resurgence

I haven't been writing for months now.

It's not due to a lack of desire to write, or (I would hope) a lack of ability. It's felt...like an injury was healing, like something inside was broken, something integral to the writing process, and all I could do was let it be while I pulled myself back together.

I'm certain that I'm not the first, especially in today's world, to go on and on about how a life of student loan debt and working mindlessly through a job (many jobs, over time) that I wasn't happy in chipped away at my happiness, edged into my mind and my spirit and bogged it down with doubt and...dejection. I'm not the first, and I unfortunately won't be the last - but so, I won't go on about how I got to this place. I will only say that I was there.

I haven't been writing for months now...

In some ways that isn't true, because I have friends that I have written with - short, sometimes silly, always fun pieces of writing where our characters interact together on their adventures and through their fictional lives. I have done writing, in that I have strung together words into sentences, stacked those together into paragraphs, and utilized those paragraphs to create a comprehensive piece of writing for others to read within a writing game. I did this...in some ways to lift my spirits, but also to keep myself writing something. I could feel that something within me was broken, that the proverbial "writing muscle" inside was torn. I knew that I needed to let it heal, and these writing games were my way of making sure that when it did heal, it wouldn't be out of commission.

I haven't...really been writing...for some months now...

I remember, at some of the peaks in my writing path, how it would feel to sit and close my eyes, listening to the voices and songs that called softly but surely...to me. Called for me to listen carefully to the stories that were told on the wind, to listen for the poems that might form on the paper before me if I just sat quietly enough to hear them.

For so many months now, I...could not hear them.

I tried, oh how I tried. I sat with my eyes closed, clenching my eyes shut and gritting my teeth against the tears that fell. If I could just listen, if I could just hear those sounds on the wind once more I knew that I could write. Here I was, finally free of the weight that a "day job" hung around my neck, free once more to pursue the beauty within my spirit and around me, winding together with my soul and begging to be freed as well. Here I was, finally free...and terrified that I was deaf to them now. Anxiety clenched tightly around my heart, choking me at the faintest sign of even the smallest triggers.

And what was I supposed to do? Weeks passed, and as I learned to handle the anxiety, to recognize when a reaction was caused by it rather than my true self, I still found myself buried in it. Sounds are muffled all around you when you're buried. Voices on the distant wind are drowned out by the sound of rain against a window pane.

I haven't written anything for some months now. I've found myself seated by the window, leaning against the frame and staring out through the glass at the water falling around. I stopped trying to listen after the first month. I hadn't given up, not entirely, but I stopped trying to hear once I realized that all I could hear was rain. I was frightened that I wouldn't hear it again. I was terrified that the stories trembling within me would wither, turn to dust within my heart without ever calling out to the world, but I hadn't given up. I was hurt, but I could feel in my heart that it wasn't permanent. Even the spirit heals itself with time...

So I waited...
                         ...one month...
                                                       ...then two...
                                                                                           ...three...  .. .

                                                             . ..  ...four.

A tap against the window pane,

a shadow through the curtain.

pieces of a Lifesong - 4

As I grew older, it felt...empowering, somehow, to realize more and more that I could come to my own understandings about Christianity, that I could do my own research and learn things that I might have never heard from my Mother, or even from the church that we attended. Once I was too old to attend Camp Fireside anymore, I felt a thirst that lead me on a search to once again find the kind of life and fire that I had felt in the chapel services there. The camp was so full of spirit and energy - surely there had to be real churches out there that held the same.

When I started High School, I found a way out of attending weekly church services by volunteering at a local animal shelter on Sundays. I still attended for the big holidays, and would still occasionally find myself going with my Mother on a day when the shelter was closed for some reason, but for the most part I had begun my own "solo" journey with Christ. The strength of my beliefs didn't falter, though. I met friends in High School with all different beliefs: some atheists and agnostics, some Catholic, some Jehovah Witness, and even some who were beginning to explore Wicca. Conversations with my Catholic friend (we'll refer to her as Gale, for convenience) were fascinating to me, because somehow even with my father's family being Catholic I realized I had learned so little about that denomination, and it was amazing to me how different it sounded from what I had perceived of that Church. Conversations with my Jehovah Witness friend were fascinating in their own way, because while most of the time everything was fairly casual, every so often she would make a statement or ask a question that would bring about an answer within me that felt so strong; it was those moments which assured me that, even though I wasn't attending any actual church services, I was still following a strong Christian path.

The strength of that conviction within me was reassuring when I moved on to college. I was moving onto campus hours from home, and still being without a driver's license meant that I would have very little access to off-campus transportation. I thought - briefly - about finding a church to attend while in college, but the difficulty in getting there combined with my...dejected level of motivation, and ultimately my decision was made. Why bother going to a church, where I wasn't likely to find that fire or spirit within the walls? I had more luck feeling the life that I'd found at Camp Fireside while listening to Christian Rock music, and found that the messages within the songs I heard were just as guiding and uplifting as some sermons I had sat through. So my 'church' for each week became woven into my daily life. I would listen to Christian music, and pray daily. At one point I even tried to keep a journal that I would write 'letters' to God in, discussing thoughts, thanking for small gifts, and praying for friends and family. There would be brief moments where I found myself wondering if I was 'doing enough,' but they passed comfortably enough. I was strong in my beliefs, and I felt no worry over if I was straying down a misguided path. Why did I need to go to a physical church anyway, if the men and women preaching to those who attended were just people, like the rest of us? I could talk to Jesus and God without their help.

Even though my church attendance dissipated while I there, College helped to strengthen my faith in other ways. I had friends there that weren't Christian, one in particular who had barely grown up learning anything about Christianity - or at least, barely anything truthful. This friend in particular helped me learn how to talk to others about my faith, how to help them learn what had kept my faith strong, and tell them the good news there was to share. I will never forget the expression on her face during the first conversation I remember as being a breakthrough with her. I can't recall the words precisely, but I know she was telling me about how she had always been wary of organized religion because she didn't want to have to judge people. I admitted that there were some "rules" that had to be learned to follow the faith accordingly, but I also told her about the biggest, most important rule that Christianity had to offer.

"Rule number one,"  I told her, feeling the strength of conviction and faith thread through my voice, and watching as it captured her attention. "Love. Love everyone."

She cried. I didn't quite cry, but between the energy and life and fire running through my chest and the tears running down her face I came very close to it. That was her rule, she told me. She tried to live her life by that rule all the time. She'd never known that about Christianity. From that moment on, she was even more interested in the conversations that we had. I never tried to "convert" her, but she was so open to the spiritual discussion that the topic came up often. Today, I don't speak with her quite as much as I had hoped I could continue to, but in the years to come (even after college) this conversation continued between us. As I learned more about my own Christian journey, she always learned more through me - and I still pray that her journey will eventually lead her to the Light.

College wasn't filled with church technically for me, but the discussion that I had - with that friend, and with others - about Jesus and spirituality over the years that I attended strengthened my faith in ways that I don't think a church ever could. After graduation I did find myself wanting to find a church to attend, but the joy of college graduation was laced together with the stress of student loans and entering the workforce, and my journey continued into territory that made me ever grateful for the strength of spirit that I had gathered with me before that time.

pieces of a Lifesong - 3

Camp Fireside was amazing.

A week-long summer camp filled with children, pre-teens, and adults of all ages where we lived together in (separate boy and girl) cabins, attended chapel every morning and evening, played games, and participated in so many fun camp sports and activities - all while learning more about the Christian faith. It wasn't just a protestant camp either; children from all denominations of Christianity were welcome. We were children, though, so differences in how we worshiped back home weren't nearly as important to us as the fact that we all did. 

At this point in my life I didn't know much about Catholicism. My father's side of the family was Catholic, but I can't remember them talking about it very much - about God, yes, but not about the differences in our churches.

As for Camp Fireside, I know what you must be thinking - church twice a day? How could that possibly have been the basis of a camp that groups of children enjoyed attending? But church at Camp Fireside was unlike any of the churches around at the time. It was music, and fun, and laughter, and joy. Their building itself was only an un-insulated wooden structure with screens stapled to the windows, wooden benches for pews, a small raised platform at the front, and an overhead projector that had seen many a better day in the past. The music was played by an entire band at the front of the room, set up on the raised platform - a guitar, a drum set, singers, and even the occasional ukulele! The songs were upbeat and interactive, and all about our Savior and the stories within the bible.

It was fun, but it wasn't even really about the fun. The entire camp was filled with Christians, and everyone was gathered into this chapel twice a day, everyone was excited and happy to be there - and ecstatic to be worshiping God. There was a life in this place, a strength of Spirit that I had never experienced outside of Camp Fireside. It was a fire, the sort of fire that you always hear those big TV preachers talking about to the audience that's falling to their knees in tears. It was a feeling that, once I had outgrown the camp, I continued to search for in every church I attended as I went through the next years of my life.

And it was at this Camp Fireside that I had one of the most memorable moments of my own Christian journey.

You see, every week at the camp the chapel services were set up in a pattern. There was usually a sort of 'guest speaker' for the week, some pastor or preacher that was there for some time during the summer, they always had a plan to help the campers really understand what it meant to accept Jesus as your Savior, and it always came together for one particularly emotional service every Thursday evening.

This camp was still in my childhood, so I unfortunately do not have very detailed memories to share with you of all the sermons that I heard, but I do remember one week in particular that really struck something in my heart. All week long, this guest speaker had been focusing on inviting people up to the front to share their stories of salvation, the story of how they came to find God. Each evening chapel he would end with sharing a story that he'd been told in the past that was particularly strong, and then he would invite others to come share theirs. Then, on Thursday, he shared his own.

I don't remember his entire story, but I vividly remember how it came to an end - because the emotions it held sounded exactly like my own every summer during Vacation Bible School. He said that each year he would attend a summer program, and would go up to the front to accept Jesus as his Savior, and each year he felt no different. He explained how it felt when, as a young teen, he finally realized it was because he hadn't felt the acceptance, he'd said the words but hadn't truly meant it - not because he didn't truly believe, but because he hadn't yet grown enough or had enough experience to understand the importance of the moment. He went on to explain how he had locked himself in his bedroom that night, and had sat on his bed alone to do it again; his eyes glossed over with tears as he described to us the feeling that each person going up that week had shared as well, the rush and the feeling of love and power that came over them as they reached out to Jesus with their hearts and spirits.

This had not been my first year at Camp Fireside by any means; in fact, I believe it was one of my last. I had been through Thursday chapel before, and I had never found myself in tears until this evening. The guest speaker went on to invite a few others up to share their story, and then invited anyone who wanted to, to come up to the front to pray with him and accept Jesus as their Savior. I didn't go up, but as everyone dipped their heads to pray along with the speaker, I closed my eyes, dropped my head, and sent out a silent prayer of my own.

"I'm sorry," I cried, silently, to the Lord as the room followed the guest speaker's prayer around me. I knew logically that I didn't have to apologize for not having been 'truthful' all the times before, but the apology repeated itself through my mind a few more times before I could go further. I apologized, and I confessed my love for our God, and I asked Jesus to come into my heart "for real this time, forever."  True to how the man at the front had explained in his own story, I felt in that moment a rush of love and power unlike anything I had experience before. I hadn't known that anything could feel stronger than the life and energy that encompassed the chapel at Camp Fireside during service, but I knew there was nothing that could feel more powerful, or amazing, than the rush that I felt in that moment - at least not in this world, not without meeting Him face to face.

From that day forward I was completely convinced that I understood what the teachings in the Protestant church meant each time I'd been told Once you've accepted Jesus into your heart, you're saved - forever. I was confident that I could not be torn from this path I had found myself on, no matter what questions I was asked to try and falter my faith, no matter what hardships I faced in my life, no matter what church I attended -

or...didn't attend.

The downside to this amazing experience, after my years at Camp Fireside were over, was that the church I attended with my mother came no-where near the level of life and energy I felt at the camp. It felt...empty. I had no reason to think that the people attending the church didn't believe, but I didn't feel...any spirit during the services there. So when I was old enough to choose for myself, I found a way to get out of attending by volunteering at a local animal shelter on Sundays. My mother was upset at first, but eventually life became busy enough that she found herself elsewhere on Sundays as well.

There was nothing in my heart that doubted my faith in Christ, I knew I was on the right path to follow Him in life and in spirit. I just...had to figure out where that path was now going to lead me.

pieces of a Lifesong - 2

My earliest memories of the church that I grew up in are pastel patches of color in my mind. I remember the pews that the church had as tall wooden walls with a door on the end which my Mother was able to lock from the outside, so I was unable to escape and run about the church. I remember that the beginning of service was filled with music and song that I was happy to sing along to, following the words projected on a screen above once I was able to read. I remember waiting as patiently as I could through the early, 'boring' part of service, and I remember excitedly dashing out of our pew when the children my age were dismissed to the back of the church for a child-geared lesson while the adults enjoyed their weekly sermon. One of the more vivid memories I have of this time is a lesson during the Christmas season, when we were read the story of Jesus' birth while we made reindeer figures out of pipe-cleaners and colorful pom-poms. When I was very young I did not particularly understand the lessons that we were being taught, at least not entirely, but I did enjoy ever moment of church.

As I grew older I moved from the younger Sunday School classes into the older lessons geared for middle and high school students, and I began to stay with my Mother in the pew during the actual sermon. The lessons that I learned as a child settled into my mind, and I began to truly appreciate the stories that the Bible held. I had questions, and the minister and Sunday School teachers always had answers for me that made sense and felt right.

What happens to someone when they die? They went to heaven, of course; they lived forever with Jesus and God the Father, and they watched over those that they had left behind on earth. How does God know when we've apologized for something that we've done wrong? You tell Him within your heart, and He can hear you no matter where you are. How do we know that we've been saved? You just accepted Jesus Christ into your heart as your savior, and your soul will be saved forever.

It all sounded so wonderful, and it was so calming to have the answers to these questions running through my mind. Sometimes more troubling questions would come up, or more confusing things. Usually the answers were just as easily found - either the teacher or minister would tell me without hesitation, or they would help me find the answer within the Bible, and assure me that all the answers I needed were within. Sometimes, though...their answers didn't feel complete, didn't sit quite right within my heart.

What happens to the people in the world who have never heard of Jesus?
"Well," they would said. "Sometimes we just don't know the answers, sometimes we will have to ask Him when we finally meet him face to face."

I remember this question in particular quite starkly, because I remember it as the first chip at my confidence in the Church that I grew up in. It seemed like such an important question, how could Jesus have not left us with an answer?

For the most part though, I found nothing but grace and happiness in the protestant church. Summers were always wonderful; the church held a 'vacation bible school' at their parish, a week long day-camp which would have fun and games, as well as bible lessons and church sermons with plenty of song. Each summer the final sermon of the week would end with a reminder that the only way for us to get to Heaven was to accept Jesus as our savior, and an invitation to the front of the church for everyone to gather and accept Him. We were taught that you only had to accept Him once, and then you were saved forever. I remember going up every year. I never felt very different afterwards, and everyone always went up together, so I always followed.

This early part of my church life was always so warm, and...well, positively bubbly. I recall learning more and more each week in Sunday School, but it wasn't until I was old enough to begin attending a summer camp (called Camp Fireside) that I can recall my religious journey really starting to evolve...

pieces of a Lifesong - 1

There are a lot of people who will tell you all about their childhood memories, and what they can recall. They'll spin elaborate stories of wonderful times and fun gatherings, or tragic accidents and unfortunate events - they'll remember their childhood, or they will say that they do, without any trouble at all. I don't know if that is normal, or if it's perfectly common to only remember small clips and pieces of your childhood; but I do know that for me, normal is the latter. I don't really remember a lot; most of what I remember is sort of how you might remember a dream. I know the specifics of plenty of events in my childhood because of the stories that I've heard, but when I try to think of them in my own mind I can only recall emotions, general ideas of how things might've happened, and - occasionally -  a few memories do come around into sharp focus.

I have been a Christian for my entire life, and so to tell about my memories of my early Christian faith I have to delve into those dream-like memories, and utilize those few sharply-focused moments as foundations to weave together a story.

My father grew up in a very Catholic family, and to become part of that family my Mother - also a Christian, but not Catholic - had to promise that she would raise their children, together, in the Catholic church. What she didn't realize when she agreed was that my father, as soon as their youngest (that's me) was baptized, would cease attending church at all. I was far too young to remember this part of my life; my Mother had told me that she continued attending the Catholic church for some time after he stopped going, but that when it was clear he wouldn't be returning, she could no longer take being alone in a quiet Catholic service with two young children at a church that did not offer a during-service class or daycare. She brought us to a Protestant church instead, and that's the church that I remember growing up in.

I was too young during that brief time at the Catholic church to remember much, but I do recall some other moments from my childhood where we attended Catholic services - funerals, mainly. My memories of these services are brief and fluttering, but I can recall the strong smell of the incense used and how it burned my nose, and I can remember communion during one funeral in particular. It's honestly a bit embarrassing now that I'm older (which is probably why it's one of the sharper memories I have of childhood!) but this is, after all, about honesty! The funeral was for someone who was close to me, family-wise, but I cannot recall precisely whom it was. I remember kneeling in the front row of the pews next my mother while they brought communion to the family. I was old enough at this point that we had been attending my Mother's church for some years, and through them I knew of communion as being a small saltine cracker and a tiny cup of grape juice. So at the funeral I happily took the offered wafer, after it had been dipped into the chalice of "grape juice," and popped it into my mouth just as I saw my Mother do beside me.

And then I promptly gagged at the taste of the 'juice.'

My Mother was thankfully prepared for the possibility, and quickly ducked down to whisper instructions at me. "Don't you spit that out!" she whispered urgently, clearly knowing me well enough at that age to recognize what my expression meant would come. "That's Jesus!"

So I knew that I couldn't spit it out - I loved Jesus, and I had learned enough from our regular church by then to understand that 'spitting him out' would've been terribly dreadful. I remember clenching my teeth together and forcing the bitter flavor in my mouth down into my throat, then gagging once more for good measure as I whispered back to my Mother, "Jesus tastes bad!"

The rest of my early Catholic Church memories are fleeting, cloudy, and few. I was raised in the church that my Mother brought us to after she left the Catholic church - Christ Community Church it was called. The people were friendly and welcoming, and it was here that I spent the early years of my Christian faith.

hello again, my name is still

I've been standing up on that cliff again recently. For some time the breeze was pleasant, and I let the wind wave through and around me. Storms rushed in, and I found myself pulling my wings in tightly, huddling against the ground and waiting, wishing, for the wind to pass.

But I do love a good storm.

I'll stay crouched, poised, watching the horizon through the wind and crashing rain, straining to listen through the rolling thunder. Perched upon toes, wings opening again just barely - cautious of the storm, but excited for the clear skies that are sure to follow.

the thing with feathers

I got quiet again, and I don't have any fancy excuse for it. I've been working, and living, and working on living, and working on keeping myself writing in one way or another, and that one way isn't always on a blog. I still muse to myself, though, and talk to others in my life and maybe "write" a bit in my head, I just haven't made as much of an effort to get on here and put it out there. I will admit that a good part of that is just laziness - another part is simply that I had trouble motivating myself.

So here I am again.

The past few months have been relatively quiet as far as "living my life" goes - insofar as "quiet" can be called changing jobs to an almost ideal job, and then losing it due to financial situations brought on by the economy effecting small businesses only a few months later. I'm currently unemployed, searching for employment actively, and have been for a sometime over a month now. I also find myself feeling quite at peace with the whole situation. The "me" from a few months ago might have seen this as a strange way to feel, but that was me from a few months ago. That was me before these quiet last few months were decidedly UNquiet in terms of my spiritual life.

I feel joy.

I wanted to get back to church with my husband, and I wanted my mother to come with us. She's been going through her own personal trials with God and her own spirituality, though, and so I put the choice of church in her hands. I had gone through and explored the area and knew the setting that I needed, and though I found myself happy with the church we had found my mother still felt the need to explore. So we church hopped a bit, and eventually this did lead us back to the same church which I had (and still do) find so much life and comfort in.

Around this same time is when the financial situation at my place of work started to get shaky, and became increasingly stressful. I found myself in a situation where I had prayed for this position, and now had it...but was no longer sure if it was where I was meant to be, considering the trials and hardships that the people and business were involved in. I couldn't figure out what to do, and so for one of the first times in my life I found myself completely and unconditionally giving it up to God. I had put my trust in Him many times in the past, but this was the first time I truly found myself breaking down and praying with all my heart and soul for Him to just show me what to do and where to go. I found myself asking daily for Him to tell me, and I would do it. Show me, and I would go.

and He did

There was one morning on my drive to work where I was going through this ritual, and I honestly felt as though I heard a reply, telling me to read the bible daily. I'll admit I've never fully read through the entire book, and so with this answer I committed to it. I also felt that I was being pulled more to attend church weekly, rather than just when I or my family was feeling up to it. We'd been going rather regularly, albeit to different churches, but for the first time in my adult life I actually felt the need to attend regularly.

Fast forward through the explosively stressful situation that ended with my place of employment ultimately deciding that they could no longer afford to keep me on staff, and I find myself in a situation which some might find even more stressful - no job, and still loans to pay with a supply of savings that will, eventually, begin to dwindle.

I feel fine.

More than that. I feel as though I am exactly where I am supposed to be, and there is not a single fiber of my being that feels doubt in the plan that I'm sure God is leading me through. I have no idea where my path is currently leading - I can't even begin to imagine! - but I feel safe. I feel cared for, and watched over. I feel His presence and guidance, and His direction in how to spend the time that I have while also looking for new employment. In the past month I have felt more alive and full of His Holy Spirit than I can remember being for quite some time. I can feel His hand guiding me to spread it, and I have witnessed the spread of His love as He's guided me to do my part.

I feel hope.



Prayer Request:
That you may feel and see and hear and all around truly experience the effect of His hand and Holy Spirit influencing your life, and the lives of those around you. That you might have the courage to give your life up to His plan, and feel safe and cared for even when the world around you might not give that impression.
I pray for those who have found Him, and need His guidance and love.
I pray for those who are searching, whether they be near or far from Him.
I pray for those who aren't searching, but still need Him.
I pray for you.