Dec 122013
 

I was going through some old essays last night and found this one. It’s last year’s thoughts about 2012- and how it took away my old marriage and gave me a new one with the same man. Now it’s the end of 2013 and I can officially agree with Mary Oliver that:

“Someone I loved once gave me a box full of darkness. It took me years to understand that this too, was a gift.”- Mary Oliver

 IT WAS. IT WAS A FIERCE 2013.

*******************************

This picture was taken at the kids’ holiday concert.

I was mesmerized throughout the whole show – I always am when I watch teachers make dozens of kids sit, pay attention, follow complicated instructions and incidentally, create something beautiful. Why do we not give teachers awards? Those things they create…the skits, the dances, the songs? Teachers are magicians. They spend their lives and days creating the beautiful moment of glory for us at the end. The show. And in the end, the end isn’t what matters at all. We parents sit and we clap – knowing that the performance isn’t even the good stuff.  The good stuff is the hours of practice and focus and togetherness and patience and teamwork and discipline and joy that went into the preparation.  The good stuff is the time in the classroom that changed our children from the folks we dropped off in the fall to the just- a-little-bit- better folks we see standing in front of us at The Show.

We should recast The Oscars this year. The actors should sit out for the night and the 2013 Oscars should be an evening to celebrate teachers. We should sit at home at our Oscar parties and watch classroom highlights. We should witness some of the sweat and time and love that teachers all over the country pour into each precious little one while no one is watching. We should witness the moment where a child learns to read for the first time – next to the teacher who has pointed to the same letters for days, weeks, months – alone with that one child and her relentless hope for him. We should look at that huge golden screen on stage and watch the Shy Child join into the jump rope game for the first time. We should sit on the edge of our seats while we watch her gather all of her courage and pour every drop into that one sentence she’s been practicing with her teacher before recess every afternoon.

“Can I play, too?”

Then the excruciating pause. The whole country holds its breath.

“Sure,” the other girls say. “Jump in.”

They’ve been coached too, of course. By this teacher. By this conductor of hope.

Shy child looks over at her teacher with bright, terrified eyes. Hope is so terrifying. Teacher flashes her a thumbs up and a teary smile. “JUMP IN!” she calls silently with her eyes. Shy Child jumps in. Permanently.

Oscar worthy.

Who’s the boss of the Oscars? I’m going to write to her.

Back to the holiday concert. I sat and watched the children and the parents watching their children with their cameras and pride and babies all bundled around them and tried to contain my love for them inside my body. Containment is impossible for me at moments like these. At moments like these, my love is too big and so it sneaks out, through runaway tears and sighs and stifled cries and way too loud cheers and whoops and hollers which forever embarrass my son and husband. Children making music together. Who can stand it? It’s too much to be handled gracefully. Love and hope and joy escape. Can’t be contained inside bodies. Shouldn’t be.

In between songs, I noticed a mama in front of me on the bleachers struggling with her toddler. Little One was squirming and yelling and I wondered if she was having the same joy-containment problem that I was. I smiled at her and we played peekaboo for a while. Stressed Mama glanced back at me gratefully. Then I looked over and the mother beside me rolled her eyes my way. She was mad. I could feel her panic. Oh my God this baby is going to ruin my baby’s momentCan’t I just have one moment of peace?? Just one perfect morning? It’s always something. Damnit, it’s always something. I understood Mad Mama. I feel that way daily. Because: No, you can’t. You cannot have perfect peace. No one can. We’d be less exhausted and angry if we’d accept it. But we can’t. Nope. Not me anyway.

I saw Stressed Mama notice Mad Mama’s annoyance. I ignored Craig’s: “Oh God, Glennon, just stay out of it this once” look, which he has mastered despite its absolute ineffectiveness. I looked into Mad Mama’s rolly eyes, gestured toward Little One and said, “Do you remember those days? I sure do.” Then I leaned into Stressed Mama’s ear and said, “Don’t worry about your beautiful baby. She’s fine. Look, they’re about to start singing again. The music is always louder than the crying.”

Then I settled back into the bleachers. And I tasted that last sentence in my mouth.

The music is always louder than the crying.

I turned it over and let it run on repeat through my head and heart and through my veins again and again. It rang true. It was a gift to me, that sentence. My gifts usually come from above in the form of beautiful sentences.

The music started and I watched Little One. She was still squirming. Still babbling away. But I couldn’t hear it. Not really. The singing was too loud, too irresistible. It enveloped me. It does, if we let it.

For me, there has been a whole lot of crying this year.

A few months ago, God lifted the curtain and it became clear that what I thought was my real life was actually a carefully rehearsed show. There were all kinds of artificial forces, namely fear and shame, pulling the strings back stage. They were making my precious cast dance and move and say things that weren’t real. That weren’t true to who they were. It wasn’t real, my life. That was a big fat shock. I looked behind me –at the messy, messy backstage and back towards the startled audience and said: “WHAT? My world is BUT A STAGE? I didn’t know.”

Everything disappeared. Everything.  It all just fell away. And for many, many weeks, each morning and night, it was me and God. Just us. People came. People helped, in the way people can help. But in the quiet it was just God and me. God must love me very much to want me alone so badly. We did good work in the quiet. God told me I had to wait. God promised me that all evidence to the contrary, I was safe. I heard that over and over again. You are safe. You have to wait. Time takes time. There is nothing harder than letting time take time without trying to fix a damn thing. There is nothing harder than making no decision. But that is what was required of me at the time. And I had excellent company with which to wait.

God waited with me. I trusted God and God trusted me. I did not lose my mind. I did not lose my faith. I just moved my faith. I took it back from the folks around me and from my ever changing  feelings and my fickle and broken heart and my bat shit crazy mind and Craig and my kids and my religion and everyone’s advice. I took my faith back from all those things and I gave it to time and quiet and breath and rest and water and God and fierce, jagged, solid love. Not the kind of love that hugs and smiles and giggles and bubbles and draws hearts. The kind of love that waits for things to become clearer.

In the end, this year was not about the end. It was not about the big performance, the reveal, the Christmas show, the happily ever after.  It was about the hours I spent with God. It was about the trust we built in each other. The time we passed together – the practice and focus and togetherness and teamwork and discipline and agony and relief. It was about how God dropped me off in 2012 and then visited my just-a-little-bit-better self this morning. This first morning of 2013.

In the end, this year was not about Craig and me at all. It was not about saving my family. This year was about learning that all evidence to the contrary, I am safe. This year was about proving that nothing, but nothing can separate me from the love of God.  Even if we die, we don’t die. If our dreams die or our bodies die or our beloved dies – We do not Die. I know this.

“In three words I can sum up all I know about life. It goes on.”  – Robert Frost

Life has gone on. And in the end, I have learned this: My peace is not dependent upon anyone else. Not anymore. My peace is God, and God is as close as my decision to sneak away for a moment and find quiet and find my breath and remember that the music is always louder than the crying.

It’s gonna be a fierce 2013.

Love you so.

G



Carry On, Warrior
Author of the New York Times Bestselling Memoir CARRY ON, WARRIOR
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Dec 062013
 

Be Still

Friends, it’s time. In preparation for the holidays, I need to Be Still. I need to log off of the internet so I can log deeper into my in-the-flesh life. Because that’s what Christmas is about, right?  God decided that the best way to help people understand His love was to put skin on and introduce Himself in person. From this- we learned that the best way to meet God is in person. We learned that the best way to find God is to get our faces out of books and screens and ideas and meet Him in the people around us. We have to meet him In the flesh.

During the holidays we Prepare Him Room by preparing room in our days and hearts and minds for the people around us. We see and treat those in our families and neighborhoods and world like they are God with skin on. And we dare to believe that we are, too. You are God with skin on. You are Divine. And you are Beloved by the Divine.

Below is an advent send off, created by my new and forever friend, Travis, from The Work of the People. I love Travis because he’s a real life Phoenix- and because he is Church. He travels to the homes of people, like me, who are wrestling with their faith and he films us wrestling- so that other wrestlers in their homes will feel less alone. The church is what keeps some people from God. For those precious folks-Travis cuts out the middle man.

The other reason I love Travis is that he signs off all of his emails with: “Stay Weak, Travis.”

He does this because he knows that we’ve got it all wrong when we try to be “strong.” We should stop that. Individual strength isn’t lasting. Lasting and real strength happens in that moment when we admit, “I can’t do life alone.” Because then, God and love and grace in the form of other people run to our side and we realize with relief that we don’t have to go it alone.

We can be strong alone or weak together- and weak together is better.

What a year, Monkees. I’ll see you in 2014. We have so much more good work to do together. We’ve only just begun.

I love you so, so much. Thank you for 2013. Thank you.

Stay Weak-
Glennon
PS.I wrote an essay about Christmas Miracles in the December issue of Family Circle! To read about how I first decided to use December to BE STILL instead of BE CRAZY – Click Here!

 



Carry On, Warrior
Author of the New York Times Bestselling Memoir CARRY ON, WARRIOR
Join the Momastery on-line community on Facebook, Twitter & Pinterest


Dec 042013
 

baptism

Come, they told me… Pa Rum Pum Pum Pum,Our Newborn King to see… Pa Rum Pum Pum Pum,

Our finest gifts we bring… Pa Rum Pum Pum Pum,

Today before the King… Pa Rum Pum Pum Pum, Rum Pum Pum Pum, Rum Pum Pum Pum,

So to honor Him… Pa Rum Pum Pum Pum,

When we come.

 

Baby Jesus, Pa Rum Pum Pum Pum,

I am a poor boy too… Pa Rum Pum Pum Pum,

I have no gift to bring, Pa Rum Pum Pum Pum, Rum Pum Pum Pum, Rum Pum Pum Pum,

Shall I play for you… Pa Rum Pum Pum Pum,

On my drum.

 

Mary nodded… Pa Rum Pum Pum Pum,

The ox and lamb kept time… Pa Rum Pum Pum Pum,

I played my best for Him… Pa Rum Pum Pum Pum, , Rum Pum Pum Pum, Rum Pum Pum Pum,

 

Then He smiled at me… Pa Rum Pum Pum Pum

Me and my drum…

 

Amanda and I sat on the kitchen floor last Friday and listened to The Little Drummer Boy again and again and I cried and cried. Amanda snuggled deep into my lap and she kept turning around, cupping my chin in her hands, tilting her little head and saying, “Are okay?” Are okay?” I nodded, held her tight, inhaled her neck and used all of my senses to take her in. I marveled at how she could offer me so little, how she could, in truth, be such an incredible drain, and how I could still adore her so completely. How I could cry just thinking of her. How I’ve memorized every roll on her thighs, every red streak in her hair, the feel of her velvety cheek, and every expression her face has ever made. How there is nothing she could ever do to make me love her any more or any less. How she is already everything she needs to be for me. How she is a reflection of all that is true and good in me, because I made her.

When she started rubbing her eyes, I put her inside her crib and watched her fall asleep. I love her most at the moment she decides to trust me to keep her safe, and so her eyelids close and she falls away and just breathes. And when she awakens and I walk into her room, she turns her face toward me, throws her arms in the air and says Mama, and it’s enough to drive me to my knees in gratitude and awe and never get back up.

God gave me my little girl so that I might understand how God feels about His little girl.

I know, with my whole body, mind, and soul, that the way I love my baby girl is the same way God loves me. God has memorized every hair on my head and He watches me sleep and wake and when I cry He pets my hair and says “Are okay?” God has never, ever let go of my hand. When I run, He  follows, and He never grows tired or weary. God’s plans for me are more beautiful than I can dream and He wants me to come to him like a child because that’s the way He loves me most. Empty handed. Utterly dependent, with no gifts to bring. He looks at my face and my outstretched, empty hands and He sees his little baby girl. The little girl He created. I don’t have to be a grown up with Him. I don’t have to be a wife or a mother or a friend or a teacher or a writer or a woman in his presence. He created me solely because He wanted someone to love. So that’s all I have to be, someone to love. He wants me to rest in the truth that there is nothing I can do to make Him love me any more or any less. He already knows about the choices I made yesterday – no need to be ashamed, and he already knows what will happen tomorrow – no need to be afraid. He doesn’t want me or need me to be anything more than the needy bundle of tears and love that I was the day I was born and that I am today, on the kitchen floor. He just wants me to sit still and accept His gift, which today is the sensation that my heart might explode as His love and adoration flow from Him through me, His baby girl, and into my baby girl.

This is when Jesus smiles at me, I think. When I offer him my broken, overflowing heart. When I play for him with whatever I have, which is nothing. He doesn’t want me to wait to play for him until I am better or different, or until I have something more worthy to offer. He was a poor boy, too, he understands. He was rejected and afraid and exhausted but he played his song for me anyway. And all he wants is to hear my song in return. He wants my song, the one only I can play, today. Not tomorrow.

And if it seems too good to be true that I’d have a song worthy of Him while I’m still broken and naked and crying, I need only to remember that the most beautiful song the world has ever heard was sung by our Jesus when he was all of those things, hanging on a cross.

That man who died for me, Jesus, my God, wants me to play for Him. And Mary nods her agreement, so I play, without fear of how I might sound. And here’s why I’m not afraid to play my song in the face of God. You have asked how I can share my heart so openly, why am I not afraid to disarm myself and tell you my truth, even when it’s ugly or scary.

It’s because there is no need for weapons or armor when one is already standing inside a mighty fortress.

It’s because while I want you to say that you like me, to tell me I’m okay, to say that we are the same, you and I… I don’t need you to say those things. If no one ever likes or loves me again and I am left with only God, I will still have too much acceptance and love to handle well, or respond to appropriately, or endure gracefully. I can tell you the truth of my heart because when you handle my heart imperfectly, it’s okay, I forgive you already. You don’t have to love me perfectly. I don’t depend on you for that. You can be human, and you can make mistakes with my heart. Because if you hurt me, if you accidentally ignore me, if you love me imperfectly, I still have perfect love to turn to, to remember, to feel. And so I feel safe with you. And you can feel safe with me too, because I will never expect you to be someone you’re not. We don’t need to be afraid of each other. Perfect love casts out fear.

And when I tell you about Bubba and Sister and Husband and Tisha and you say that you wish you had a perfect family, too, please understand that my family is not perfect. Lord, no. None of us loves each other perfectly. But I don’t need them to love me perfectly because I already have perfect love. We are all wired to need perfect love but none of us is wired to offer it. Because we are meant to find it only in God. So I don’t ask my family for perfection. I forgive them their humanness, and search for their divinity, knowing that we usually find exactly what we we’re looking for. And when I catch glimpses of their divinity, I notice and share it. Just like my family and Jesus do for me.

I’d like to begin December by saying Happy Birthday and Thank You to Our Jesus. He guided these words, and they are meant for you. It’s not an accident that you are reading them. He wants you to know that He loves you like you are the only little girl in the world. You don’t have to be a grown up for Him. You don’t need to bring Him gifts. Just play. He’ll listen and smile. And we’ll dance.

Love,
LDG (Little Drummer G)



Carry On, Warrior
Author of the New York Times Bestselling Memoir CARRY ON, WARRIOR
Join the Momastery on-line community on Facebook, Twitter & Pinterest