The Shape of My Emptiness

God speaks to me in images a lot.

And last October, when I finally realized the new thing God was doing inside of me to answer my prayer for hiddenness, an image began to accompany me through the journey.

It was the image of a curvy-shaped, ruby-red piece of glassware. Have you ever seen those art deco glasses from the 1970s? The ones that are heavy to hold and dark-colored but see-through, often blue or dark red in color?

That's what the image was like. It was ruby-red, and it looked like this:

The shape of my emptiness, part 1

Drawn December 12, 2010

At the time, I recognized that this was the shape of my soul in which God was currently forming me. It felt like the visual representation of my inward reality. In the bulbous center, God and I communed often together, but there was plenty of room and opportunity for me to go into the upper tier of the glass. That upper tier represented my daily, ordinary life -- the aspects of life where I interact in the world and with others.

It seemed as though the outward-facing lip of the glass was the means by which God poured more of himself into me and by which I was poured out for others.

It was so interesting to notice this image accompanying me in my journey toward hiddenness and emptying of self and then, shortly afterward, to begin reading The Reed of God, a book of meditations on the life of Mary. The first chapter, appropriately titled "Emptiness," offered these words for reflection:

That virginal quality which, for want of a better word, I call emptiness is the beginning of this contemplation. It is not a formless emptiness, a void without meaning; on the contrary it has a shape, a form given to it by the purpose for which it is intended. . . . At the beginning it will be necessary for each individual to . . . see ourselves as if we had just come from God's hand and had gathered nothing to ourselves yet, to discover just what shape is the virginal emptiness of our own being, and of what material we are made.

-- The Reed of God, pp. 21, 23-24

It was such an encouragement (not to mention amazingly uncanny) to discover someone else talking about the shape of our emptiness after having just walked around for several weeks with a distinct impression that this red glass image I was carrying around was the shape of my inner reality of learning to become hidden and emptied of self.

This image stayed with me about four months.

Then, during a session with my spiritual director in February, I realized the image had changed. (Surprise!) It was no longer an art-deco, dark-red glass with a curvy shape.

It was a golden chalice.

The shape of my emptiness, part 2

Drawn February 13, 2011

I didn't notice it was a chalice at first. I noticed only that it was, first of all, smaller than the red glass. Simpler in shape. And, most amazing of all, stunningly golden.

Then I noticed a small amount of sweet wine in the bottom of the cup . . . and inside that wine, swirling around together, were me and God. We were commingling in ecstatic union, and it was amazing and beautiful and I couldn't stop smiling. And that's when, slowly, I realized:

This is what communion means.

That's the point at which I consciously realized my shaped had changed into that of a chalice.

I'm not sure what caused God to change the shape of my emptiness, why it changed from an art-deco red glass into this golden, brilliant chalice suited only for pure communion . . . but he did.

And that simplicity of communion led, eventually, to the next image God offered me, which I will share about in my next post. Stay tuned.

Giving Up, Giving To

Fallen leaf discovered at the lovely

Leu Gardens

I've known Ash Wednesday was upon us all week. For the last two weeks, in fact, Kirk and I have been discussing our hope to attend services today at one or both of the two churches we attend right now. But even as I went to bed last night, I wasn't sure which way I would choose to observe this season of Lent that's upon us. I wasn't sure what I would "give up" in preparation for the coming of Easter.

Then this morning, Kirk sent me a link to a post that helped me frame this season in a thoughtful new light. It asked me to consider the question, How will I find ways to return to God with all my heart?

It seems appropriate to be entering a season that causes us to remember our own mortality and participate with Christ in his walk to the cross. This season of hiddenness is really about just that for me: asking God to teach me how to die, and, in that dying, beginning to identify more and more with Christ in his passion.

In some ways, I guess I have been living the season of Lent for some time now.

But I've begun to notice something curious in this season, too. I notice that even though I spend dedicated time with my Lord each morning, time that is fiercely precious to me . . . even while carving out several hours each day to commune with God in prayer and in the Scriptures and in noticing what God is doing in my heart and in writing privately about it . . . even as I notice so much growth and fruit and invitation from God to go deeper and deeper still in this place where he is bringing me, my life right now is also marked with some measure of avoidance.

Evenings are where this happens the most. I may work very hard throughout a day to meet a deadline or finish a project or get a lot of things done on my to-do list, and while doing them, I've come to depend much on God's grace to get them done. But I seem to lose steam by the end of the day, especially on days when I meet a significant goal that took most of my energy. At the end of those days, I start to regress. I indulge myself with activities that are mindless and don't ask anything of me, and I do so for several hours upon end.

That leads to nights like last night. Last night, after directing all my energies all day long toward projects that were significant in scope, I stayed awake until 4:30 a.m. The thing keeping me awake was my compulsion to watch episode after episode of Grey's Anatomy on my phone via Netflix streaming.

There's something in me that sees this as a problem and yet won't stop. I feel in myself an avoidance of something big, and it bothers me . . . and yet I keep doing it.

So in terms of finding ways to return to God with all my heart in this season of Lent, I decided this morning that I'm giving up this escapist binging at the end of each night. No more Grey's for the next forty days. No more activities that cause me to put off sleep out of some curious feeling of dread for the next day's coming. Instead, I will choose sleep at a reasonable hour and accompany my sleep with the daily Pray as You Go podcast that has recently become dear to me.

The lenten reflection I mentioned at the beginning of this post posed a second very helpful question. It asks, What will I give to? In other words, how will I make this season not just one of abstention but also one of deliberate movement toward God? The daily podcast is one helpful choice for me in this regard, but I've realized there's something more that will give God even greater opportunity to help me lean into my humanity and thereby depend on his grace.

It has to do with my three online spaces.

At the beginning of this year, I knew that the maintenance of these three online spaces were important to the emergence of the places God is leading me for my life's work and ministry. I told God yes in this. I agreed to make them a priority and matter of faithfulness. And yet life has become so busy lately that I've not maintained them with any degree of regularity.

The truth is, there are many stories to share in each of these spaces. I have whole lists of post ideas and stories inside my head for each one . . . and yet, when life gets busy, writing in these three spaces is the first thing to go.

At the root of this is probably pride. I hold myself to such a high standard -- especially when it comes to the blogs -- of telling stories right and in the correct sequence, and this causes me to anticipate the need for a whole lot of time to write each story and post well.

But in this time of busyness, there isn't a whole lot of time to do that. So I don't. And the days turn into weeks, and nothing gets shared or written.

So, for the next forty days, I will be giving myself to writing in these three spaces. I've decided I will aim to write something every day on at least one of the three sites and simply trust God to do what he wants to do with my stories and words, even if they're nowhere near perfect.

Because the truth is, the work of God through me and my words doesn't depend at all on my perfection. It simply depends on my faithfulness. It depends on my showing up to be used in the first place.

So, you're invited to join me. There are links to subscribe by e-mail or RSS in the sidebar of each of my online spaces (you can get to the other two through the banners at the top of this blog's sidebar). By subscribing, you're welcome to join me on this forty-day journey of writing my way through Lent.

xoxo,

Christianne

The Loneliness of Hiddenness

Self-portrait of loneliness

January 2011

Malibu, CA

A few weeks ago, in a course I'm taking on Henri Nouwen, the instructor asked us to consider our current experience of loneliness. It was an invitation from the heart of Henri Nouwen, one so deeply acquainted with loneliness in his own life, to turn our loneliness to solitude. This is a movement that requires our identification of the lonely places in order to move torward solitude.

When I received that question, my mind immediately flew to several instances in my life's journey where I have experienced acute and painful loneliness . . . except the question didn't ask about my past. It asked about my present. Where am I experiencing loneliness right now?

The truth is, I didn't realize I was experiencing loneliness until asked that question. But once I saw my current loneliness, I saw it everywhere. It is now overwhelmingly present to me. Loneliness has become my companion.

I'd like to share about this loneliness with you.

I've written here about my prayer to become God's hidden one. This is a prayer that took root in my heart in July 2009 and led into a strenuous, often chaotic, but ultimately beautiful journey to surrender and peace. It's a journey I still walk to this day.

Since the time in late October when I realized God has been answering that prayer, I've experienced an overwhelming stillness at the very center of my being. I feel God and I communing together in that place all the time. It's the place I live from most of my days. It forms the central root of my being. It's where I belong with God.

But I've realized that it's also lonely. No one else is there but God. And no one else, no matter how I have tried to describe the reality and beauty and peace and joy of this experience . . . no one else seems to fully understand what it's like to really live there.

I wish they did.

I've journeyed a lot of places in my life, and I have always had friends who companioned with me in those places. They may not have experienced exactly what I was experiencing during those times, but they were with me. I felt it. I knew it to be true. And it was enough.

But in this place, for some reason, it isn't enough. For the first time, I find myself really longing for companions on this journey who know what that still-center-life is really like. I want to meet people who have asked God to teach them how to die and to become hidden and have experienced God's answer to that prayer.

I want companionship . . . but I have none. I've found a few companions through books written years ago by people no longer alive who experienced this, but that hasn't felt like enough in this place. I've wanted real, live human beings who know.

But God is only giving me himself, and he's asking for that to be enough right now. It's been tough to say yes and let that be enough, but I have, and God is and will continue to teach me much in this new place.

Hard Labor for an iPhone Valentine

Do you remember when I made a video that introduced you to Bloggie, the newest member of our household, at Christmas? Bloggie replaced the iPhone gift Kirk had originally planned to give me at Christmas, since neither of us could stomach what it would actually cost to switch our service to AT&T back then, plus the additional hardware costs.

Well, when Verizon (our wireless carrier) announced its partnership with Apple last month, we decided it was finally time.

So now I've got someone new for you to meet.

Readers, meet Mr. Phone . . . Mr. iPhone, that is.

Isn't he handsome? Very dapper, I must say. Quite chic. Here, here! He's sure to be a man about town, I'd say. :-)

But as exciting as Mr. Phone's arrival on our doorstep was late yesterday afternoon, we had quite the taxing experience actually bringing him to life. The labor process included nothing short of seven different software installations, four separate reboots of my ailing MacBookPro, and a total of six hours spent downloading, updating, waiting, and more waiting, before Mr. Phone finally synced and came to life.

And yet, I must say . . .

Mr. Phone, welcome to the family. You were certainly worth the wait.

Keeping Promises to Myself

I love this pic of me and Kirk that I captured in Naples, FL. 

It's like my eyes are saying, "Hi there. I see you."

While I was in California last month, I found myself growing more and more excited to come home and re-engage in my day-to-day life with Kirk. I am totally a homebody personality, which means, for example,  that I can be home in the house for three days straight and never once step foot outside and be perfectly content with that.

So, as much as I loved being in California for an extended period of time, I also looked forward to being back in the life and surroundings I hold quite dear and enjoy very much.

Another part of my anticipation and excitement of coming home were the goals I had set for myself upon my return. One of those goals had to do with the decision to hold my mornings as intently sacred. Another one of those goals was to take better care of my body, since I, admittedly, don't treat it very well.

When I set those goals for myself in California, I had very specific ideas about what the accomplishment of them would look like in my daily life back home. For instance, holding my mornings sacred meant carving out specific hours of each morning for me and God to share in the company of my desk, my Bible, my typewriter, and my mug of coffee. And when I say "specific hours," I'm serious: from the vantage point of my California eyes, I decided that I wanted four hours each morning for this sacred space, and that meant (given other commitments in my life) waking at six in the morning each day. Since this sacred time was important to me, I decided waking early was worth it.

When it came to body care, I had specific ideas about that, too. Those ideas included occasional morning walks and eating better foods. I also decided that hosting solo impromptu dance parties in my house in the afternoons -- turning on some adrenaline-infused music and cranking the volume high! -- would be a fun alternative to cardio work at our gym.

But when I got home, I did none of these things. Sure, I spent time in quiet at my desk almost every single day, but instead of waking at six, like I had planned, I woke at nine or ten. And since I wanted to begin my days with a time of quiet and was unwilling to compromise on that, this kept pushing the rest of my day back. I felt perpetually behind.

I never did have one of those dance parties.

It didn't take long for great disappointment and shame to creep in around all of this. I felt discouraged, and no matter how many times I set my alarm to wake at six, I never could do it.

Kirk encouraged me, then, to start a bit more gently. Instead of waking at six, why not try for eight instead? Instead of completely changing up my diet or conducting spontaneous afternoon dance parties, perhaps I could start with just cutting soda out of my diet at first.

Start gently. See how it feels to make little promises with yourself and keep them. Build up your self-trust.

I've been taking that to heart.

Instead of setting my alarm for six, I've been setting it for eight. I'm usually up by 8:30 these days, and that is a huge improvement. And I've been drinking water instead of soda. Pepsi has been my nemesis for years, but I'm getting used to going without it. Water is starting to feel more normal to my routine than soda these days, which feels good.

All of this is about building trust between the one part of me that makes plans and the other part of me that keeps (or breaks) them. It's about learning to keep promises to myself. It's about teaching myself that, when it comes to setting goals and keeping them, I'm trustworthy.

PS: I mentioned a couple weeks ago that I re-opened my Journey Toward Nonviolence blog on MLK's birthday. It's been fun to write in that space again about a subject that has captivated my heart these past couple years, and I'm enjoying the superb dialogue that always taking place in the comments section of each post. You're welcome to join us over there and join in the dialogue.

PPS: In related news, I re-opened my Still Forming website this week and have posted a couple entries that I hope will be meaningful and encouraging to you. Still Forming a space devoted to the process of spiritual formation, the practice of prayer, and the contemplative life. It's a sacred space I hold dear and that I hope will provide a place of respite and reflection for you in your spiritual journey.

Things We Learned on This Trip

The cottage where we stayed for several days on Captiva Island

(Isn't it adorable?!)

We're back from our time at the beach with Kirsten and James, and what a beautiful time it was. As we drove away from the house on our last day, Kirsten affectionately said to the house, "Goodbye, house. You were magical." 

I think that about sums it up.

This was the first time the four of us had spent any extended time together, and we has so much fun. We also learned a lot along the way. Here's an abbreviated list for your enjoyment. :-)

1. Kirk and James must have been separated at birth. You would not believe how long these two can sustain continuous conversation about various forms of wildlife, including all the varied species of snakes and sharks, not to mention moles, shrews, bobcats, panthers, alligators, caimans, wild boars, foxes, and flying squirrels . . . just to name a few.

2. A restaurant called the Bubble Room serves simply divine desserts . . . most particularly, a dessert called the Orange Crunch Cake. Serious yum.

3. The beach on Captiva Island is filled with thousands and thousands of seashells, and people visit the beach with the sole intent to mine for unique shells to take home.

4. Baby sandpipers gather in large groups to hunt and peck for food inside the sand. (See short video below.)

5. Grocery shopping on the island can get quite pricey.

6. A GPS system can be incredibly handy . . . but can also take you on a wild-goose chase.

7. The stars in the sky always shine brighter when viewed from the vantage point of a remote island.

8. It's fun to take walks in the dead of night.

9. Beauty heals.

10. Quiet spaces heal.

11. Friendship heals. 

12. Two couples can inhabit one home peacefully and with an incredible amount of mutual enjoyment and respect for each other's space.

A Perfect Kind of Morning

Tiny sandpiper, digging for food

Captiva Island, January 2011

We're staying on Captiva Island for a few days with Kirsten and James -- did I tell you they came for a visit? Well, they did, and they're staying for a week, and because of the incredible generosity of a dear friend of mine, we've kidnapped them to Captiva Island for a few days. So fun and sneaky of us!

Our first morning of waking here could not have been more idyllic or peaceful. We slept in, and then I came down from the upstairs apartment where Kirk and I are sleeping to make a full pot of coffee for the house. There's a sunroom off the main living room with four wicker chairs around a table, and I settled in with my coffee and a copy of Henri Nouwen's Inner Voice of Love and Anne Morrow Lindbergh's Gift from the Sea.

No one else was up and about yet, and I just sat in the silence of the sunny porch room for several moments and took in the morning. A fluffy cat passed by the window next to me, and I watched him wander into the driveway and sniff the license plate of our car before wandering off.

Then I opened to the first few pages of Inner Voice of Love, a book that shares the pages of Henri Nouwen's "secret journal," and the first few pages I read deeply moved me. I closed the book began to sing aloud a devotional song I learned in my early college days.

Kirsten came out of their bedroom a few minutes later and poured herself a cup of coffee. She said good morning, and then each of us sat in our own quiet spaces -- she in the living room, me in the sunroom -- soaking up the morning silence, together but separate.

It was glorious.

Shortly afterward, I began reading my copy of Gift from the Sea. It's a 50th-anniversary edition of the book, hardcover with a beautiful sea-green dust jacket, with an introduction written by Anne Lindbergh's daughter, Reeve. 

Before Kirsten arrived in town, I had purchased a copy of this very same book for her as a birthday gift. Kirk and I knew we were surprising Kirsten and James with these few days at the sea, and I loved the idea of this profound little book companioning with her during our time here on the island.

However, when I began reading my copy this morning, I exclaimed aloud with surprise at discovering the following in Reeve Lindbergh's introduction:

When my mother was writing the book, she stayed in a little cottage near the beach on Captiva Island, on Florida's Gulf Coast. Many people have claimed to know which cottage it was and where it stands today, but the Florida friends who originally found the place for her told me years ago that the cottage had been gone, even then, for a long time. 

Isn't that amazing?! What serendipity.

Kirk and I have sensed from the beginning of our planning this trip that this time in Captiva is set aside as sacred and special in some way for Kirsten and James. We don't know what that means, but this fortuitous discovery inside the opening pages of Gift from the Sea seems to affirm the same.

Can't wait to see what happens.

A New Way of Contemplation

You no longer need to feed your mind by meditating on who you are and who God is. You're past that, although it helped you once. These meditations filled your mind and taught you about God. Through them, you gained spiritual wisdom. But now you need to shift gears. Seek God a different way. Grace will help you focus on holding yourself steady in the deep center of your soul, where you'll offer God the simple fact of your existence.

--

The Cloud of Unknowing, page 183

I've been experiencing a significant shift in my faith life these last few months, ever since those two friends asked me to consider the gift inherent inside my inadequacy. I mentioned that it's helped me reframe that difficult pruning year I endured through the latter part of 2009 and almost the whole of 2010. I also mentioned that a pretty significant quiet began to take up residence inside my soul upon that new reframing.

It's that quietness inside my soul I'd like to talk about today. 

Almost immediately after I recognized everything God had been about in my soul for those 14-15 months, I began to experience the quiet. I noticed it as I went about my day. I noticed it when I talked with others. I noticed it in my prayer life. There was a peace, a simplicity, a surrender. There was hardly a need for words, with others or with God. As I mentioned in a previous post, it felt like being present and absent at the same time, being present to a person or activity but also having stepped aside inside myself so that God could be present and at work through me, a mere vessel for God's work.

I marveled at this, and I loved it. It felt like such a comfort as it happened. I didn't have need of anything, for God supplied it all. I felt such peace, and even, at times, a new boldness. I wanted this to continue as long as possible, perhaps for the rest of my life. I began to believe this is what is truly meant when the Scriptures say "it is not I who live, but Christ who lives in me" (Gal. 2:20).

A few days after all of this began, I went on a special voyage to visit my dear friend Kirsten. On the way there and on the way back, I began to read a book by Thomas Merton for my upcoming graduate residency called The Inner Experience: Notes on Contemplation. 

It spoke exactly about what was happening inside my soul. 

I can't recount all the words that Merton used in that book. There are far too many underlines, check marks, and stars littered throughout the pages of my copy for me to zero in on any specific passage that meant a lot to me as I read it. Really, the whole book meant a lot to me. It's become one of those prized books I will always cherish because of how it met and spoke to me along the path of my spiritual journey just when I needed it. (Have you ever encountered any books like that?)

Several times in these intervening months, I have described this experience as being one of discovering a point of utter stillness at the center of my soul. At any given moment, I can choose to go inside that still center or operate outside of it. When I am inside that still center, I truly feel as though I am breathing God, feeding on God, resting in God, and fully existing by and through the grace of God. When I'm not inside that still center, I grab onto the other part of me that tries to cope and manage life on my own, without regard for God or dependence on God at all. When I'm in that place, I usually land pretty quickly at the doorstep of despair, unhappiness, and overwhelm.

More recently, I've been reading the The Cloud of Unknowing, a book written in the fourteenth century by an anonymous writer who guides readers through the work of contemplative prayer. I've been reading it in small doses before bed each night, and I'm finding it to be such a comfort. 

The other night, I landed on the words I included at the top of this post, which speak exactly to the shift I'm describing that is at work in my interior life with God right now. It speaks of a former way of prayer, a way that includes meditations about who I am and who God is, a way that has taught me about God and has grown me up in spiritual maturity. It's so true that my journey deeper into my life with Christ began -- and was so long sustained -- with such meditations. I learned who I am and who God is over a long and beautiful journey of many years. Through that time, I became rooted and established in my faith. 

But now, as the quote says, it is time for a new way. It is the way of contemplation.

I am learning that new way now, and I find my soul refreshed and ready for it. God has prepared me for this new way, and I am deeply thankful for it. 

Happy Birthday to Me

Hi, friends!

Today was my 32nd birthday, and it began with a very sweet breakfast prepared and delivered to me in bed by Kirkum. :-)

In the video above, I share some of this special day's highlights with you and just generally reacquaint myself with you since I've been away the last couple weeks.

It was fun for me to share the joy of this special day with you! I look forward to hearing how you're doing in the comments below.

Love,
Christianne

PS: I reopened my Journey Toward Nonviolence blog yesterday with a special tribute to Dr. King. Feels so good to be writing in that space again.

Trusting in an Unexpected God

A panoramic view from the top of Mt. Rubidoux today

(with a sneak peek of Kirkum)

Kirk and I hiked Mt. Rubidoux today. It's a small mountain in Riverside that I used to hike pretty frequently when I lived here a few years back, and I love it for its panoramic view of the region where I grew up and where my family still lives. I also love how many people hike it each day, bringing their families and dogs with them. There's a feeling of community here.

Our time in California has been filled with some unexpected events, and some of this has been quite difficult for us and the people we love here. I find myself asking God a lot, "Where are you in all of this?" I've been longing for a glimpse of his presence and power and compassion.

Sometimes I see it, and sometimes I don't.

I'm reminded of the recent growing edge I had of God's presence and agency at work even when I couldn't see it or when it didn't make sense. I said in my last post that this growing edge invites me to trust God even more.

I see once again, through the events of recent days, how lost I become when I try to understand things on my own.

And so the invitation is presented once again: will I trust God here?

I am making this, therefore, my prayer: God, I trust you with this. I trust that you are here. I trust that you're at work. I trust in your compassion and your power and your presence and your love. I trust in the descent of your surpassing and pervasive peace. I trust that you love us, and I thank you for that love. Thank you for what you are doing and will continue to do in this place. I love you. Amen.

Thoughts on Mary, Our Christ's Mother

A few quiet moments in front of the fireplace and Christmas tree at my mom's house.

Happy Christmas, dear friends.

As I sit here on this Christmas Eve night and compose this note to you, I wonder where you are as you read it. What have these days been like for you? Is this Christmas holiday a joyful or painful one for you, or perhaps a mixture of both?

I wonder, too, in what ways you may have anticipated and encountered the Christ child for whom this holiday is named. I hope you have discovered him in these recent days. I hope your heart is one in which expectation has been set and preparations made for at least one transforming encounter with the love of Christ.

Love came down to meet us. That's what this holy day signifies.

These days, I am thinking much on Mary, the mother of Christ. I've been reading my way ever so slowly through a little book called The Reed of God, which is a meditation on her life. The book suggests that she, more than any other human being who ever lived, is our best teacher on what it means to be emptied so as to be filled with Christ.

Through the reading of this book, I find myself asking all sorts of questions, such as: What sort of person was Mary to say yes, without hesitation or question, to a kiss from the Holy Spirit that would lead to all sorts of scandal and misunderstanding and inconvenience in her life? What would it have been like for Mary to create a truly hospitable environment in her body, spirit, and soul for this Christ child to grow in health inside of her before being born into the world? What would it have been like for Mary to raise Jesus in the world as his mother, teaching and exhorting and correcting him as he grew, yet serving him and bowing to him as her Lord?

This book has given me much to ponder.

I've been struck, too, by this statement: "God knew Our Lady's trust in Him was absolutely without limit. Everything that He did to her in the future emphasised the same thing. His trust in her trust in Him" (page 34).

God knew that Mary trusted Him unconditionally and that whatever he did or asked of her would be met with unquestioning acceptance. That's why he could choose her to bear Jesus inside her body. That's why he could choose her to be his mother, even though he knew this beloved son of hers would die at a too-young age and under quite horrific and unjust circumstances.

She trusted God, and so God knew that he could trust her.

When I read these words, I realize one thing: I didn't have that kind of trust in God throughout this pruning year. I questioned and struggled and cried. I pounded my fists and demanded answers. I expected to receive those answers, and yet I couldn't find them, no matter how hard I looked.

I didn't trust him. I see that now.

I shared recently that God has graced me with glimpses into the work he has been about in me. He didn't have to do that, but he did, and these sightings have greatly increased my trust in him. They've taught me in quite a big way that God has always known exactly what he was doing, even if I did not. Even if it made absolutely no sense to me. Even if I couldn't find answers or relief.

It is my hope that I will now move into the future with a greater trust in God at every moment. It is my hope that I will trust that God is always about the work of completing what he started in me and that he will not give up until it's done. It is my hope that I will always remember not a hair on my head goes unnoticed by God and that every movement in my life, therefore, is intentional and purposeful.

This is my hope. It is a hope birthed from contrition that led to repentance. I pray that God would find in me a willing vessel to receive him and serve him without question. Even now, I know that he will find in me that vessel, for this is the work he has been about all along: preparing me to receive him, emptying me so I could be filled with him, all because he has had in mind my vesselship for his use.

I love you, Jesus. Welcome into the world this day. Welcome into the world through me.

Readers, Meet Bloggie

Hi there!

In the above video, I introduce you to a new member of our household: Bloggie! And I detail in the video why this new little handheld friend is such a special treat to receive this year.

As for purchasing a handheld + handmade case for Bloggie (also mentioned in the video), I'm thinking this, this, or this, but am still searching for the just-right one.

What special gifts are you excited to give and/or receive this Christmas season?

xoxo,

Christianne

Updated to add: I decided on this handmade case from Etsy. So excited!

This Loud, Profound, Pervasive Peace

Mount Calvary Monastery

Santa Barbara, CA

August 2005

With this joyful offering of my whole self last summer so that Jesus could become all that is seen in me, I came to closely identify with these words from Thomas Merton:

"For now, oh my God, it is to you alone that I can talk, because nobody else will understand. I cannot bring any other man on this earth into the cloud where I dwell in your light, that is, your darkness, where I am lost and abashed. I cannot explain to any other man the anguish which is your joy, nor the loss which is the possession of you, nor the distance from all things which is the arrival in you, nor the death which is the birth in you because I do not know anything about it myself, and all I know is that I wish it were over -- I wish it were begun. You have contradicted everything. You have left me in no-man's land."

-- The Seven Storey Mountain, page 459

I so loved (and still do love) these words from Brother Merton, who has become like a spiritual father to me in so many ways. These words resonate with the experience of light and dark, apprehending and distancing, leaving and arriving that this giving over of self has been like for me. There are so many contradictions here, and yet all the contradictions are true. It is strange to talk about, and there really are no sufficient words. Merton does as good a job as I could ever hope for, so I'll let his words do the talking.

It's been interesting to notice the peace that has descended upon me since those two spiritual friends asked me that momentous question about gift in the midst of my inadequacy. Once I realized God was answering the prayer I had enjoined with him over one full year ago, all the fiery anger and indignation and frustration and self-striving that had been my experience over this past year went completely out of me. I accepted the inadequacy. I began to welcome it. I even began giving thanks for it.

It was like my huge, indignant balloon deflated in that one moment. I became willing to learn to be emptied. After more than a year of fighting against myself and against God and against circumstance, I finally gave up the ghost.

Since then, I've noticed an increasing quiet taking up greater habitation inside my soul. This, too, is hard to describe, but it is as though I am present while absent at the same time, especially when engaged in my listening practice. I feel myself fully attuned and alert and present to the other person, but I also feel myself not present, in the sense that it's like I've stepped aside so that God can stand in my place.

It's a strange experience, at least when trying to describe it in words to another, but it actually feels like home. It feels like how my soul was meant to live in the dance of life with God. It's a loud, silent, profound peace that pervades the whole of my insides, and in this place I don't need to say anything. I don't even notice time. I don't need to know where things are going or have any answers. I don't need to feel awkward or worry whether I'm saying and doing the right things.

I simply hold the space. I stay present. And I let God and the other person talk and move toward one another . . . because, after all, that is what a true listening practice is all about.

A Prayer Remembered

Greenville, SC

January 2006

Hi there, friends.

As I shared in my last post, I've been learning more and more about this pruning year and what it has held for me. Whereas I have previously looked at this last year as a terrific blight upon my soul, I'm beginning to see that from God's point of view, it has all been utterly intentional and even good.

The beginning of this realization came when, as I shared in my last post, two people totally unrelated from the other asked if the inadequacies I've been feeling in my listening practice might somehow be gift. That notion struck me as laughable at first, but I eventually came to see that it has held the gift of my utter dependence on God. Through my inadequacies, others have received more of God and less of me.

And that's when I remembered the prayer.

Last summer, a new prayer emerged in my times of quiet with God. This was in the midst of my summer of solitude and study.

It was a prayer to learn how to die.

Now, this wasn't a prayer for physical death, but rather for Jesus to become all that other people see and receive when they encounter me and for me to become completely hidden from sight. This might sound like a strange prayer, but it emerged out of a growing adoration and love for God. I found myself, as his beloved one, wanting to give him everything. I thirsted to be undone and lost for him. I wanted him, my beautiful beloved, to be the only one seen.

Through this process, I began to sense God's re-naming of me as his Hidden One. It was a tender name for me to receive from him, and we shared such sweet times of conversation and contemplation during the weeks this prayer was at the forefront of my intention. It became the great joy of my heart to give God more and more of myself. I sincerely wanted to become nothing so that he could become everything in and through me.

It's so obvious to me, looking back on things now, to see that these past 15 months have been an answer to that prayer (and is still in progress). And yet somehow, once the fall months began and chaos ensued, I totally forgot about that prayer.

I think it fell off my radar because I couldn't in any way connect the consolation and joy I held in those sweet prayer times with the stumbling, fumbling confusion I began to experience in greater and greater measure everywhere I turned. There just seemed to be no connection at all between them. It felt like I'd entered a totally foreign land. (And in a way, I guess I had.) But I think that's why I fought as hard as I did against what happened once the summer ended. I thought God and I were headed in one direction, but he took me in another.

Now, 15 months later, I see what needed to happen.

First, I can see that he took me through a solid year of chaos in order to unglue me. And it worked. I could not depend on myself if I tried. No matter where I turned, all I met was overwhelm. I was utterly, utterly unglued. I felt like a fish flopping about on the shore with no water to keep it alive.

And then, a few months ago, when I stepped away from some commitments in order to create greater spaciousness and quiet in my heart, I did recover a deep and solid sense of myself again (for which I'm so completely grateful!), but I then also found myself back in familiar territories that now, for the first time ever, felt totally and completely foreign. As you know from my previous post, that resulted in a whole lot of desperate, pleading prayers for God to fill up what I lacked.

So I became unglued, and then I became dependent.

I'm still learning as I go in this process, but God has been gracious to pull back the covers and give me a peek at his intention through all this. That peek is such a gift because we're not always granted those gifts, are we?

But now I can say in all honesty that this past year has been a gift. I can give thanks for it, which is a total marvel to me. I see that God, in his own mysterious ways, has been answering my prayer to learn to die. Less of me, more of him . . . even though I had no idea he was diligently about that work all along.

This Inadequacy, This Gift

Laguna Beach, CA

November 2005

So, the story of this pruning year has developed quite a bit in the last several weeks. I'm gaining new insights into what God has been about these last 14 months or so. And I have to tell you, it's quite a marvel to me. It reminds me once again that God always knows what he is doing, even if I don't.

This is going to take a couple installments to fully articulate, so I hope you'll bear with me as I go.

As I've shared with you a bit before, I spent a lot of time in the last 14 months kicking and fighting against what was happening. I went from a pretty strong and beautifully fruitful place inside my soul to a place of utter chaos. I blamed myself for this chaos. I blamed my circumstances, too. Other times, I blamed God. I just couldn't seem to figure out what was happening, and I couldn't seem to get away from it or make it better. I hated it so, so much. I felt so weak and poorly. I couldn't show up for others in the ways I wanted to, and I couldn't seem to get a grip on everything vying for attention in my own life.

It was a hard year.

Then, as I've also shared with you, I reached a point where it was time for a change. I needed greater spaciousness and quietness for the restoration of my soul, but it had also become quite clear that the time had come for me to reclaim a direction for my life that God has clearly marked out for me. So Kirk and I agreed on some changes, and I set out into this new chapter inside my story.

However, I didn't expect what came next: I discovered completely new places of inadequacy, this time in places that had always been known and natural and familiar to me.

Primarily, this happened when I was listening. Listening is something that has always been like second nature to me, ever since I was a child. It is something I love doing for others, and it is something that somehow God always seems to use. For the last several years, I have come to embrace that truth more and more and have been walking deeper into the ways God can use this gifting in the lives of others more intentionally.

But here, in this new chapter of my story, a chapter that was to see me embracing that listening role even more, I felt inordinately clumsy at it. I felt like an old car lurching down the road because its fuel injection mechanism isn't working quite right. There I would go, lumbering in fits and starts down the street, lurching and then stopping, lurching and then stopping, with an occasional squeal of the tires and sometimes a blast of the horn.

It was so puzzling to me. And a bit alarming. Instead of being fully present to another's sharing, an interior monologue kept going off in my mind every time I was listening to someone, and that interior monologue kept chattering about all the things I ought to be doing or saying or not saying, and then doubting every last word and gesture and action and inaction I took.

In other words, I found myself far too focused on me in moments that were meant to be fully focused on the person before me.

This was not what I was used to experiencing in my listening practice with others. And so I would cry out to God in desperation, asking him to overcome my failings and my weaknesses, asking him to be all that was needed for them, since for some reason I couldn't do this listening thing well right now.

I kept bumping up against this fact over and over again: I was needing to relearn how to listen.

This bothered me because, again, listening has always been something I've intuitively known how to do. It's not ever been hard for me to focus on the other person, and prior to this last chaos year, I had begun to inhabit the sharing of other people's stories so much that I totally forgot myself while I was listening. I somehow came to feel and know their own experience as they shared it with me.

All of this distracted inner chatter and outer clumsiness, then, confused and frustrated me. I wasn't being the kind of listener I'd always known how to be.

A few weeks into this new (un)experience of listening, I shared all this with my spiritual director, Elaine. A few days after that, I shared it with another good friend who is training to be a spiritual director as well.

And both of them, quite separate from the other, asked me the very same question: Could there be gift here?

Gift . . . in this inadequacy? At first pass, I scoffed at their question. But then my mind turned directly to this: one thing every person kept receiving from me in this new place were those desperate, pleading prayers on their behalf for God to be everything that was needed because I couldn't know or do what was needed.

Yes, this was gift.

Those prayers were gifts that those individuals wouldn't have received otherwise, if I'd been in my stronger, more healthy place. When I listened to people before, I felt a distinct partnership with God in those sessions, and I certainly felt aware of his presence throughout and often asked for his help. God usually showed up in those listening sessions in ways that were unexpected and needed.

But this? This was new. Never has there been such a desperate cry for God to be everything because I felt myself nothing. All of this was utterly new. And I couldn't help but think those prayers on behalf of others, those prayers as a result of my inadequacy, were indeed gift.

Stay tuned . . .

Reclaiming the "J" in Me

Have you ever taken the Meyers-Briggs personality test? (I once wrote a humorous post on the Meyers-Briggs, in case you need an orientation to what it is and which type you might be.)

I took the test about 10 years ago and learned I was an INTJ. This means that my quiet, reserved self had a very strong analytical side and rules-oriented bent. And this was the perfect temperament for the editor I had set out to be early in my professional life. I loved to read, think about ideas, and figure out how things worked, which made me the perfect partner for the creative types whose work I edited and critiqued each day. Also, I loved to do my work in quiet spaces, which is a great fit for an editor who needs lots of quiet time to go about reading manuscripts and composing her editor's notes.

But then I went on a very long interior journey that landed me at grace and love, and at the end of that long journey, I found that my core values had shifted around quite a bit. Rather than rules, I cared about people. Rather than ideas, I wanted to hear and think about stories. Rather than staying up in my analytical head, I wanted to sink deeper and deeper into the feelings and pathways of the heart.

It was such newness for me, all these things. I felt tender and vulnerable and soft, and sometimes I watched in amazement at this new person I'd become over many long years who now willingly chose to embrace such tender vulnerability and soft edges inside herself. This new person I was didn't have to be in control all the time. I didn't have to know all the answers or figure everything out. I even found, sometimes, that I didn't care about the answers or figuring anything out anymore.

There was so much freedom here. It was a transformative work that had been done in me, truly.

Then I met Kirk, and we were, in so many ways, like two peas in a pod. Our courtship year didn't conform to the normal mode most people knew for themselves, and our wedding and honeymoon didn't, either. Then we embarked upon a married life that we affectionately termed "bohemian" because, once again, our daily reality didn't conform to the normal mode of doing things that most people did.

In some way, Kirk is the consummate "P" on the Meyers-Briggs personality test. This means he's not one for minding all the little details. He likes to push up against the bounds of possibility, and he thrives on vision and the big picture. He doesn't need every single question answered, and he actually prefers to ask more questions than spend time answering any single one of them.

The person in me who had loosened her hold on the rules after all those years loved this. His fearlessness inside mystery and ambiguity created even more spacious room for me to breathe. As much as I'd learned to relax quite a bit on my own before I met him, it was such a relief in my life with Kirk not to have to work so hard to hold every little piece of life's puzzle in place. I didn't have to worry if things came tumbling down around me because Kirk helped me remember God was big enough to handle it. I didn't have to try to be God. I could just be Christianne.

It's funny to me, after so many years spent inside this grace and love journey that helped me relax and learn to trust and rest, to watch myself moving more and more back toward the life of a "J" these days. As I shared in the Meyers-Briggs post, a "J" likes to bring order, discipline, and resolution to the world around her. She likes structure and routine. She likes to have a way of doing things.

I was very much this way before the long interior revolution into grace and love years ago. I liked having ways of doing things, and I thrived on discipline and order. But you know what? I cared deeply about those things back then because I feared their opposite. I feared a loss of control. I feared doing something wrong. I feared losing the love and favor of God. I feared everything crashing down around me.

But now, on the other side of God's love and grace, when I know it is unswerving and indissoluble, I'm finding myself drifting back toward a care for order and routine and structure simply because I like it. I think about my planner video that I recorded for you a few weeks ago, and it makes me laugh. Two years ago, when I was steeped in our bohemian mode of life, I would have scoffed at such a diligent search for the perfect planner. But today, I love my planning life. I even need it. My brain needs a place to put its content (or else it will slip right out my ears!). My heart and mind need a measure of routine and expected rhythm to daily life in order not to become overwhelmed or feel swallowed up by all of the chaos out there in the world.

So I wake each morning and pad over to my desk in my slippers. I pull back the curtains and look outside at the quiet neighborhood and brick-lined street. I head into the kitchen and start the water boiling in the electric kettle before cleaning the dishes in the sink. I measure out and grind the coffee beans and steep them for four minutes in the french press. Then I pour the coffee into my green tumbler mug, mixed with a bit of cream and sugar, and walk back over to my desk. I open my Bible and flip its thin, papery pages to a chosen passage. I read it once, then read it again. I sit in the stillness and breathe deeply. I talk to God. I stare out the window. Eventually, I pull out my typewriter and compose several pages of thoughts. I put the typewriter and typed pages away and pull out my planner for planning the day ahead. And then, only then, will I open my computer and allow the chatter of the world enter my day.

This order . . . this routine? I find that it brings a new form of spaciousness and freedom to me, a spaciousness and freedom I crave and love and cherish.

Song for a Grieving Friend

Photo credit:

kirsten.michelle

Sing a song, oh my soul.

Sing of the girl, the woman,

the wife, the mother, the friend:

the one with a broken heart.

Sing of the love she has for her son,

love piercing deep with nowhere to go,

plunging deep, yet deeper still,

until it ascends to God.

Sing of the woman

whose heart has been broken,

of her tenderness, softness, and stillness:

these places in her that are new,

these places in her that are fresh,

these places in her that she knows

God needed to break.

This stillness, so hard-won:

common moments stopping time,

tears afresh and questions looming,

contemplation her steady friend.

This softness, so hard-won:

tearing all she thought she wanted (but didn't)

and all she truly did (but lost)

from her small yet delicate hands.

This tenderness, so hard-won:

its beauty glows amidst ashes.

In this place, a plea for mercy:

even this, dear God, redeem.

Off to Love and Care

Kirsten in Bellingham.

August 2008

Hello there, friends.

The time has come for me to leave on a jet plane to visit the sweet and beautiful Kirsten-girl. I've been up early this morning praying over our trip, and my primary prayer is this: that God would be everything that is needed.

Look forward to connecting with you soon upon my return. Much love!

xoxo,

Christianne

I'm Such a Halloween Grinch

So, I confessed publicly yesterday on Facebook that I am quite the Halloween grinch. I don't really like this holiday at all, and my dislike for it keeps growing with every year. For the last couple years, Kirk and I have turned off the front-porch light and holed up in our bedroom to watch our two favorite Halloween-themed movies: It's the Great Pumpkin Charlie Brown and To Kill a Mockingbird. (Don't you just love those movies??)

I'm not one of those people who grew up hearing about the evils of Halloween. That's not where this is coming from.

Rather, I grew up trick or treating like everyone else, usually dressed as a cheerleader, a 50s girl with a poodle skirt and saddle shoes, a Southern belle, or even an angel. I loved the chance to get a pillowcase full of free candy, especially since I've always had quite the sweet tooth. My sister and I would venture out into the night and go door to door around several blocks in the neighborhood, then return home at the end of the night for the very best part: dumping our booty on the living room carpet to begin the sorting and exchanging of treats, alongside our older brother Bobby.

In high school, I visited a few of the local haunted houses like everyone else. These were the ones that turned out to be evangelistic efforts by local churches intent on scaring people into salvation from hell. Rather than inclining me toward God, those experiences did nothing more than make me feel frustrated and betrayed. I knew that life with God was about so much more than escaping the fires of hell, and I resented the scare tactics used by people who, I felt, presented a distorted view of my God.

Sometime in college, I remember hearing stories from a friend about the places she knew near her home where sacrifices and other acts of real evil took place on Halloween night. That was my first exposure to the dark side that really exists for some people on Halloween. But even though hearing those stories impacted me and still come to mind from time to time when I think about this holiday, it's not been a particular preoccupation for me when October rolls around every year.

To be honest, I'm not really sure what causes the discomfort for me on this night. I only know that when the conversations about Halloween begin each October, I find myself trying to skirt those conversations as deftly as I can. I don't want to be invited to costume parties. I don't want to pass out candy to little kids. And I really don't want to attend a Halloween Horror Night or haunted mansion.

I told Kirk last night that I'm not really sure what this is all about for me. He said something quite perceptive: "I think it's because you have a really sensitive spirit. As you keep growing more and more sensitive in your spiritual journey, the spiritual nature of the world around you also increases." Wow. Smart man, he is.

So there you have it: my anti-Halloween post for today. What is Halloween like for you?

Tender Heart

Me, in a tender moment.

(This is also what I look like on the 

rare occasion I straighten my hair.)

Hello, friends.

I've been gaining more insights into this pruning year, which I look forward to sharing with you soon, but for now, because I've been feeling quite a bit of tenderness this week, I thought I'd simply use this space to share a bit about that tenderness with you.

Sometime in the mid-afternoon on Wednesday, I left the work office to drive home and found myself engulfed by a wave of sadness that would not let me go. It felt pretty inexplicable, this sudden sadness that landed on me as I drove toward home in my car, and it stuck with me for several hours that day.

That night, sleep did not come easy. I stayed awake for a solid two hours after Kirk fell asleep, unable to get tired enough to fall asleep myself. So I spent some time reading and some time puttering around online, and when I finally turned off the light to try and sleep, I felt an acute restlessness. I got up and stretched my legs for a little while, trying to push the restlessness out of my limbs, but it persisted.

Then, after a little while, I started to notice something.

Deep down, so deep inside that I only noticed it once I'd gotten really, really quiet, my spirit was praying. It was praying hard, and in a language I do not know.

This intense prayer that sometimes happens in a language I do not know is not new to me, but only on rare occasions does it begin to happen without my knowledge of its happening or my prompting for it to happen or my participation in its happening from the beginning. But that's what was happening that night.

Once I realized that was happening, my mind began to roam over the various people and concerns in my life right now. I thought about Kirsten, of course. I thought about my family members. I thought about some of my friends on Facebook. I even thought about our president and this increasingly crazy election season.

But nothing I thought of seemed to touch that deep-down place that was praying and praying and praying. So I let go of the attempt to figure out the reason and just began attending to the prayers, participating in them with my full attention and intention.

I stayed awake for a while that night praying for this reason I did not know.

The next day, the sadness was right there again, waiting to accompany me throughout my day. It kept following me around. I kept feeling the need to break down and cry at odd moments. At one point that afternoon, I sat on the couch petting Diva and said out loud (to myself, to Diva, to God), "I keep feeling sad . . . and I have no idea why."

One contributor to some of this sadness, I know, is the reading I've started this week for a new class in my graduate program. It's a course on spiritual formation and social justice, which I am very glad to be taking.

As part of the course, I've begun reading a pretty intense book by Thomas Merton called Faith and Violence, which is very good and has been on my "to read" list for quite some time. But it's also a difficult read, covering topics such as the Vietnam War and the Civil Rights movement with incredible perception and honesty.

Although I'm glad to be reading this book and have been learning so much from it so far, it has also stirred up so many ongoing questions I have about nonviolence, and it also can't help increasing my sadness about the ongoing state of our world. Some of the heaviness this week, I'm sure, has to do with all this reading and pondering. (And by the way, because of these persisting and preoccupying questions I keep having, I'm feeling pretty close to reopening the Journey Toward Nonviolence blog very soon.)

Then yesterday, I received a call from a dear friend who shared with me some pretty significant news. It is news that affects a number of people I know, and it concerns something we collectively cared about very much.

Even though this news doesn't affect me directly, it still affects me. It feels like it happened to me right alongside everyone else. So I shed a few tears yesterday at this news, and I sighed quite a lot through the rest of the day, and I kept asking God lots of questions about it.

Finally, in need of some relief (do you ever just need to give yourself a really good cry?), I snuggled under the covers and turned off all the lights and just watched straight through my favorite cathartic movie of all time, Sense and Sensibility.

There's more to be shared about all this, I'm sure, but for now it's enough to stop right here and say of this week:

Yes, indeed. There's been quite a bit of tenderness here. 

I just keep trying to move slowly and gingerly right now, then, handling my heart with care and with an incredible amount of grace and love. That seems to be what it needs most.