Lovefeast 2012

We used our first non-family baby-sitter to attend one of our favorite Christmas traditions, the Lovefeast at Wake Forest. It’s such a beautiful way to start off the Christmas season. Last year when I wrote about Lovefeast, I ended up just borrowing the words from my 2009 post. It’s not that I lack any creativity to write a new post about an old tradition (ok, maybe that’s some of it), it’s just that every year when I go back and read that original post, I feel a renewed sense of spirit just re-reading those words. So I’ll share them here once again and hope that they can be a reminder of the Christmas spirit for others too.

There’s a moment in the service when the lights go dim and the ushers arrive at the end of each aisle with a lit candle. Person to person, candle to the candle, the chapel becomes full of a warm, hushed glow in a matter of minutes. It gives me goose bumps.

As we touch our candles from right to left, I always think of the end of my favorite quote from Marianne Williamson - “as we let our light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same.” I think about how our dark world would be so vividly light up if each one of us just shared a little bit more of their light with every they came into contact with.

Easy to remember in the warm glowing chapel as “Joy to the World” swirls around you. Difficult to remember in the day to day of life that involves work stress, cranky customer service reps, bad traffic, late fees, tense relationships and shouting heads on every major station.

Letting your light shine so that others might do the same – this is what Christ was born to do. Celebrating Christmas is a remembrance of the birth of the greatest life that walked among us, that made a point to gently touch touch his light to everyone he came in contact with.

“I have come into the world as a light, so that no one who believes in me should stay in darkness.” - John 12:46

Lovefeast 2009 :: Lovefeast 2011

Lovefeast 2.0

What can I say about Lovefeast that I haven't already said?

Apparently, nothing.  Literally when I sat down to write this post, I had some thoughts in my mind ... something about that moment when they hush the lights and each person holds a candle and passes their light from one to the next.  I was trying to organize these thoughts when I had a sneaking suspicion I'd heard them somewhere before.

Oh that's right.  On my blog, in 2009.

It looks like I have officially run out of anything original to say.

But, it bears repeating again... at least this snippet.

There’s a moment in the service when the lights go dim and the ushers arrive at the end of each aisle with a lit candle. Person to person, candle to the candle, the chapel becomes full of a warm, hushed glow in a matter of minutes. It gives me goose bump.

My mind always goes back to my favorite quote at this moment, by Marianne Williamson.

As we touch our candles from right to left, I always think of the end of my favorite quote from Marianne Williamson - “as we let our light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same.” I think about how our dark world would be so vividly light up if each one of us just shared a little bit more of their light with every they came into contact with.

Easy to remember in the warm glowing chapel as “Joy to the World” swirls around you. Difficult to remember in the day to day of life that involves work stress, cranky customer service reps, bad traffic, late fees, tense relationships and shouting heads on every major station.

Letting your light shine so that others might do the same – this is what Christ was born to do. Celebrating Christmas is a remembrance of the birth of the greatest life that walked among us, that made a point to gently touch touch his light to everyone he came in contact with.

“I have come into the world as a light, so that no one who believes in me should stay in darkness.” - John 12:46

All is calm, all is bright.

A Very Good Day

Today, I had a lovely day off from work. 

I had one of the best outside runs I’ve had in ages.

I sold a bunch of books on CD back to Edward McKay and walked out with a new one.  Then I went across the street and made out like a bandit at the Border’s 60% off sale. 

Then I ate frozen yogurt for lunch.

Then I cleaned my house.  I love a clean house.

Then I snuggled with Buddy.  (In a really attractive outfit.)

Then I read some really amazing news on Facebook.

It was a really, really great day.

And I’m thankful for that.

30,000 Feet

Whenever Matt and I fly home, I always have the window seat –by virtue of being about 10 inches shorter than him, it’s been determined he could use the extra legroom.  I never mind: I love looking out airplane windows. I love seeing the Earth from above, like my own little version of a Google Map Satellite view.  I love seeing the land below change shapes and colors, and my favorite thing to do as I fly into Rochester is to pick out the Erie Canal and the Interstate Highway and try to find my house.  I never have, although I’ve found my high school, my elementary school and our downtown village plenty of times.

This time flying back from Rochester to Greensboro, we had a connection in La Guardia.  The plane we were on was the definition of puddle jumper, and we flew lower than I ever have in my life.  I’m not kidding when I say I had my face pressed to the window (okay I am kidding – it’s kind of gross, airplane windows, right?)… but I couldn’t take my eyes off the ground.  It was amazing to watch the topography of my home state change: from the suburban sprawl of Rochester, to the easily-picked out Finger Lakes surrounded by farmlands, to the rough bumps of the Catskills and the finally to the condensed urban landscape surrounding New York City. 

It was almost a surreal experience, and I couldn’t stop taking pictures out my window as if I could preserve the experience forever.  I know it’s cliché, but when I’m looking at the world from above, I can’t help but realize just how big and small the world is, all at the same time.  Momentarily, I remember that we’re all in this together.

Home

When my Grandma was in the nursing home, my Grandpa used to drive up to see her twice a day.  I imagine that he knew the route with his eyes closed and he counted off the hours in the day to first visit, then second visit.  We all worried about the toll it was taking on him - at this point, she was suffering from Alzheimer's and had various degrees of awareness of why she was there and not at home, or when she could go home, or even who he was.

Can you imagine visiting your wife twice a day and often having to tell her, twice a day, that no, I'm sorry... I can't take you home with me?

At one point, my mom asked my Grandpa if he wanted to go with her to Florida and take a break and go golfing.  She wanted him to have some "me-time", to do something he absolutely loved doing.  My Grandma was in good hands - my mom is one of 4, and everyone was ready to be all hands on deck.  I was in college when my mom told me this story and his response has been burned on my heart ever since.  She asked him to go to Florida, and he said:

"No, Shari, no thanks. I don't even want to go to Wal-mart if your mom can't go with me."

When my Grandma passed away in March of 2005, we all wondered how my Grandpa would fare.  He was healthy, independent, mobile and totally with it - not something all 84 years old can claim.  But we knew he would have traded all of that just to go home with Grandma.

My Grandpa stayed in good health for most of the last 6 years.  Until about 14 months ago, he still lived in his house, drove his car, and some days even still visited the nursing home my Grandma had spent her final years in.  It wasn’t until he had a heart attack in January of 2010 that he showed any signs of his physical body catching up to his calendar years.

On a Rochester-cold December day, in 2009, I met him for a breakfast date at Denny’s.  I had driven down to Geneseo to meet him, the half way point between my parent's house in Pittsford and his house in Fillmore.  He drank an endless cup of black coffee and ate half of an English muffin, I downed a diet coke and some scrambled eggs.

"How did you meet Grandma?" I asked.  I don’t remember what we had been talking about before then, but I wanted to ask that question and the moment was right. 

Quite some time passed while story after story fell out of his mouth and he alternated peering into his coffee cup or staring off into the distance - watching the movie unfold in his head as if it was yesterday, and giving me the play by play.  He told me how they met, about their courtship and of course, his proposal.  He shared stories of how once they were married, she was always late to meet him anywhere because she’d stop to talk to someone in the grocery store or church parking lot and lose track of time as she would slowly unfold a stranger’s life story.  “What took you so long?” he would ask her, knowing what the answer was. 

After about an hour, he realized where he was and looked at me with an almost bashful look to him.  "How did you get me talking about this?" he asked, a little embarrassed and a little bit wistful..  My heart was full with stories, and I knew I couldn't press my luck any farther so I just grinned and shrugged.  I tried to steal the check from him (he wouldn't let me) and hugged him hard in the parking lot and told him to drive the speed limit.

He chuckled to himself as he got in the car, which I knew meant he would not.

I have so many precious memories of my Grandpa, but this is the one that I have played over and over to myself in the last few days since my mom called me with the news.

I think of that wistful look he had in his eyes as he recounted to me seeing my Grandma for the first time  and I can only imagine that they're exchanging those glances again as if it was their first time seeing one another.  Their marriage was what every good marriage should be – a friendship, an equal partnership (a rarity in the 1950s), and genuine, sincere love for one another. 

I feel sad for myself, that I’ll never get to hug him and feel his scratchy beard on my check, or listen to a voice mail where he tells me to say hello to “that good Methodist boy you married” or see him flipping pancakes on the Coleman stove of their Airstream trailer.  I am sad that my brother won’t have anyone to give a carton of Whoppers to at Christmas for the first time in 33 years.  That my sister won’t get to have him proudly walk down the aisle at her wedding, shaking hands with people as if he was a celebrity. That he won’t see my 4 cousins graduate college, get married and turn into the amazing grown ups they are already becoming.  I am sad that my mom, her sister and her 2 brothers have lost their Dad, a sadness I can’t even really permit myself to imagine.

But after I wade through this sorrow, there’s an incredible sense of peace and overwhelming happiness because I know my Grandpa is exactly where he wants to be: home, with my Grandma. 

And imagine the first thing she will say to him is, “What took you so long?”

Grandpa { 2.18.21 – 5.17.11 }

{Christmas 2004 with Grandma & Grandpa}

Oh Baby!

I have to admit when my friend Page first sent her email with her request my initial reaction was you want me to do what?  See, I love when people ask me to do photographs for them – engagement photos, headshots, babies, just for fun… there’s nothing I love more than being behind my camera lens.  So I was excited that Page was asking Jamie and I if we’d be willing to come photograph her new baby…but a little nervous that she was asking us to photograph her brand new baby.  Like, arriving into the world brand-new.  Jamie and I both readily agreed, but even on the way to the hospital the night that Page was being induced we were a bundle of excitement and nerves.  Where would we stand?  Would we be in the way?  Would we capture the perfect moments of this incredibly amazing moment in this family’s life?  Would we ever decide to have children of our own after witnessing childbirth for the first time? 

I don’t want to share too many details, because this is Page’s story, not mine.  But it was truly an incredible experience in my life, and I just can’t get over how thankful I feel that Page invited us to share this moment in her family’s life.  I was in tears myself when the delivering physician, Page’s hubby himself, told his wife the news that their bundle of joy was going to wrapped in a pink blanket.  Of all the moments I’ve ever captured with my finger on the shutter release, Page’s reaction at learning she was the momma of a little girl is my all time favorite. 

I’ve obviously never seen a baby who is merely seconds old, and my breath was captured by her perfection.  Matt has told me many times that being in medicine, contrary to what you might think about it being all scientific, has only further cemented his belief that we are creatures of God’s design.  Witnessing this intersection of science and miracle, I suddenly perfectly understood what he means by that. 

And amazingly, all the fears that I have had about going through childbirth (which have been many) have actually diminished by witnessing it.  I will forever be indebted to this family for inviting Jamie and I into this moment of their life.  Happy Birthday, sweet Faye and welcome to the world.  Just to give you a heads up, you’re in really good hands for the life journey ahead of you. 

This Little Light of Mine

Last night I gave a talk at a community center for a small group of people - a support group called RAPP (Relatives Acting as Parents Program.)  I had been asked to give the talk a few months ago, back when I was working at my other job and had readily agreed.  All week long I'd been dragging my feet on prepping for it, and was really just not feeling it.  It'd been a hectic week, and I was mentally drained from work and the last thing I wanted to do was put on my happy face and my high heels and talk.

However, as soon as my PowerPoint flashed up I felt it - the little butterflies I get in my stomach whenever I start talking about something I'm passionate about.  In this case, I was giving a talk I've given a few other times - about how people who are caretakers often neglect themselves.  It's a talk I gave about a year ago at the NC Association of Volunteer Coordinators  - that time I was in a ballroom with 50 people behind a podium with a microphone and oh, man I was digging giving that talk.  I was on fire.  But, I felt the same thing last night though - even though I was in a community center with an aluminum table, my PowerPoint flashed on a cement wall with maybe a dozen people, expectantly looking at me. 

When I first started working in wellness, I was really in touch (as my life coach self would say) with the reason why I wanted to do this.  It's a complex bundle of my past experiences - my own struggle with my weight and eating through high school and college, mixed with the experience of becoming suddenly aware of how easy it is to take health for granted when I was diagnosed with colitis - that provide the kindling for my passion for wellness.  I know that for me, if I'm not healthy, I'm not anything else.  I'm not a good wife, I'm not a good sister, a good friend, a good doggy-momma, a good person when I don't feel well.  Being healthy - for me - gets the junk out of the way so that I can be my best self. 

There's a quote - cleanliness is next to Godliness – and whenever I hear that, I think “no, scratch that… healthiness is next to Godliness.” Being clean is lovely, but being healthy – feeling your best, feeling unlimited by your physical state – is so powerful.  I really feel that being healthy allows you to be your best self – and allows you to fulfill whatever purpose it is that you’ve been called to. 

Teaching people about wellness feels like something bigger than myself – it feels like I’m giving people a tool to get closer to being their best self, and ultimately, to find their own purpose.  I know that sounds a little lofty, but on the days that I’m “feeling” it, I know it’s because I’m doing something greater than myself.  I consider my understanding of motivation of behavior, my complete lack of competitive nature (which allows me to be a good coach, slowly easing people along to their goals), and my ability to inantely hear things that people don’t say out loud to be gifts that I’ve been blessed with.  There’s some days I don’t want to do my job.  Honestly, it’s hard.  It’s hard and it’s exhausting sometimes, to encourage and lift up people who are entrenched in unhealthy patterns.  But every now and then, I get one of those blessed moments when I realize it’s not about me – doing this job is not something I chose to do, it’s something I was chosen to do.

I didn't feel like going to that talk last night, but sometimes it's the things that you don't feel like doing that you need to do.  I left feeling reconnected to my work and grateful that I have a purpose I feel passionate about. 

Morning Glory

 

Satisfy us in the morning with Your steadfast love, so that we may rejoice and be glad all our days. – Psalm 90:14

(5:30 am sky, no photoshop required.)

March

Arise, shine, for your light has come, and the glory of the Lord rises upon you. - Isaiah 60:1

Sunrise, March 1st, 2010

Majestic

I wake up from a heavy sleep to discover the flat plains of Texas have been replaced by a landscape so contradictory to anything I have ever known.  Sharp angular peaks, with frosted tops, cover the horizon as far as I can see.  The Rockies are so unlike any landscape I’ve even seen; they literally take my breath away.  I scan the peaks as the plane crawls along, and I notice signs of occupation are few and far between in the occasional valley.  It occurs to me then, how these mountains have outlasted anyone who called them home, as they will outlast anyone to come.  They are eternal, overwhelming in their beauty and magnitude, yet humble in the way that only something so great can be.  In the face of these rugged mountains, I see a reminder of who and what my glorious God is staring back at me. 

Lovefeast

The smell of beeswax lingering on your hands. The overly sweet coffee. The hush of a crowded chapel waiting in anticipation for the opening chords of “O Come All Ye Faithful.”

This is my favorite way to start the Christmas season. Lovefeast provided a welcome respite from studying for finals during college, and it has been a Christmas tradition for Matt and I since the year we got engaged the day before the ceremony. (I confess that that year I sat through the traditional Christmas hymns ogling the sparkly thing on my left hand. Have you ever seen what chapel lights can do to a diamond?!) It’s easy, ahem, to get caught up in the more consumerist side of the holidays. The focus on Black Friday sales, on trying to avoid mall crowds, and finding just the right blow-up holiday decoration have become entrenched in our holiday season.

What I usually get most excited about at Christmas is spending time with my families, our Christmas morning tradition of sticky buns and Bloody Mary’s, evenings sipping hot cocoa by the twinkly lights on our mantel and finding just the right gift for my Dad, who hasn’t gotten overly excited about any of our gift since the late '90s when we all just burned him mixed CDs.

These are all wonderful things about Christmas, and things that many people hold dear – family, food, giving of gifts. But I often forget that while those are very special traditions to me, that's not the whole picture of Christmas.

There’s a moment in the service when the lights go dim and the ushers arrive at the end of each aisle with a lit candle. Person to person, candle to the candle, the chapel becomes full of a warm, hushed glow in a matter of minutes. It gives me goose bump.

My mind always goes back to my favorite quote at this moment, by Marianne Williamson.

“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, and fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small doesn't serve the world. There's nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We are born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us, it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.”

As we touch our candles from right to left, I always think of the end of that quote - “as we let our light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same.” I think about how our dark world would be so vividly light up if each one of us just shared a little bit more of their light with every they came into contact with.

Easy to remember in the warm glowing chapel as “Joy to the World” swirls around you. Difficult to remember in the day to day of life that involves work stress, cranky customer service reps, bad traffic, late fees, tense relationships and shouting heads on every major station.

Letting your light shine so that others might do the same – this is what Christ was born to do. Celebrating Christmas is a remembrance of the birth of the greatest life that walked among us, that made a point to gently touch touch his light to everyone he came in contact with.

“I have come into the world as a light, so that no one who believes in me should stay in darkness.” - John 12:46

Merry Christmas. Let your light shine brightly and boldly.

Prone to Wander

I didn't grow up going to church. I went on a few occasions - accompanying my many Catholic friends to mass, attending with my grandparents only to be shuttled off to an awkward Sunday School class where I'd cling to my sister like saran wrap, and even attending a Catholic summer camp where Mass was given 3 times a week out on a hot tennis court. I was not drawn in, but not either turned off.

My first vivid encounter with religion was mid-high school, when a friend(?) of mine got rather judgmental on some of my choices. As it turns out, God does not love beer drinkers. Of all the many rejections and turmoil of high school, this one stands out to me the most. I had never had my character discounted right to my face and the experience stung.

It took me a little while before I became curious, much less open, to having a little more God in my life. I give a lot of credit to my first roommate in college, Steph. She is one of those people who just shines light from the inside out. Being a college freshmen comes with a handful of drama along the way, but Steph always remained calm, content and steadfast. I felt like she knew some secret to life that I was missing out on. She talked to me a lot about her relationship with God, but she never once made me feel inferior for where I was in my relationship with Him. I knew innately that Steph had something I didn't, but it took a few more years before I really began searching.

What a classic cliche it is to find God in the midst of a crisis. My senior year of college everything seemed to fall apart at my feet. I lost a lot of confidence and happiness in the midst of a really toxic relationship that I refused to leave, citing "not giving up" as my reason for consciously choosing unhappiness. Then, one morning I woke up and my health was gone - just like that. I thought I had food poisoning, and when those lovely symptoms persisted for a month, then two months, and ultimately continued on for another year, I thought I might never live a normal, healthy life again. Somewhere in the middle of this madness, I started praying. I wonder if God ever just rolls his eyes when we wait until the sky falls down on us to look up.

It was a year later that I stepped foot in a church for the first time in probably ten years. To this day I have no conscious memory of how I chose the church I went to in Baltimore. It was 30 minutes north of the city. My parents are Catholic and Methodist, and it was Presbyterian. I knew no one there. But one day I googled a church, drove there and walked in. And I discovered what it was to worship. I can still remember the feeling of tears pin pricking behind my eyes and my nose as I heard, for the first time, the type of music that made me feel connected to this amazing feeling of love.

Throughout the next three years, my relationship with God grew bolder and more beautifully. I talked to Him, all the time. It was no longer just when I needed Him, I made it a point to tell him all the time how thankful I was. When my colitis flared up again, I constantly fought against the pervasive "why me" feeling to try and find reasons to be grateful - even if it was sometimes just being grateful for a well-timed public restroom, a hefty dose of steroids or a boyfriend in the medical field who didn't seem to mind all the talk about my colon.

In the spring of 2005, Matt asked me if I would join him on a mission trip to Belize with his church. I was so excited to go, and I just kept expecting that I would have this MOMENT where my relationship with God would be forever and indelibly changed. The trip was lovely, and I was so moved by the love that the church community in Belize shared with us, by the exuberant joy and peace that the kids we played with in the school had, and the longing, vast need for love that we saw in the kids in the orphanage. But I never had that MOMENT, and I left the trip wondering if my relationship with God was different than other peoples, and if I was still missing something.

The smile that brings me back to Belize.

Sometime after moving to Winston-Salem, I found myself praying in my car on my way to work. I never like to put music on when I drive early in the morning and it felt natural to just begin talking to fill the silence. Sometimes out loud, but mostly in my head. Soon it became a routine, and an amazingly calm feeling would descend over me as I parked my car and headed into my day.

On September 7th, 2007, I was driving along Silas Creek Parkway, chatting away to God per usual. Only all of a sudden, I realized He was answering. I don't know how I know this, but I heard Him as clear as if he was sitting right next to me. I asked him so many questions, I could barely contain my thoughts. I was afraid that at any moment, I would begin to question if this was really happening and lose the experience. As soon as I got to work, I ran to plug in my computer and write down as much as I could. I knew I wasn't remembering everything we talked about, and I was afraid if I didn't capture it I would lose the feeling forever.

In that moment, I realized what I had been missing in my life was a dialogue with God. My relationship with God was completely one-sided. "Hello, it's me, again... you listening?" Even in my prayers of thanksgiving, I never once stopped talking long enough to see if He had anything to say. I have been able to recreate that moment on Silas Creek parkway many times throughout the last two years, and it's remarkable to me every single time I stop to listen, God is actually talking back to me.

Am I crazy? Maybe. But I wouldn't trade the peace of mind and overwhelming feeling of happiness that these conversations have given me in the 2 years to have the sanity of my last 25 years back.

I haven't been to church regularly since I left my church in Baltimore, and I've had this nagging feeling that as a believer in God, I have failed Him by not showing up on Sunday. The last time I did go, one of the songs chosen for the service was called "Prone to Wander." Ironic, yes?

How can I be so prone to wander
So prone to leave You
So prone to die
And how can You be so full of mercy
You race to meet me and bring my back to life

I have been feeling distant in my relationship with God lately and I blamed this on my lack of attendance to church or regular devotionals. I realized this morning that my wandering has nothing to do with my location at 11:00 am one day a week. My wandering has much more to do with allowing the chaos of every day life to prevent me from conversing with Him and to using being tired and busy as an excuse to why I'm failing to let His light shine through me.

How can I be so prone to wander from the one thing that makes everything else shine brighter? How can it be so easy to slip from the routine of being with Him? The simple fact is that He is right here, waiting for me to talk to Him, expecting nothing from me but my return to Him. How can You be so fully of mercy?