Write!

 

I went to the State Young Authors Celebration on Saturday afternoon. 

Students, teachers, and families from all across NC 

Gathered together

To celebrate the importance of writing.

 

On Saturday night, 

I went to see a friend in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. 

Students, teachers, and families 

Gathered together 

To celebrate the importance of…

Chocolate, yes. 

But also of 

Imagination and 

Writing! 

 

Needless to say,

I was quite surprised when I realized the connection 

Between two seemingly opposite events. 

 

Allan Wolf, the keynote speaker at the Young Authors Event, said that 

When you have an idea, 

Write it down. 

When you have a thought,

Write it down. 

When you are anxious, 

Write it down. 

When you are joyful, 

Write it down! 

He even went so far as to write things on his walls! 

 

Charlie Bucket, the main character in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, demonstrated that

When you have an idea, write it down.

His mother gave him a new notebook,

And he immediately started filling it with his ideas for chocolates and confectionaries.

Willy Wonka also had a notebook in which he wrote down his ideas for chocolates and confectionaries

And made his strange imagination tangible.

 

In between events, 

I was talking to a friend. 

She had a lot on her mind,

Including a lot of medical questions,

And so I said,

“Why don’t you do this?

Write down every single one of your questions and then the next time you’re talking to the doctor,

You can read the list instead of relying on your stressed brain to remember them.

Use the notes feature on your phone or

Bust out the sticky notes or index cards or legal pad or whatever you feel most comfortable with.”

 

Write it down.

Get it out. 

Whatever you’re thinking. 

Whatever you’re feeling. 

It doesn’t have to make sense.

It doesn’t have to rhyme.

You don’t have to share it with anyone

Or you can share it with as many people as you please.

 

The sheer act of writing is

creative

expressive

cathartic 

transformative. 

 

Take it from Allan Wolf,

Whose anxiety was grounded by writing. 

Take it from Charlie Bucket and Willy Wonka, 

Whose imaginations came to life through writing. 

Take it from me, 

Whose phone note feature has well over 1000 notes, from lists to quotes to musings like this. 

Take it from therapists, doctors, pastors, and life coaches 

Whose work encourages progress through writing. 

 

Writing is important. 

 

So write. 

 

Right now. 

 

Write. 

 

And if you need something to write, then consider these words from  Allan Wolf: 

 

I am here. 

I exist 

This is who I am. 

Watch me shine. 

 

Amen. 

Stretch Marks

I don’t remember the exact moment that she said it, but I remember the impact of her words. A dear friend of mine declared that she was ugly—her stretch marks an eyesore—her body a beat-up shell of who she used to be.

Even so…she was beautiful.

Especially so…she was beautiful. A mother. A wife. A friend.

And so I wrote this poem…

“Stretch Marks”

See these marks?

Yes, they're ugly.

My skin has stretched far from its ideal,
Far from the notion that
Beauty fits into a size two.

These cells have aged
And grown and changed,
Souvenirs of life displaying
Evidence that
I am not who I used to be.

I am older and wiser,
More experienced but less certain
Of anything
But love
Anymore.

Plans change.
Crayons end up in noses and
Heads knock lips into blood and
Soft drinks and junk food beacon late at night and
I shake my head and laugh it off
And drive my car down the road that looks
Like the marks on my skin and
I marvel in the ugliness that
Truly is radiance and
I drink in the pleasure that
I call my life.

So, see these marks?

Yes, they're ugly.

But look closely and see:

They are me.

And I am beautiful.

Dear God: When we look at ourselves and see ugly, you look at us and see beautifully redeemed. Thank you. Help us to find worth and value even in our flaws and help us to embrace the beautifully messy gift that we call life. Stretch us in you, God. Form us into who we are meant to be. Amen.

**This painting was done by my friend and colleague, Shauna. This is her interpretation of “Stretch Marks.”**

Worth and Value

A few months ago, I found a very curious ceramic pot at the thrift store. The glaze looked old. The design was unique. I wasn’t exactly sure of the pot’s purpose. But I liked it. And I thought that it was worth the 50 cents that it cost.

Being the dreamer that I am, I hoped that the pot was old—maybe from a Native American tribe—and that it was used for something special. So I took it to Antiques Roadshow two weeks ago to find out. What I found out was that the pot was likely mass produced for a roadside stand in Mexico and sold as a tourist trinket. Furthermore, the pot is known as a puzzle pot because it is not clear exactly where liquid will come out when the pot is poured. One appraiser said that it was worth around $25. Another said that it might be worth double what I paid for it, so, $1.

While this information wasn’t what I wanted to hear, it proved exactly what I’d been thinking before attending Roadshow: An item is worth only as much as someone is willing to pay for it. The first appraiser felt like I did about the pot. It peaked his curiosity. It is unique. It looks neat. It is not something that you see every day. He turned it over in his hands quite a few times and kept looking back at it. He liked it. He would have been willing to pay $25 for the pot and to display it in his home. The second appraiser, though, saw it as a piece of junk. He quickly looked at it and gave it back to me. He wouldn’t have been willing to give his pocket change for it. Its value, then, lay not in what the pot actually was but in how it was viewed. Its value lay in the response that it evoked and the feelings that it caused to surface…

I grew up in a theological tradition that teaches that, “We are sinners but saved by grace.” For various reasons, this translated into my life as a deep hatred of myself and a belief that I was bad. Even so, I was supposed to strive to be more and more like Christ, so I did, yet since I, in my humanness, would always fail, I simply determined that I was a failure. I excelled in school and in most things that I set my mind to, yet nothing I did was ever good enough. I was worthless and my self-worth was zero.

Then I started pastoral counseling. Over the course of many long and hard months, my counselor began to give me new language and help me reframe my beliefs. I remember weeping as I began to understand that I am a person of worth and value and that I deserve to be treated with dignity and respect. Yes, I am a sinner who misses the mark all the time. Yes, I am saved by grace. But I am God’s child—I am God’s creation—and when God created God’s creation, God called it good. In fact, God loved God’s creation so much that Jesus came to live with and die for us—because we were worth it--because God values relationship, redemption, equality, dignity of human life, respect, and love enough to sacrifice everything for us…

Friends: You are God’s creation, too, and you were called good. Yes, you are sinners who frequently miss the mark. Yet you are saved by a grace that loves you and deems you worthy enough to live for and die for you—and call you friend. You were worth it. You are worth it. And God values you and your desires for light, love, peace, hope, joy, forgiveness, redemption, and resurrection enough to be in relationship with you.

I’d say that this news of worth and value is better than any news that Roadshow or anyone else could ever provide!

About Worth and Value

I don’t remember when or why I started watching Antiques Roadshow. I just know that watching it has become something that I look forward to and that my desire to go to the show has led me to make Spring Break plans that are slightly different than my norm. I will fly to Phoenix late Sunday night, spend Monday being a tourist guided by a local; go to Roadshow on Tuesday; spend Wednesday being a tourist guided by a local; then fly home Thursday morning. I know that we’re going to the Phoenix Zoo and to Sedona National Park, and I know that the Roadshow is at the Botanical Gardens, but other than that, I am at the mercy of my hosts—two friends of my friend Washington—a wild, strong, resilient, Yoga-loving teacher friend whom I had the privilege of teaching with at Johnsonville for five years.

I’ve been dreaming of this trip for over a year. (Well, not this specific trip, but a trip to Roadshow in general.) In case you don’t know the format of the show, here it is: Thousands of people go to an appraisal event hoping to find that they have a hidden treasure. Most people do not. A handful of people do. The latter are selected for filming and their heirloom is then aired as an educational piece on PBS. Some heirlooms are “worth” a lot of money. Others are worth a lot historically or sentimentally. Some people are ready to sell their treasures (not at the Roadshow because that’s strictly forbidden) while others swear they will never get rid of them. My favorites are when people have something that’s just been laying around the house or that they’ve used/worn/displayed for their whole lives and it turns out that it’s “valued” at some crazy amount of money. Last week, a couple took a mobile that they’d inherited from the wife’s grandmother and hung in the yard as decoration. The mobile, by some famous artist, ended up being valued between $600,000 to $1,000,000!!!!

But I digress…

I’ve been dreaming of this trip for over a year…because, well, I’ve been dreaming of being one of the persons with a hidden treasure chosen for educational filming. I know. It’s dumb. The chances of being chosen for filming are about the same as winning the lottery. And yet. I dream of being on the show…and of the appraisers telling me that my item is worth some ridiculous amount of money…and me then being awestruck by the reality…

Yet. What reality is it really? Who, truly, determines something’s worth or value? I find myself asking that question a lot. I find myself wondering who would pay $600,000 to $1,000,000 for a mobile that looks like it is made of coat hangers. But then I remember that there are collectors for everything—after all, I collect orange fish. And I suppose something’s worth and value lies in what someone is willing to pay for it.

Our worth and value as humans must be pretty high because Jesus paid his life for us.

But I digress again…

What I did not factor in to my dream was traveling to the Roadshow. It’s hard to travel with artwork and fragile family heirlooms when traveling by plane. Arizona is a bit to far to get to by car. And so…I don’t know what I’m going to take with me when I leave on Sunday. I’ve been thinking about it for weeks. My family has been thinking about it for weeks. I am still uncertain about what is going to make it into my bag…except for this: My Grandfather’s WWII Scrapbook. It’s a beautifully complete record of his time in the army, and I am hoping that the appraisers can help my family learn a little about a map that we know nothing about.

Did you hear that? I’m hoping the appraisers can help me learn.

You see, I’m slowly giving up on my hope of being on camera with a precious heirloom worth thousands of dollars. Instead, I’m quietly adopting the hope that I will learn something that I did not know before the trip. Yes. I would like to hear that I have an object “valued” at a high dollar amount. Wouldn’t everyone? But, in the end, I think that maybe experience and knowledge are where worth most heavily lies. And I have a feeling that this unlikely experience of going to Phoenix, Arizona, for Antiques Roadshow with Washington is going to be “worth” more than money could ever buy.

Dignity And Worth

Have you ever heard a song that punched you in your gut and spoke to the very core of your being? I had that experience over two weeks ago and haven’t been able to get the song out of my head since.

In short, the song is about a son who longs for approval and acceptance from his father. It shares the singer’s gut-wrenching journey from ideas like,

“You’re the last thing I wanted or needed, boy. You make me sick. What am I supposed to say when my friends talk to me about you? Sure, I made you and you’re in this family, but all you do is embarrass me. I give you a roof over your head, food to eat, and pay for you to go to school, yet this is how you repay me? You’ll never amount to anything, boy. It’ll serve you right if you grow up miserable and lonely.”

to ideas like,

“Son, I need you to forgive me. I grew up learning that a man was only a man if he was tough and played sports—if he never cried—if he never showed weakness—if he was the head of the household, no questions asked. But now I’m not so sure. I don’t understand exactly who you are, and you’re very different than me, but I’ve realized that you’re you, and I want you to keep being you—no matter what my friends or anyone else says.”

Needless to say, by the end of the video—a stripped down recording with only acoustic guitar and voice—I was crying quiet tears.

Almost a decade ago, in the middle of a night when I couldn’t sleep, I got up and went to my computer and typed out these words:

I think that we each just want to be loved for who we are. Period. Not the idea of who we could be. Or the roles in which we function. Or the services, gifts, and talents that we offer. But who we are. Good, bad, ugly. I think we each need to know that we are honored and adored not by virtue of performance and perfection but by the triumph of waking up each day, breathing, and giving life a try.

I think that we each need places of unconditional acceptance: places to call home. We each need to know that, to someone, we are not second best--to someone, we are the cream of the crop,
the top notch, the best thing since sliced bread. Ideally, I think, we each receive that love from
our families. Ideally, our hunger for acceptance is satisfied by the seeds that gave us birth or the partnership that promised to honor and cherish. Ideally, we find comfort and peace in the place we lay our heads. No pretense. No intimidation. No fear. Just rest. And satisfaction. And joy.

But when those things are not there. When we are uncertain of our value. When we question and doubt the inherent beauty of existence. When we feel used, or reduced to function and performance, or we fear failure and disappointment. When we're forced into a mold that was not ours to live, paralyzed by discomfort, lost. When our spirits are not nurtured and allowed the freedom to soar--to explore the world and discover the depths of creation, the places where we fit, the points at which we flourish--we slowly begin to die: our bodies exhausted, our hearts wounded, our minds numb, our spirits suffocated and…then what?

I suppose we pick up the pieces and begin to live again. I suppose we apologize for reducing people to ideas and roles and function, for identifying individuals by what they do rather than who they are--what they like, how they love, when they dream--for not celebrating unique personality but honoring the status-quo. I suppose we vow never to let anyone feel as if she is not loved for who she is. Period. I suppose we fill the gaping hole called needy
beast with the unfathomable love of God, manifest both in God's still small, unexplainable voice and the loud voice of tangible community, and let that love transform the very core of our being. I suppose we allow ourselves to feel again, to experience and release emotion, however raw and difficult, however many tears it brings, and give it permission to bridge the gap between knowledge and understanding.

We are all loved for who we are. We are all created to be who we are. But I think we each just need to be reminded of that fact through words and deeds and actions and gifts and time—that we each need to know that we are loved for who we are. Period. Over and over and over and over and over again.

Friends, I dare say that there are more people than not singing that songwriter’s song and waking up in the middle of the night with hearts about to burst. I dare say that there are more people than not picking up broken pieces and trying to salvage them through time, hope, confession and forgiveness. Each of us is human. Each of us makes mistakes. Ever so often or every single day, each of us makes poor choices and passes harsh judgments. Each of us struggles to love and be at peace with ourselves though most of us don’t realize the struggle. Most of us allow or force the struggle to lurk in the shadows of hyper-functioning, power, and control. Yet, in the end, way down deep, don’t 99% of us just want the same thing? To safely love and be loved? And to live with a sense of purpose and the certainty of safe acceptance?

Oh God: For all of the times we have acted as the father at the beginning of the songwriter’s song, forgive us; and then allow us to journey with one another not to a place of harsh opposites behind walls of difference but to a place of loving openness in front of those walls. Help us to arrive and live in the space of the father at the end of the songwriter’s song and to love people as they are—even when we don’t understand or agree—and to value their dignity and worth as your creation. You are the One who has the ability to grow and transform. You are the One who ultimately changes lives. Help us to leave the changes to You as you work through our steady love and help us to trust You enough to do Your work in other people’s lives—and in our very own. I love you. Period. Always and always and forevermore. Amen.

Who Cleaned The Dishes?

Many years ago, when I was teaching school, a teacher came to work on Good Friday dressed as the Easter Bunny. I’ll never forget how upset one of my good friends was at the time. She explained to me that the mood of Good Friday should not be one of festivity, not just because we, as Christians, remember Jesus’ death, but because we, as Christians, are living in the present while Jesus and the disciples are living in the past while God and the unknown are living in the future. All time, she said, is occurring simultaneously. God, she said, is a God who transcends time. Jesus, she said, was suffering again while our colleague was hopping around like the Easter Bunny.

I thought about that conversation as I cleaned the kitchen tonight. I have since lost touch with both the Easter Bunny teacher and the friend who shared her mind-boggling theological view with me. I thought losing touch—how some relationships fade naturally and some are jolted to an end by hurt and betrayal. I thought about Judas and Jesus—the times they shared together, the laughter, the tears, the meals. And I thought about that last meal—the one whose remembrance I was missing because I’ve been home sick today.

I’ve spent the majority of this Maundy Thursday asleep. I woke up to eat lunch. I read a little bit. I went back to sleep. I woke up to eat supper. I took my mom to church. I cleaned the kitchen. I washed the dishes with the purple Palmolive to which the above-mentioned friend introduced me. And then I thought:

Who cleaned up after that Last Supper?

After Jesus and his disciples ate, sang a hymn, and went to the Garden of Gethsemane, there was an empty room. And in that empty room, there were some empty dishes—or at least partially empty, dirty dishes. I think of the song lyric from Les Mis, “Empty chairs at empty tables,” and I wonder what the empty chairs and empty tables looked like in that room that night [although I realize that there may not have been any chairs at all because of cultural differences]. I wonder what the room felt like after the energy, excitement, confusion, shock, sadness, and heaviness of the persons in the room walked out. And then I wonder who came behind and cleaned up what was left.

Was it a man? A woman? A child? A friend? An enemy? A stranger?

Did he/she walk into the room and feel that something special had occurred there? Did he/she walk into the room and just begin to clean?

Did he/she think about the persons who had been in the room? Did he/she have other things from Passover week on his/her mind?

I know that these questions will never be answered. I know that in the scheme of life it really doesn’t matter. Yet. Somehow. Tonight. It matters to me. The person who comes behind matters. The person who cleans up matters. The person who cleans his plate matters. The person who leaves food on her plate matters. The teacher who dresses like the Easter Bunny matters. The friend whose theology makes my brain hurt matters. The person who sticks close matters. The person who betrays matters. The person whose story is written in history matters. The person whose memory isn’t really considered matters.

I, sick and unable to attend community worship, matter.

You, reading this now, matter.

And the next time you clean up your kitchen, or someone else’s, remember that fact, okay?

PS. Because I couldn't break bread with a faith community tonight, I broke bread by myself as I cleaned...and the bread that I broke was a fresh loaf made by a dear friend. The experience was actually quite holy.