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When Walking is Prayer

April 18, 2018 By Michelle Leave a Comment

Though I’ve never met her in person, I’ve admired Hilary Yancey for a long time. She’s a deep thinker and a beautiful writer, and, lucky for all of us, she’s recently released her first book, Forgiving God: A Story of Faith – a memoir about becoming a mother to a child with disabilities and the impact that experience has had on her faith and on her relationship with God. I haven’t finished the book yet, because it just arrived in the mail today, but let me simply say that I picked it up while I was sitting here at my desk, read the opening few pages, and really, truly did not want to put it down. It’s a privilege to welcome Hilary to the blog today; I know you will be touched by her words.

Post by Hilary Yancey

I remember the first time I prayed with my eyes open. It was on a drive home from high school, late in the winter of my senior year. I had just gotten my driver’s license and was nervously winding my way down the same roads I had been traveling for years. I could feel the car swing into the familiar right turns and how my foot anticipated the next stop sign. But my eyes darted from side to side, my hands sweated at “10 and 2” on the steering wheel and out of my mouth slipped a decidedly complex prayer: “Lord Jesus do not let me die on this road I JUST got my license!”

I’ve always been the kind of person who prays with her eyes closed. I found it easier to concentrate on the ideas of my prayers, to imagine how they were being sent upwards and meeting Jesus in heaven. I prayed in this way to stop being distracted by the things I saw around me, by a book I wanted to read or a pile of laundry I was supposed to do. I thought that by closing my eyes I could close out the world and so through my prayers ascend somewhere else, wherever it was I thought God was.

A few years ago, my prayer life changed. I was pregnant with my first child; we’d received a challenging medical diagnosis at our 20-week ultrasound; I’d never needed to pray more. But when I closed my eyes, it was darkness. There were no feelings of ascent, no sure footing. The world had interrupted my old patterns and it was impossible to close out the world because the world had shrunk to the space of my body expanding for my son and the world was with me everywhere I went.

By the time my son was born, I had given up praying with my eyes closed; I had almost given up the practice of praying. But I walked: to and from his crib in the NICU, to and from the family lounge where doctors met with us to share further diagnoses, treatment options, to and from my bed to the shower to the hallway again, and around the outskirts of the hospital building when I would call my friend to cry. I could not speak to God directly, except to yell, and so I walked.

And my footsteps became words, they became prayers, but open-eyed prayers, prayers of pressing into the world instead of pushing away. My footsteps took me both where I hadn’t wanted to go and where it turns out I needed to, to the place of being surrounded, immersed in the very experiences I had once prayed to avoid.

I walked my son to the doors of the OR, I walked the floorboards of our house listening to the breaths in and out of his new trach, I walked us around the lobbies of his follow up clinics and through the hospital hallways too many times to count, memorizing the turns – up one floor, left then right and around to the desk where they check your ID, down the hallway, slight right to the sink and then left and then Jack, my son, is on the right – all of this walking and I emerged with prayers carved into my feet, with prayers left on those floorboards and hallway tiles, echoes of what my mind couldn’t say but my body could.

I am still at the very beginning of learning to pray. I am still working on finding a new rhythm of conversation with God. But now, when I can’t find a way to say what I mean, when I close my eyes and feel only quiet dark, I start walking. And the footsteps become words, and the words become prayers.

I turn the corner and I am somewhere new.

Hilary Yancey loves good words, good questions, and sunny afternoons sitting on her front porch with a strong cup of tea. She and her husband, Preston, and their two children, Jack and Junia, live in Waco, Texas, where Hilary is completing her PhD in philosophy at Baylor University. Her first book, Forgiving God: A Story of Faith was just published by FaithWords. You can read more of her writing on her website and follow her on Instagram at @hilaryyancey.

Allowing Space in Order to Be Filled

April 11, 2018 By Michelle 6 Comments

This time of year I’m always itchy to get my hands in the dirt. As the temperature begins to warm and the ground thaws, I am filled with a restless energy, eager to slip my feet into my plastic gardening clogs, grab a spade from the garage, and dig in.

I love the feeling of satisfaction that comes from clearing a bed of decayed oak leaves, shelled acorns and desiccated weeds, carefully pulling away the detritus of winter to reveal tender green perennials peeking up through the soil.

I love mixing in the dark, loamy compost, turning over the dirt with my shovel and then smoothing it flat with the hoe.

I love carving a shallow trench with my trowel, tearing open a packet of Romaine lettuce seeds, dropping them one by one into the earth and then pushing the soil gently over them with my gloved hand.

The trouble is, I don’t always follow the directions on the back of the seed packet. Rather than spacing my lettuce seeds the recommended six to eight inches apart, I cram them into the soil, sometimes barely allowing an inch or two between seeds. Inevitably, after the seedlings have sprouted a few weeks later, I’m forced to thin my rows, pulling perfectly healthy plants and tossing them into the compost pile in order to make room for the others to flourish.

Maybe you recognize the metaphor here. Perhaps you, too, have the tendency to overplant not just in the garden, but in your life as well.

I often fill my days, weeks and months to overflowing, cramming every bit of space with more – more busyness, more commitments, more projects, more socializing, more stuff. I buy more, I plan more, I do more, I produce more. I sow so many seeds, my “plants” end up jammed together with no space in between.

I believe this urge to sow our days with an overabundance of seeds and to crowd every space to overcapacity comes from an unnamed desire within us, a deep longing for contentment, fulfillment and peace and, beneath that, a longing to be known, valued and loved.

Some of us attempt to quench this longing with a full calendar and a demanding schedule. Others turn to food, alcohol, drugs, another name brand purse or a larger, fancier house to fill the void.

We strive to fill this deep yearning we sense in ourselves, not realizing, or perhaps not admitting, that the best thing we can do is to be “receptive to the unfulfilled,” as author Sara Miles says, neither filling it nor denying it, but simply sitting with the emptiness and acknowledging the presence of longing.

“You have made us for yourself, O Lord,” St. Augustine of Hippo once wrote, “and our heart is restless until it rests in you.” Herein lies the essence of our longing. God made us for him – to be with him and in him, to be known by him and loved by him.

He made us in his image as his most precious beloveds, and yet, we cannot rest in intimate communion with him until we make space in our crowded lives for him to enter in.

We must first allow ourselves to be empty, to sit like tiny seeds, vulnerable in the dark spaciousness. We must acknowledge and listen to the longing deep within us without scrambling to fill it, trusting that in time, God will meet us there and fill us with himself.

This post first ran in the Lincoln Journal Star on April 7.

When Easter Doesn’t Show Up Like You Expect

April 4, 2018 By Michelle 6 Comments

We awakened to snow, freezing temperatures, gray skies and gloom, and it was no April Fool’s joke. There were no short-sleeved dresses or sassy sandals this Easter Sunday. Instead I wore a turtleneck, gray tights and black boots to church. By the time we returned home, a dusting of snow had accumulated on the tree branches, shrubs, and grass, and the air was the kind of damp, penetrating cold you’d feel in a seaside town. I couldn’t wait to peel off my church clothes and slide into a pair of yoga pants, a fleece sweatshirt, and my coziest socks.

In between forkfuls of asparagus egg bake and bites of lemon muffin, I lamented the snow swirling outside the dining room window, the daffodils drooping beneath the weight of the frost, the silence outdoors as the birds tucked into their nests. “This is depressing,” I complained. “It doesn’t feel like Easter.”

Late morning blurred into afternoon. The boys played video games, emerging only for a periodic nibble of chocolate bunny. I read, napped, gazed out the window, scrolled Instagram. It wasn’t a bad way to spend a Sunday, yet it also didn’t feel like Easter. I didn’t feel exuberant with joy and new life. I didn’t feel warm or springy or energized. Instead I felt vaguely disappointed.

Finally Brad and I rallied ourselves in the late afternoon to take Josie for her walk. I was reluctant to part with my afghan and cozy socks, and if it wasn’t for Josie’s pacing and her beseeching face, I wouldn’t have moved from my nest on the sofa.

We parked in the deserted lot and meandered along our usual route, letting Josie lead us down the path toward the pond. The snow had stopped by then and though it was still cold, there was no wind and the afternoon was quiet and still.

Rounding the arborvitae, I spotted a flash of indigo – a bluebird. Then there was another, a splash of cerrulean gliding toward the white pine. And another, perched atop the park bench, its dusky peach chest a spot of sunrise amid sapphire. And then two more, swooping and diving, like cobalt jewels against the solemn sky. Hidden amid the boughs were at least another half dozen, their melodious chortles a symphony chorusing from the canopy.

We watched, mesmerized, for several minutes as the birds, unfazed by our presence, flashed their azure feathers just feet from where we stood. It was the first time I’d seen a bluebird that close and the first time I’d seen so many together at once. They were, in a word, breathtaking.

Turns out, this Easter was not found in blooming lilies, warm sunshine, or in the dramatic crescendo of Handel’s “Messiah.” Instead, this year Easter was a swoop of brilliant Caribbean blue against a palette of muted gray, a soft melody of birdsong rising from snow-dusted pines.

Because Easter didn’t come in the way I expected, I nearly missed it. I’m so grateful that, like the Emmaus travelers, like Mary Magdalene outside the empty tomb, my eyes were opened to the unexpected presence of God in my midst.

When God Is a Lot Like the Parent of a Teenager

March 28, 2018 By Michelle 26 Comments

Two days ago I sat in my car in the parking lot of the local nursery. It was cold and gray out. The plastic of the greenhouse flapped noisily in the wind, making me grateful for the warm rush of heat that blew from the dashboard vents as the engine idled.

I was waiting for my son, Noah, who was inside the greenhouse having his first-ever job interview. We’d prepped the night before. My husband had asked Noah some mock questions, and we’d reviewed the basics of Interviewing 101: firm handshake, maintain eye contact, speak audibly, show enthusiasm. That morning Noah had carefully chosen his outfit, a pair of kakis and a navy blue polo shirt.

Brad and I had done what we could to help him prepare, and now I watched from the car as Noah walked through the front entrance of the nursery, the glass door closing behind him.

Truth be told, I wanted badly to run after him, push ahead, and convince the manager of Noah’s attributes myself. I wanted to tell him that everything I know about plants, flowers and trees Noah had taught me before he even knew how to tie his own shoes. I wanted to explain that sure, my son was shy, soft-spoken, but he was a hard worker, committed, responsible and smart. I wanted to declare that the greenhouse wouldn’t find a more qualified teenager for the job than this quiet boy with the too-long shoelaces and the neatly gelled hair.

Of course, I didn’t do any of that. I stayed in the car, where I sat quietly, nervously hoping for a good outcome, marveling over the fact that my son, who it seemed just moments ago was toddling around the backyard thrusting his nose deep into the tulips, was somehow, inexplicably, now old enough to interview for a part-time job.

Parenting babies and young children is busy. There’s a lot of movement and doing, a lot of action – changing diapers, spoon feeding pureed pears, towel drying dimpled skin and wispy hair, turning the stiff, cardboard pages of Goodnight Moon, picking up Legos, picking up Legos, picking up Legos.

And then, at some point, almost without our noticing, the physicality of parenting begins to ebb. Suddenly we are much stiller. We find ourselves doing a lot of waiting (punctuated by a lot of shuttling to and from various activities). We wait in the orthodontist’s office for the metal wires to be tightened. We wait at the soccer field as the coach gives his pep talk for tomorrow’s game, dusk creeping along the edges of the tree line. We wait to hear whether it will be a spot on the varsity team, a role in the musical, a ‘yes’ to the Homecoming dance, a college acceptance letter, a job offer.

As parents of teenagers, we prepare, we advise, we guide, and then we do the hardest thing: we let go. We step back into the shadows. We stay in the car. We sit on the sidelines. We wait. We are still with our teenaged children, of course, but we are with them in a different way.

Is this, I wonder, a little bit what it’s like for God? How easy it would be for our Father to push ahead through the doors of the greenhouse — to intervene, to fix it, to snap his fingers, to bring about the results we so desire. Instead, he lets us go our own way. He allows us to fumble, to fail, to make mistakes, to make the wrong choices. He allows us to achieve, to succeed, to prevail, to triumph. God is still present with us, but at the same time, he allows us to step out on our own accord while he waits for us on the other side, no matter the outcome.

When I saw Noah emerge from the greenhouse with a sheaf of paperwork in his hands, I knew it was good news. “Well?” I asked expectantly, as he slid into the front seat. “I have to go to an orientation, so does that mean I got the job?” he asked. “Yes, it means you got the job,” I laughed, feeling a mix of relief and pride and a twinge of something like sadness rise in my chest as I looked at the young man with the too-long shoelaces next to me, the boy who always stopped to smell the blooms.

I often want the kind of God who will just do it all for me. Fix it, Jesus! I implore. Make it all better! Make it happen exactly the way I want it to! And sometimes God does fix it the way I’d hoped. He heals. He blesses. He forgives. He brings justice and shows mercy.

Mostly, though, it seems, at least in my experience, that God is a lot like the parent of a teenager. He lets us go, though he is still very much with us, and then he waits with open arms for our return.

Celebrating Holy Week: A Free Audio Devotional

March 21, 2018 By Michelle Leave a Comment

My friend Kimberly Coyle is a beautifully gifted writer, and this year, she is offering something really special to help us quiet our minds and turn our hearts toward Jesus this holy season. If you had the opportunity to listen to Kimberly’s recent audio series for Advent, then you know what a special gift this new Holy Week series is. I know I, for one, desperately need this invitation into quiet contemplation as we enter Holy Week this year. Please join me in welcoming Kimberly Coyle to the blog today, and please do subscribe to receive her Holy Week audio devotional series, which will arrive free in your in-box on Palm Sunday and continue through Easter.

Post and photo by Kimberly Coyle

Confession: Easter is not my favorite holiday. This is an unpopular opinion in Christian circles, especially when one is a former pastor’s kid who has celebrated Easter Sunday since she was a wee one wearing a new, twirly skirt for the occasion.

Childhood Easters often felt forced–the long morning at church, the best behavior, the quiet dinner afterwards as my parents recovered from greeting an oversized congregation–the celebration of holidays like Christmas came far more naturally to me. Based on the consumerist creep into the Christmas season, I’m not alone. Most of us celebrate for weeks, allowing Christmas to permeate every part of us: from our homes, to our music playlists, to our waistlines. We are hardwired for joy, a celebratory people, who revel in a sense of expectation, in giving and receiving.

Christmas is mystery. It is desire. It is the best kind of waiting. And it culminates in the most human experience of all time–the act of giving birth. Christmas is labor, life, the cry of an infant, a mother’s breast engorged with first milk. It is earthy. The soft bleating of barn animals and the pungent scent of dung and hay and sweat surround us. We can feel the wonder of it settling into the marrow of our bones.

Easter is celebration, yes, but it is prefaced by brutality–a kind of cruelty we can hardly fathom. Easter is a war between Heaven and Earth, between sin and salvation. It is otherworldly–an earthquake, a shroud of darkness, a veil inexplicably torn in two. It is a cosmic battle we celebrate with chocolate bunnies and a spiral ham.

Every year as Easter approaches, I hope to connect more intimately to Jesus. I’ve begun to observe Lent, and while this prepares my heart, I still feel a sense of disconnect from this time in the life of Jesus. He crosses over a threshold where I can’t easily follow. This year, I decided to approach Holy Week with a sense for the humanity behind it. I wanted to enter into it, bringing my full self to the cross with Jesus.

When I see the cross and the resurrection through the eyes of the witnesses present, I can enter into the force of it through their stories. The resurrection was prefaced by confusion, betrayal, and grief. At the foot of the cross we witness weeping. We hear the crowd’s mockery. We feel the fear pulsing through Jesus’ followers, and the empty triumph of the religious leaders. We identify with their humanity–the sight and sound and feel of each moment through their senses.

This is how we enter into Easter. We come bound to our own flesh, and to the flesh of those who came before us. We enter into the death and resurrection of Jesus through the physical experiences and the inner turmoil of the witnesses. To look up at Jesus from the foot of the cross with his mother Mary, or to weep in the courtyard with Peter has put skin on this season for me.

I want to spend time with these men and women a little longer, so I created something for us to share this Easter season. I’ve recorded an audio devotional for each day of Holy Week–a meditation on the Journey to Resurrection through the eyes of the men and women who witnessed it.

These short audio devotionals are meant to help us center our thoughts on Jesus even as we hide Easter eggs and stuff our baskets with bunnies. The first devotional will land in in-boxes on Palm Sunday, and will arrive daily thereafter until the day before Easter.

If you’d like to subscribe, you can do so by clicking here, and the Holy Week audio will arrive your inbox, as well as my weekly blog posts.

As we wait for Palm Sunday to arrive, I’ve created three spring printables for you to download and print for free. It’s my gift to you as we wait for spring to show her face at long last here in the Northeast. I hope you enjoy them!

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