oh spring, you are good to me

Did I move back to the west coast?

yes

Does that mean I will stop taking pictures of pretty flowers and blooming trees?

nope!

The season of spring...there are too many things I like about it. I love having more light and how the day feels differently with each morning dawn breaking a little earlier and the sun setting a few minutes later. I love the smell of orange blossoms where my car is parked and jasmine over the neighbors' fences. Trees are indeed blooming and flowers popping up from the ground. I notice the birds chirping louder and I find myself walking around the house more often with bare feet.

I certainly miss the east coast season changes. In college I practically dug up the crocuses and tulips from the ground when I saw them starting to peak and I sometimes went on bud-searching runs where I specifically tried to find trees who were making the most progress getting their buds a'ready for spring time. And when those crocuses did bloom, when I could hear the crickets chirping loudly at night with my window open, when those tulips and daffodils came up in their full glory, MAN OH MAN was I in heaven. Like almost tears in my eyes, gotta-run-all-over-the-neighborhood-to-see-every-flower-in-the-city-of-Wenham-type excitement. I'm telling you, flowers and seasons became a new passion of mine.

And I think that excitement has given me more observant eyes to see that spring happens here too. It happens differently, much less dramatically, and it's not as vivid of a change from white snow to purple crocuses, but spring does come to Santa Barbara. And spring still makes my heart happy and thankful. 

the brave things

Courage
by Anne Sexton

It is in the small things we see it.
The child's first step,
as awesome as an earthquake.
The first time you rode a bike,
wallowing up the sidewalk.
The first spanking when your heart
went on a journey all alone.
When they called you crybaby
or poor or fatty or crazy
and made you into an alien,
you drank their acid
and concealed it.

Later,
if you faced the death of bombs and bullets
you did not do it with a banner,
you did it with only a hat to
cover your heart.
You did not fondle the weakness inside you
though it was there.
Your courage was a small coal
that you kept swallowing.
If your buddy saved you
and died himself in so doing,
then his courage was not courage,
it was love; love as simple as shaving soap.

Later,
if you have endured a great despair,
then you did it alone,
getting a transfusion from the fire,
picking the scabs off your heart,
then wringing it out like a sock.
Next, my kinsman, you powdered your sorrow,
you gave it a back rub
and then you covered it with a blanket
and after it had slept a while
it woke to the wings of the roses
and was transformed.

Later,
when you face old age and its natural conclusion
your courage will still be shown in the little ways,
each spring will be a sword you'll sharpen,
those you love will live in a fever of love,
and you'll bargain with the calendar
and at the last moment
when death opens the back door
you'll put on your carpet slippers
and stride out.

I wrote an email recently to a friend, reminding her as she once did to me that we are brave. I think as young-out-of-college-confused-twenty-somethings, we have to name the brave things. 

My brave things are somewhat embarrassing. My brave things are starting new health insurance, making a doctor's appointment, and then showing up at the wrong doctor's office, getting to the right doctor's office ten minutes late with confidential paperwork flying freely for all to see as I run into the office. And then getting lost en route to the waiting room after being specifically instructed by a nurse (who later had to come and get me down the hall and practically hold my hand to get me to the right place).

After that embarrassing episode I texted my friend in the doctor's office waiting room and said "sometimes I just suck at being an adult" ...and some days that is 100% the truth.

My brave thing is working out at lunch with my coworkers, my muscles shaking uncontrollably because I just can't hold a 1 minute plank gosh darn it! But I try anyway, even when it means falling to the floor when everyone else is holding those abs in perfect position. (to those who know me and my love for rap and hip hop music, i think i take "get low" to a whole new meaning, because I find myself on the floor way too often. but we're supposed to get low, right? ;)).

My brave thing is tutoring a woman in English on Wednesdays even though I have no idea how to teach English as a second language

I don't say any of these brave things to make me sound high and mighty (because really, I shouldn't receive a high five for getting lost in my hometown and reading an address wrong), but rather I write it to say that bravery is in the small things. And I think sometimes we're so wrapped up in the big picture, that we forget about the day to day, about how God is providing for us as we make our way through the frustrating Tuesdays and confusing thoughts we think about as we drive to work on Thursday morning. Sometimes I forget that it is in the small things that we see it, as Anne Sexton writes (It is in the small things we see it // The child's first step,

as awesome as an earthquake // The first time you rode a bike, wallowing up the sidewalk.)

But we're doing brave things, you know? We're working and dreaming, applying to a jobs in the hopes of finding a good one, putting ourselves out there as we try to make friends, doing stupid things and falling on our faces (at least I am!!). We're connecting some of the dots, and others we're just watching and waiting for them to come together and connect themselves.

But we are brave, in the littlest of things, and the bigger ones too. Thanks be to God who guides us through the big and smallest of moments. 

A Sunday Morning Story

On Sunday morning I stood up in church to say something, a small comment, a small expression during our time of sharing.

I said, "Today I am sad, but another week I might be happy. Thank you for being church -- a place where I can come in both. I don't know another place like it."

I confess that church is not the easiest thing for me...it's not always on my top priority list, and there have been seasons of life where it's felt painful or lonely or scary to go.

But as I drove to church on Sunday morning last week, I realized that it was the only place I wanted to be that morning. The only place that encompassed my sadness and joy in life after death, the only place where hugs would be freely given and received and smiles and tears could be shared.

I go to church because I don't know a better place to be in sickness and health, in sorrow and joy, in pain and in gladness, in rich blessing and deep heartache. I don't know another story that encompasses death and life, reality and miracle, healing and brokenness.  When I think about Jesus's life, I'm amazed by his presence -- the way he was truly in-step with what what going on around him and who the people were who were placed in his path. He wasn't too stressed out to pay attention, he didn't have to look hard to see the opportunities standing in front of him.

In times of joy and celebration, he participated in the party. He went to the wedding, he feasted with the guests. In times of mourning and sadness, he wept and held his friends' tears. In times of injustice, he called it out for what it was, even when it broke the status quo. In times when the most vulnerable were brought before him, he opened his arms and accepted them. He found joy in the littlest children sitting at his feet, at the woman pouring perfume on his feet, on the captain who believed his servant could be healed.

I listened to a podcast a few weeks ago by Soong Chan Rah, a theology professor at Northpark University. In his lecture, he talked about the importance of a "theology of suffering" and a "theology of celebration" and how many churches in the States lack a theology of suffering. To me, Jesus's life embodied the theology of suffering and the theology of celebration -- suffering through trials and injustice, being treated unfairly, being tempted and tried, and ultimately dying on our behalf. But his life embodied celebration too: joyfully loving others and feeding them, celebrating life around him and giving meaning to those who were told their lives didn't matter, and ultimately rising from the dead.

I'm going to make a bold statement: I think our churches and our relationships are often missing one theology, or over-emphasizing one over the other. Sometimes we party too hard, we ignore the brokenness and hurt around us, we give quick answers instead of sitting in the stillness and sadness. And then sometimes we focus too much on the bad and ugly, the awful statistics, we forget about a greater hope and we remain in black attire.

And that's why Jesus's story is so powerful to me: because it embraces both. It doesn't ignore the hurt and the ache. It doesn't just say to "get over" the death of a loved one or another cancer diagnosis, or that simple answers will suffice. It doesn't ignore the cries of the hungry or the tears of the ignored and vulnerable. It embraces all of that. It weeps, it mourns, it stands in silence, it cries for help.

But it doesn't stay in that darkness, either. It breaks the darkness, it declares hope and truth, justice and peace. It announces that we can cry and then laugh again, maybe within the same hour. It proclaims that death is real, but that resurrection happened.

And on Sunday, I think I realized that church is where I can see and experience both. The Church is broken, of course, but it stands as a reminder to the beauty of Jesus' story -- of his love and presence with us, his experiences living in grief and standing in triumph. And I realize that that is a story I love, and can follow with tears in my eyes or with smiles wide across my mouth. I'm thankful for this story.