their final breaths in these days, surround them with your light and love and be peace that passes understanding. Amen.

A Puzzle, A Breath, and A Prayer

The holidays have been hard for quite a few of my friends: Friends missing loved ones who passed this year—some suddenly, some expected; friends struggling through anxiety and depression; friends missing kids (and other family members) to divorce; friends missing kids they are struggling to have; friends stuck in abusive homes; friends dealing with the affects of mental illness; friends who are lonely; friends continuing to grieve the loss of loved ones from years past.

It’s hard to know what to do for persons feeling so much hurt. It’s hard to know how to help. And yet I find myself doing one thing constantly—even when I don’t know how it “works”—I find myself praying.

I made a puzzle a prayer. For the three hours that it took to put it together, I prayed. (And I think maybe my mom did, too, because she knew my intentions for the puzzle.) With every piece that I put in, I prayed. I offered prayers for strength, peace, endurance, light, love, and healing for a friend whose husband recently passed away. I will give her this puzzle when I see her next and every-time she sees it, she can know that someone was and is praying for her as she works her way through grief. I may a puzzle a prayer.

My breath is a prayer, too. So often, when I know nothing else to do, when I’m in the midst of deep sorrow and hurt, I breathe my prayers. According to mindfulness practice, I breathe in the dark, stale air and breathe out light, fresh air. I imagine Jesus filtering out all of the junk and leaving only that which is good. According to Conscious Discipline (CD) practice, I breathe in and then I wish well. CD practice has nothing to do with faith, and yet, one of its main practices is, in my estimation, a prayer—a hope for something more than what is seen—a standing in solidarity—a wishing well. Breath is a prayer, too.

And so is “Dear God…” That’s it. Dear God…and then the thoughts flow…right into the very heart of God…

The holidays have been hard for quite a few of my friends. It’s hard to know what to do for persons feeling so much hurt. It’s hard to know how to help. And yet I’ve found myself doing one thing constantly—I’ve found myself praying.

Dear God…*Breathe in. Breathe out. Wish Well*…May this puzzle give strength, peace, endurance, light, love, and healing…*Breathe in. Breathe out. Wish Well*…Amen.

No Paddle Day

I’ve never been canoeing--
Much less canoeing on a ten day river trip through two states.
But I have a friend who is doing just that--
With a group of teenage girls from the camp where she works.
They left on the Lumber River in NC last Wednesday and will be extracted at a beach in SC this Saturday.
By Friday, the group had arrived in SC and begun canoeing the Little Pee Dee River.
By Saturday night, the girls were ready to go to bed by 7pm.
Needless to say, they were exhausted.
Because of the exhaustion, but more so because of the theological significance of the day,
Yesterday was a no paddle day.
A day of staying put.
A day of discussing the power of life, death, and resurrection.
A day of exploring the beauty of creation.
A day of rest.

I don’t need to say that we live in a busy world.
Just waking up each day is to experience a fast-paced, motion- and noise-filled world.
I don’t need to say that there is always more to do.
Just making a to-do list on which you need to add a to-done category just to feel accomplished is to experience the never-ending list of tasks to do.
I don’t need to say that people are tired.
Just looking at the dark circles under eyes and the sleep aids the fill pharmacy aisles is to witness America’s need for sleep.

And yet…
I rarely hear of people taking a no paddle day.
A day of staying home.
A day of discussing the power of light, darkness, and redemption.
A day of taking in the beauty of creation.
A day of rest.

Being the orange-fish collector that I am, I have a Finding Nemo saying on my wall:
Just keep swimming.
And while I believe in this little phrase and know that ultimately,
no matter how weary we become from life’s demands,
especially the demands that we have absolutely no interest in but that we must do nonetheless,
We must keep going.
We must keep persevering until we make it to the other side.
This is what life requires.
Nemo knows this.

Yet, my friend and her girls know something, too,
Something that God Godself has known since the very beginning:
Sometimes we must take a day and designate it as a
No paddle day.
A day of being,
A day of discussing the power of joy, grief, and journey.
A day of meditating on the wisdom of creation.
A day of rest.

Breathe...Peace

Today is the International World Day of Peace. In preparation for the day, B had the 5th graders make Pinwheels for Peace and placed them in front of the school. I’ve been working with the 5th graders on songs of peace. We’re currently writing personalized verses to the song, “What Can One Little Person Do?”

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On Friday night, I had the privilege of seeing Plumb in concert. She was headlining a women’s conference in Fayetteville. I’d never before seen Plumb and knew very little about her life or music, yet I knew I wanted to attend the concert because I’d recently heard her song “Exhale” and immediately connected with it. In short, the concert was amazing and speaking with Plumb afterward was the same.

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In my example verse for the 5th graders, I wrote that I hoped for sustainability and made a plan to use reusable shopping bags to change the world. I want my students to know that standing for peace and changing the world doesn’t have to be a huge, instantly famous action. I want them to know that, really, it’s the little things that change the world and bring peace—things that they actually can do rather than abstract concepts that seem impossible. If I’d have thought they could fully understand it, though, then I would have written about my hope for mindfulness and self-awareness and my plan to breathe.

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During one of the most difficult emotional periods of my life, one of my friends consistently told me to breathe. I remember getting mad at her for telling me to breathe because, of course, I was breathing. But one night when I found myself in fitful tears, I realized that I was holding my breath instead of exhaling. In that moment, I understood what my friend meant. Breathe. In. Out. In. Out. Breathe. Steady breath calms us.

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After standing in line for at least thirty minutes to meet Plumb, I had the opportunity to speak with her for a few moments. As a formality, I had her sign my newly purchased CD, but I really just wanted to talk with her. So I did. I told her how appreciative I was of the honesty and wisdom in her music and how much I resonated with “Exhale.” She explained her hope that as she inhaled and exhaled grace, the grace would find its way to those around her and surround them with a hug. As she explained this to me, she touched my shoulders to demonstrate the surrounding.

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My first counselor, Jenny, gave me an audio-book called Good Medicine. In the book, the teacher, Pema Chodron, introduces a concept that I personalized to this: Breathe in darkness, stress, gunk, and all things bad; imagine Jesus (who, according to Christian teaching “lives” in the heart) filtering out and getting rid of all of the junk; then breathe out light, grace, hope, peace, love, and all things good.

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Just before Plumb told me her hope that the air she exhales will hug those around her, I shared with her the process that I learned in Good Medicine. I told her that I breathe in darkness and breathe out light for myself, my friends, my family, my students, the world. I presented the concept to her in case she wanted to do the same.

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What can I do to change the world? Live with mindfulness and self-awareness. And breathe… peace.
mi

Forty Minutes Ago

I don’t remember exactly what prompted the question—it was certainly nothing theological—but one of my students looked at me the other day and said, “Are you going to pray for us or something?” I didn’t answer his question aloud, but in my mind I thought, “Oh, yes, my dear child. Yes. I am going to pray for you. In fact, I am praying for you right now.”

In and out. In and out. Breathe in--all of the uncertainty, fear, and insecurity that is troubling him. Breathe out--light, love, peace, and all things good. In and out. In and out. Even as I teach. Silently pray. In and out. In and out.

At the end of class, as most of my students passed with either a high five or a wave, this student stopped, looked me in the eyes, and said, “I already know that you love me, Ms. D.” Then he hugged me. As I hugged him in return, I said, “Yep. I do love you.” But what I was thinking? I was thinking, “How do you already know? We just met 40 minutes ago.”
As I’ve pondered the prayer guide that earlier in the week I set myself up to write, I’ve realized that this task is too big for me to accomplish in two days. So today I’ve decided to post a prayer that I wrote during CPE instead. When I’m not breathing in and out, I’m often singing this prayer to myself:

Lord, I pray for everyone
Whose hearts are breaking today
Lord, I pray for everyone
Whose bodies are wasting away
There is so much hurt
And so much pain
So much grief
And so much anger
There are so many fears
And so many doubts
Lord we need you,
We need you,
Right now.

I don’t know how prayer works. Really. I don’t. But somehow I know that it does. And so I will keep praying.

For the students I teach. For the families from which they come. For the teachers who teach alongside me. For the administrators who work above me and the legislature who works above them. For the support staff who holds the school together. For the churches and businesses around us who want to be involved.

I pray for everyone…and their hurt and pain and grief and anger and fears and doubts.

I pray for God…and God’s peace and healing and hope and joy and courage and rest.

I pray that love will radiate from my spirit so beautifully that every person I meet—especially my students—will know that I love him (or at least that I’m trying)…even if I only met him forty minutes ago.

Music and Breath

Music is a thread that runs through my life. Regardless of what ministry I’m part of, music always creeps in. If I’m asked to preach, then I include a song as part of my message. If I’m asked to lead a retreat, then music plays a big part. If I’m asked to lead a workshop, then music is played at some point during the session. If I’m asked to teach piano lessons, then I can’t just teach piano. I must teach all kinds of music. History, composition, theory, and more.

Music connects souls. It speaks a language that words cannot. It stirs memories, raises emotions, breaks down barriers, and motivates change. I am so grateful that I grew up immersed in music and followed its passion to college. Honestly, there were times in my studies when I began to hate it, yet, as I wrote one night in my favorite college practice room: “Music is the passion that burns within my soul, the passion of God’s heart, the piece that makes me whole…”

Both indirectly and directly, music is a huge part of what makes me myself.

The rest of what I wrote that night said, “But lately I can’t find the beat and lately I just can’t sing and lately I just can’t feel the way I used to feel. So help me…”

I wrote those words during my sophomore year of college. If you’ve heard of the sophomore slump, then you know I was in it. The journey that has followed since that time has been beautifully long and hard and has been met with loneliness, fear of rejection, actual rejection, really poor decisions, life-changing learning, transformed theology, enduring friendships, and acceptance of God’s unconditional love and grace. Through it all, music has been my constant companion, either giving me an outlet of personal expression or providing me with someone else’s story with which to connect.

At one of the lowest points on my journey, one of my closest friends, with whom I connected because of a shared interest in music, kept telling me to breathe. I thought, “Of course I’m breathing. I’d be dead if I weren’t. Why do you keep telling me to breathe?”

Then one night as I wrestled myself to sleep, I noticed that I had, indeed, stopped breathing. After the inhale, I subconsciously held my breath until I couldn’t hold it any longer and then exploded on the exhale. In that moment, I understood what my friend meant. I understood why she didn’t offer cheap advice or words of assurance. I understood that the best thing she could do was sit with me and breathe.

Breath helps calm us. God breathes in us the sustaining breath of life. Breath gives life and rest. Breath turns chaos to music.

“Keep breathing,” she said.

And I did.

And I kept making music.

I hope I always will.

And I hope that you’ll join me.

I Love The Mountains

If you were inside my head right now, then you’d be singing, “I love the mountains, I love the rolling hills, I love the flowers, I love the daffodils, I love the fireflies when all the lights are low…”

I do love the mountains.

In fact, I love the mountains so much that I chose to forgo the lake and swimming pool with the kids today so that I could stay at the cabin and watch the clouds cast shadows onto and away from the mountains.

[I’m sure there’s something to be learned from the experience, but, believe it or not, I’ve chosen just to let the experience be what it was—a beautifully peaceful experience.]

I drifted in and out of sleep just as the shadows drifted over the land and I breathed deeply and smiled often and for one brief moment I felt no stress…(even though I did miss the boys and girl and battle with a little bit guilt over not being with them).

Tomorrow, we’ll go for a boat ride and then probably go swimming and then after that I’m not sure what we’ll do.

But it really doesn’t matter.

All that matters is I’m here with my family and I’m in the mountains and I can breathe a little easier and I am content—for now.

Life is Breath

The speaker in chapel on Monday spoke about the Titanic. As he was talking, I found myself struggling to catch my breath. I cannot hear about the Titanic—or write about it even—without struggling to catch my breath.

Breath is life.

Drowning is not breath.

And to think about so many people losing their lives by drowning is just, well, suffocating.

To make matters worse, I have this image from the movie Titanic stuck in my head. It’s not of Kate Winslet or Leonardo DiCabrio but of a little old couple lying in bed beside one another as the ship was sinking. I’ve only seen the movie once—because it’s not wise to intentionally spend three hours struggling to catch my breath—but from what I remember, the couple was gazing into one another’s eyes with deep love and affection. Their bed was sliding as the ship was sinking and the couple had chosen to hold on to one another and die together instead of trying to escape the ship.

And then they drowned.

It wasn’t in the movie that they drowned. The director did not depict that scene. But it’s clear that the drowned.

And…that thought makes me struggle to breathe.

Breath is life.

Drowning is not breath.

A lot of people drowned when the Titanic hit the ice burg.

I don’t like to talk—or think—or write—about the Titanic.

I like to breathe.

Because breath is life.

And I’m thankful for life.

A Breathing Road Trip

I made a road trip over the weekend. I drove to Jacksonville, Florida, both to visit my grandmother who is in rehab and to spend Mother’s Day with my mom who was visiting her mother who is in rehab. In preparation for the trip, I purchased three new audio books. The book I chose to listen to first was, “A Long Way Gone: Memoirs of a Boy Soldier,” by Ishmael Beah…

Shortly arriving in Jacksonville on Saturday, I went to the rehabilitation center where my grandmother is staying. After walking to the far end of the center, I arrived in her room to see her sitting in her wheelchair smiling at me, her hair flat on her head. In my 33 years of life, G-mama has never worn her hair flat on her head! It startled me at first because it made her look so different, yet I like it. I think the style looks very good on her.

G-mama is sharing a room with a woman named Dolly. If you’ve ever read, “The Shack,” then picture the image of God that the author portrays and you will have a pretty good physical image of Dolly. Dolly is a 76 year old African American woman who has emphysema. There is nothing that can be done for her, yet she is living the remainder of her days as well as she can—being the teacher that she inevitably was and mentoring church members on how to teach children various Bible studies and books of the Bible when asked. Dolly has a stockpile of graham crackers and other food in her bottom drawer, and she loves to eat. Today before I left, after G-mama commented that she wasn’t hungry, Dolly said, “I look forward to the day when I’m not hungry. I clean my plate every meal and then usually look for more!”

Dolly almost died last night. Her family had come to visit for Mother’s Day and they had taken her outside for a visit. When she got back to the room, she couldn’t catch her breath. After using her inhaler and beginning a nebulizer treatment, she still couldn’t breathe. She called for the nurse and he immediately came to help her. I don’t know what he did because he pulled the curtains for privacy. Whatever it was, he helped her pull through, and she and G-mama passed the night together in their room.

Watching Dolly try to breathe was painful--even when she wasn't having an emergency. Her not being able to catch her breath made me grateful that I could. I think of dreams from which I’ve awoken gasping for breath and I imagine how frightening it must feel not to be able to breathe in the very breath that gives us life…

As I listened to my book today, I frowned in horror as I heard the story of soldiers purposefully burying their enemies alive. I imagine how awful it must have been for the prisoners not to be able to breathe…and I find myself taking deep, deep breaths…maybe like you are doing now.

In the beginning, God breathed life into this world. It was God’s breath that brought life to humankind and it is that same breath that sustains us today. May we never take this breath of life for granted and may we use each breath of our lives to be present in things that really matter…like road trips to see our grandmothers and mothers and doing what we can to make them smile.