Enough

 

Last Sunday afternoon, as I sat down to see what the day’s page of “The Little Prince” had to say to me,

I wondered if the message was going to be autobiographical or if it was going to be fiction.

On Friday night, a scathing fictional poem had emerged.

It said:

“You complain and boast

But your heart is empty.

You’re nothing to me.”

I commented to my writing partner, Heidi-The-Librarian, that I hoped I’d never actually have to say those words to anyone!

 

As I reflected on Sunday’s text and let the words float around in my brain,

A poem emerged that is loosely based on life experience.

It said:

“My friend told me that

I, myself, am enough.

I didn’t understand

But I answered, ‘Yes, of course.’

‘You’re beautiful, too,’ (he said).

This time, I said nothing.

And we sat in silence.”

 

Many years ago, Jenny-The-Counselor told me that I was enough,

But I wasn’t healthy enough to understand what she meant.

Having grown up in a faith tradition that taught me that I was nothing but a sinner saved by grace,

I internalized the sinner part of the equation so much that I made damning myself a regular part of my existence.

I always thought that I needed to be and do more.

I didn’t fully understand that I, as a child of God, created in God’s image, saved by God’s love that overcome all darkness and death, was enough.

I didn’t fully understand God’s amazing grace.

 

While I get it now,

It’s still a mind-boggling concept—

This concept of being enough.

And it’s also a mind-boggling concept to think of beauty

As someone who has absolutely no beauty regimen

Other than showering and brushing my teeth :-p.

But beauty is there, too,

As God’s beloved child.

Beauty is something we see as well as something that we feel,

But it’s not something that I talk about much.

 

And so I sit in silence,

Letting “enough,” and “grace,” and “beauty,”

Sink in.

 

Dear God: Speak to us in the silence. Speak words that we need to hear. Let your truths sink in. And let that be enough. Amen.

Sit With Me

I happened to be in Barb The Art Teacher’s classroom this afternoon when her last 3rd grade class arrived. At the beginning of each class period, her 3rd graders take part in a meditation moment during which soft music is played and students are asked simply to sit quietly, listen, and focus.

Today, though, something went wrong and the class found itself sitting in silence. After B unsuccessfully fidgeted with the speaker cord and volume buttons, she said, “I guess we’ll just have to meditate to the hum of the air conditioner.” The class moaned. I said, “It’s okay not to have music, boys and girls. Silence is actually good for you. I sat in silence a lot when it snowed because I didn’t have electricity and there wasn’t anything to make noise. It was actually very peaceful and calming.” I’m sure that my words meant very little to the class, yet they mean so much to me.

I began to appreciate silence when I worked as a camp counselor during college, but I didn’t begin to fully understand its importance until I was a student in divinity school. It was then that I started to understand two of life’s most profound contradictions: It is in silence that God often speaks the loudest and Doing nothing is often doing the greatest amount of something that can be done.

Last night as I talked to my mom, I told her that I’d really enjoyed my three days of winter weather. Thankfully, I had power for all but 10-12 hours of those three days, but I didn’t have cable or internet for most of that time so I didn’t feel an ounce of guilt for not doing any work. Instead, I slept on my own schedule, cleaned on my own schedule, walked and played with Bullet the Dog on his schedule, watched movies and DVDs that I normally don’t have an opportunity to watch, and enjoyed the absence of noise and activity that almost always fills my days. At the end of my unplanned winter vacation, I felt like I’d had a true Sabbath. For the first time in a really long time, I felt truly rested.

It’s no wonder, then, that I smiled when I read today’s devotion out of Sarah Young’s Jesus Calling (Kids Version). It read:

Take a moment and just sit quietly with me. Let my love surround you and fill you. Feel the light of my presence and enjoy my Peace. I am using these quiet moments to do much more than you can imagine. Give me this gift of your time, and then watch how I bless you and those you love.
Your friendship with me is changing you from the inside out. I am shaping you into the person I want you to be…

Friends, I must confess that when the power first went out on Friday afternoon and I realized that I could be spending days alone in nothing but silence, I sort of panicked. I began thinking of ways to change the situation, yet after I’d placed candles in each room and made sure that there was enough light for me not to be scared, I found that my heart and my spirit had already begun settling into the silence. Shortly thereafter I drifted to sleep and woke up feeling refreshed a few hours later, and throughout the new two days, and even today, I noticed myself craving silence over noise—desiring the beautiful sounds of rests over the beautiful notes of rhythm and melody.

“Take a little while to slow down and sit with me,” I hear God urging. “Let my presence surround you. Let me give you peace.”

Selah.

And peace.

Prison Ministry and More

I recently had the opportunity to hear a speaker talk about prison ministry. I can’t remember his name, but his presentation connected with what I knew about prison ministry through my work with Angel Tree Camps in NC and The Department of Juvenile Justice and prisoner packets in SC, and I’ve been thinking about it ever since. The thing is: he didn’t just talk about prison ministry. He talked about ministry in general. And life. And he was very real. And his words gave me a lot to consider. Maybe they will do the same for you?

Prison ministries need prayer. The system is messed up. It is broken. We need prayer to fix it. It’s the only thing that can, actually.

One of the things that persons in prison don’t often get to do is give. Giving prisoners the opportunity to give is life giving.

Reentry is tough. Nationwide, up to 2/3’s of persons released from prison will return to prison. The transition from prison to life is shocking. A lot of times, when persons are used to community living (like jail/prison), it’s hard to transition to individual living. A lot of people don’t know how to make this transition. Furthermore, in some people, the fight or flight instinct is so developed that it’s their go-to. A lot of freed prisoners aren’t sure how to act when they return to the work and educational settings of society—if they are even granted those opportunities. As a result, many persons shut down, fight, or leave. Unfortunately, persons who work in rehabilitation are not valued—especially with funding. This is where the church must come in. We must work in areas of prevention, treatment, and mediation to first keep persons out of prison and to second help persons who have been jailed slowly transition back to society. The church has the unique ability to succeed in prison ministry by continuously showing up. We have the unique ability to provide the structure and routine that so many people need. This may be difficult. And it may get messy. But the church can make a huge difference in helping persons live truly free.

It’s difficult to see people not cooperating. It’s difficult to listen to people complain about one another and not know when/how to speak. Yet sometimes in the ministry, we treat others as adversaries—especially when it comes to the issues of funding and volunteers. Sometimes in ministry, defenses immediately go up when someone talks about the needs of his/her ministry and we become protective of our own. Yet. God cooperates with all who seek to follow God’s plan of redemption for this world. And. God does not try to coerce or guilt us into joining God’s mission.

In every class, there are five students who love us, five students who hate us, and twenty-five students who are neutral. We, as teachers, must show up for all of them, yes. But we must show up especially for the twenty-five who are neutral. The ones who love us probably don’t really love us so we can’t allow them to falsely boost our egos. The ones who hate us probably don’t really hate us so we can’t allow them to falsely tear us down. The ones in the middle are the ones who willingly journey with and learn alongside us. The ones in the middle are the ones who balance out the extremes and keep us sane.

One of the biggest challenges we face in ministry is being a differentiated self while remaining connected to the system.

Everyone is trying to survive. We never know what’s going on in people’s lives.

Even when it seems that God is not working, God is. There is always hope in God’s redemptive story.

We must experience a lot of Good Fridays and Holy Saturdays before we arrive at Easter.

Often, it’s the sighs and groans from the Spirit that remind us that we’re here for a reason. Sometimes all we can hear and all we can give are the sighs and groans.

Peace isn’t part of the gospel. It is the gospel. It’s what Jesus, Prince of Peace, called us to. It is assumed in Christianity: We are peacemakers. Yet. We can all be very violent in ways that don’t involve hitting or shooting one another. And peace is not the same as complacency. Sometimes peace involves action.

Only speak if what you have to say will add to the silence.

At this time in your life, which of these points resonates most with you?

Well Done, My Child

The first time I remember appreciating silence was the summer after my freshman year of college. I worked as a camp counselor that summer and filled my weeks with the sounds of 12 elementary-aged girls in my cabin and hundreds of other girls around the camp. While I enjoyed my work as camp counselor (it actually took root and transformed my life), I also distinctly remember walking back to my cabin in the hours after campers left and taking in the beautifully sweet sound of silence. It was outdoor silence, so it was punctuated with birds singing, leaves rusting, and squirrels running. But it was beautiful. And in its echoes, I could hear the sounds of little girls laughing and praising God, and that made the silence even more beautiful.

Still, I struggled with silence. It made me uncomfortable. 15 seconds of silence felt like an eternity. I couldn’t understand how my parents could ride in silence for an hour or more at a time. I assumed it meant they were mad. It didn’t. It just meant that they were comfortable in their silence.

The other day, I heard someone say: “Only speak if your words can add to the silence.”

I also read the chapter on solitude in Richard Foster’s Celebration of Discipline. Foster highlighted the fact that too often we fill time with anxious words of explanation. We want people to like us. We want to be understood. We don’t want anyone to upset. We don’t want to be thought ignorant. So we talk. And we try hard to win the affection and accolades of those around us when sometimes less is more—when sometimes our yes really does need to be yes and our no just needs to be no—when sometimes we need to release control of what others think of us and allow our spirits and intentions to speak for themselves.

This is something that I am learning.

This is something that is growing my faith.

When we slow down and let life catch up with us, we are often bombarded by thoughts, words, deeds, actions, guilts, desires, hopes, dreams, and everything in between. When we open ourselves to silence, we are often overwhelmed by the noise that fills our heads. It’s in the those moments that we are tempted to return to outer noise—music, white noise, television, conversation, constant activity—because it feels normal and numbs our soul.

But if we just wait? What if we push through those initial moments of inner chaos and let the silence surround us? What if we allow our thoughts to pass through our minds with grace rather than giving them permission to play like a broken record? What if we breathe in “Jesus Christ, Prince of Peace” and breathe out “Come sit with me now,” and let our breath hold us on a sacred pillow of silence?

Our souls find rest.

God calls God’s people to be different. God calls us to be set-apart. Counter-cultural. Light in darkness and salt where there is no flavor. Maybe what this means isn’t so much that we are to take a stand on issues of morality and create for ourselves a narrow-minded, hateful reputation. Maybe what this means is that we are to be a people of silence. A people who, at our cores, are at peace with God and ourselves and do not need the constant motion and noise of this world to fill the gaping hole that is Needy Beast.

I’m on a journey toward embracing silence, toward allowing my soul to find rest.

I pray that you will join me and that together we will hear echoes of God laughing and saying, “Well done, my child. Well done.”

Contrary To Popular Belief, Silence Is Not The Enemy

I’m beginning this note in between music lessons with my niece and nephew. We’ve been having weekly lessons for the past few months, and while I’m not 100% sure how much I’ve taught them, I am sure that we’ve enjoyed our time together. Sometimes we play piano, sometimes we play music games on the computer, sometimes we do movement activities, sometimes we listen to instrumental music with the help of Fantasia or a video version of Peter and the Wolf. I’ve been working with them for the past few months…

(Insert writing silence for a pre-K piano version of “Merrily We Roll Along.”)

…and I’ve been reminded of a very important lesson in life: Music is the organized combination of both sound and silence.

Did you catch that?

Music is not music without silence.

When I was teaching school, I realized something: when students get in trouble at school, one of their worst possible punishments is silence. Silent lunch. Silent carpool. Silent free time. Silent anything. In school, more often than not, silence is equivalent to punishment.

Yet.

Music is not music without silence.

There is a time for everything under the sun. Ecclesiastes 3 may not say that there is a time for noise and a time for silence, but there is. Silence is under the sun.

Yet.

We seem to do everything we can to avoid silence these days…especially if we grow up learning that silence is a punishment.

Try singing without stopping to take a breath. Trying playing an instrument without doing the same. Even playing the piano, there must be moments of silence—of rest—lest fingers get tied up and pitches become blurred.

Music is not music without silence.

In fact, music without silence is only noise.

And so it is with life.

The next time you’re driving to work alone, don’t turn on your music, book, podcasts, or talk radio. Drive in the relative silence of your car and truly pay attention to the world surrounding you.

The next time you have a moment between classes at school or meetings at work, don’t fill the moment with chatter and activity. Sit in the silence of your classroom or office. Breathe deeply. Feel the oxygen filling your lungs. You are alive. It’s really quite amazing.

And the next time there is a moment of silence in church, don’t freak out. Whether it’s planned or accidental, silence is okay. No. Silence is more than okay. Silence is good. Silence is crucial to being healthy and hearing God’s voice. Actually, I challenge you to plan a time to visit your church sanctuary alone. You will be amazed at how holy silence will surround you if you let it.

Silence is not the enemy. In fact, silence is our friend.

(Selah)

Was It Or Wasn't It A Silent Night (Part Two)

Yes.
It was a silent night.
Yes.
It was not a silent night.
Or at least that’s what I think these days.
And here’s what changed my mind:
The memory of a college fire drill.

It was my junior year at Meredith.
I was sick, much like I am now.
I had Vicks vapor-rubbed my chest and taken some NyQuil.
I was very asleep when the fire alarm went off.
I stumbled out of the building with the help of a friend.
I sat down on a little wall and swayed back and forth,
Trying not to fall onto the ground.
It was foggy outside.
The fog against the street light created that unique foggy orange light look.
It was silent.
It was ringingly silent.
It was middle-of-the-night-silent that comes when you’re jolted awake or
You’re sick or
You just can’t sleep.
There was noise.
Yet it was silent.
It was a silent night.
It was not a silent night.
And I’m thinking that’s how things were the night that Jesus was born.

As my friend Amy said in response to my note on Monday:

I like Amy Grant's spin on the song..."I need a silent night, a holy night, to hear an angel voice through the chaos and the noise. I need a midnight clear, a little peace right here--to end this crazy day with a silent night." I imagine it was super hectic for Mary, and loud, with all the doors Joseph was knocking on and all the grumpy people who were irritated that 2 kids would have the nerve to interrupt their sleep to ask for a place to have a baby. Shuffling feet, doors slamming, Mary's cries, Joseph's pleas, cows mooing, sheep baahing, horses nickering, the scraping of stone as Joseph cleans out the only thing in the stable he could find to prepare for a baby. Mary screams, a new born baby cries, and then. Then. There is that one silent moment as Joseph wipes Mary's brow and Mary smiles down at her sweet sleeping baby through silent glistening tears. And I think that that moment is what the silent night is about—the moment when we realize that while the world is busy slamming doors and being rude we miss out on the mercy that is meek and mild and the truth that is as pure as this child. That night, redemption was knocking on the doors of Bethlehem (and our hearts) but they couldn't drown out the noise (or chose not too) long enough to hear the heartbeat of the Savior. So maybe every now and then, a silent night is a good thing.

Or as my friend Jaime said:

I have always loved the song Silent Night and always (even as a child) pictured it as a scene from AFTER Christ was born. And, as a mom who has cuddled and coo'd and watched two precious newborns sleep peacefully in my arms (and am eagerly awaiting this one), I think Mary DID probably have those moments of peaceful, silent euphoria with her sleeping or nursing baby that night.

God…thank you for both/and rather than either/or. Amen.

The Church Sign Worked (And Thoughts on Worship)

For the past few years, my friend Kay and I have kept a look out for somewhat ridiculous church signs. Whenever we see a worthy sign, we send the text to one another and either shake our heads and/or laugh at the exchange. Such is the reason that I was paying attention to a church sign that read, “Taize Lent Service. Sunday at 7pm,” as I passed it on Saturday. Instead of sending Kay a ridiculous text, I filed away the information and thought to myself, “That church sign actually did what it was supposed to do. It drew me in.”

As I sat in the silence of the service last night—a service that I felt compelled to attend because of my soul’s hunger both for peace and quiet, sacred space—I felt tears forming in my eyes as they gazed upon a stained-glass window of Jesus with open arms. In those moments, I wanted nothing more than to walk toward those arms and feel them wrap around me in warm embrace. I wanted to say, “I’m sorry, Jesus. We’ve gotten it so wrong. We’ve messed it up so bad.” Not wanting to make any noise, though, I decided not to find a ladder, set it up, climb it, and attempt to embrace the stained-glass Jesus. Instead, I simply sat in the pew, hands postured to signal an opening, and whispered my words to God.

Contrary to many in my generation and generations younger, I don’t worship most fully and freely with loud rock-style music, projected words and images, and a master teacher seeking to teach me how to live. While I know that this style of worship is desired by many, I find myself desiring its opposite. I am surrounded by noise, chaos, movement, competition, information-bombardment, consumerism, experts, choices, and passing fads every day. My body and mind are saturated to overflowing with the fast-paced, “now” of modern American culture.

What my soul desires, therefore, is to slow down—to meet God in silence—to feel grounded to words and acts of worship that have carried God’s people for thousands of generations—to be challenged to encounter God in God’s mystery and fullness, though murky and mind-boggling they may be. So much of life has been stripped down to certainty and explanation. I need permission to let God be God and to let Christ’s words and actions speak for themselves as they come alive through the presence of the Holy Spirit today.

When I look at Jesus’ life, I see a man who surrounded himself with community—who upheld the faith traditions of his family and his historical people even while he transformed those traditions into life-giving reality for all of us. I see a man who, when weary from ministry, sought refuge from the crowds and went to a mountain to pray or a safe place to rest. I see a man who valued silence as much as noise, tears as much as power, and parable as much as check-lists of morality. This is the balance of worship that my soul needs. And this is the balance that I found last night after a very discouraging week of noise.

Church signs sometimes present somewhat ridiculous information. But thank you, God, for that simple church-sign invitation that drew me in.