Even the Sparrows...

She cradled it while its breath slowed. Tender hands. Tender heart.

We talk about death, because she says she is a little afraid.

All good things, all of us, will come to our end in this world, we agree. She looks up at me with those wet eyes full of questions.

"But then the bird's body turns to dirt and it helps make better soil so that more seeds can grow."    

Yes, dear one.

It seems that life and death are bound up, each thread tight in its right place, holding the other. Nearly indistinguishable, sewing the nest together.

And it all matters. This moment while the bird takes its final breath and lies limp in her tiny hands. The tenderness of her heart for another. The journey home. The mystery. Her sadness and her questions.

They matter.

Some say life is just a cosmic accident. Others say whatever, whoever, Creator is, must be aloof, uncaring, considering all the suffering in the world. 

But if the end of even a sparrow's life is met with love, if its resurrection is found in bits of earth and the hearts of children, if our worth is amplified by the caring of one for another, an offering of dignity and worth and purpose, then I say this power of love MUST be personal and real enough that every single one of our lives has meaning. All the glitter and all the dust and all the wandering hours in between.

The fall of every sparrow, known.

Each hair on my head, counted.

And, oh, dear one, there are worse things than dying. Losing our sense of compassion, losing the wonder and sadness of it all. That's a death far worse than the death of the body.

Death is never the end of the story.

* * * * *

 If a healthy soil is full of death, it is also full of life: worms, fungi, microorganisms of all

 kinds...Given only the health of the soil, nothing that dies is dead for very long.

~ Wendell Berry

On Being the Prodigal and Celebrations

It was a long time ago, and also not so very long. That summer was finally coming to an end- the same summer that had chewed me up and spit me out. Left me standing on the street corner.

This is my Prodigal Story.

Days or weeks (I couldn't tell which) had been spent closed up in a cold room, lying on a mattress on the floor in an otherwise empty huge house, puking until I'd pass out. I was newly pregnant and abandoned. Sick as a dog. Too sick to walk down those long stairs to try and find something I could eat. Friends were gone. He was gone. The world moved on, took all my hopes and dreams with it. I was a fool. And my life as I knew it was over.

But one day after all those long, dark hours in that hideous room, I emerged, because I had to. Despair had had its way with me. I was still terrified of caring for a baby on my own when I clearly had made all the wrong choices for myself. But I had to do something. Had to move. Had to figure out how to live. So I went to church.

The same church that had practically been my home for years, where I led worship, led youth groups and studies... all the things... I had loved it. All that was over now. I was exposed. You can only hide a growing belly on a frail 100 lb. body for so long.

I walked in, like every other Sunday. Only it wasn't like every other Sunday. I had always been the good girl, the one with the answers, the one with the good reputation, the one with the picture-perfect life. I walked through those doors after hiding for so long with a neon sign flashing above my head. HYPOCRITE!  WHORE!  FOOL!  That day I went to church broken and ashamed.

I didn't know what grace was until that day.

* * * * *

My son, Judah, made his way into the world like we all do. Somehow we both survived his grueling birth and an even more grueling month after his birth than I could have thought humanly possible. I felt like Job for awhile there. I know that sounds dramatic. It is dramatic. This is me being dramatic. But really. Someday Hollywood will make a movie about the happenings in my small town and my small life. But that is another story.

Judah and I made it out of there. I loved him, but those first months were mere survival. I never really was able to settle into myself, my new motherhood. I left that town and its suffocating headlines behind. We fled to the woods. The smell of the pines stopped the world from spinning after being dizzy for an entire year. We started a new life.

Resurrection happened.

It is still happening.

But back to the church ladies.

* * * * *

She had a welcoming smile, always had. There were others but I mostly remember her. It was the normal hug and 'Good morning!' and then she looked straight through my fear and asked how I was doing.

How are you doing today?

A simple question. Usually there is a simple answer. Sometimes it is fake only because who has the energy to tell the truth these days? Not that day. I had no energy.

But there was no other way. I told her. Bluntly. Awaited the awkward silence. Her face lit up, both with tenderness and joy. She gave me another hug, then grabbed my shoulders and looked me square in the eyes. "Congratulations! A baby is always a miracle!" Then "We are throwing you a baby shower!"

That was it. No making sure I understood my sin. No plea for repentance. No awkward silences that day. Just grace. And it washed over me. Knocked those neon signs down over my head.

Those church ladies saved me.

* * * * *

Last weekend I shot my first gay wedding since falling into this wedding photography gig. One of my best childhood friends was marrying the love of her life and they graciously flew Matt and I down to Texas. Many people, wonderful, loving friends and family, have been concerned about my choice. There are a million things I could say and stories that I want to tell, but one voice has stood out to me this week, one question.

How can you celebrate something that is less than God's ideal?

If it is less than God's ideal, one man one woman covenant of marriage-- and I still have questions about it all, as I've made clear-- IF it is, then my answer is simple.

I celebrate their new life because someone celebrated mine when I least deserved it.

I celebrate their joy because I know the joy of finally finding the one your soul loves.

I celebrate their daughter because I have a daughter, and daughters are some kind of wonder.

I celebrate, even if  homosexuality isn't the way God intended when he breathed life into Creation, because this world and all of us are being rescued, and we're not quite there yet. I celebrate their love feeling every ounce of my own search for love, the wandering from who I really was, all the hurts along the way. My life has not been what God intended. But he has carried me anyway.

I can now freely say congratulations to them because the church ladies threw a party for my illegitimate child.

I celebrate because I was lost. I was found. I was once celebrated.

* * * * *

Judah turns eleven years old today. I cannot believe I am saying that. ELEVEN. This boy who rode the crazy train with his mama and who found new life right alongside her. I thank God for that boy. His life helped save mine. His laugh makes the world a better place. His tender heart I fear will someday be broken as mine has been, but I know now that being tender and being broken is the only way for grace to seep into all the cracks and make it new, make it come alive. So I try not to be afraid.

And Annie and Nevie, may you grow old together. May you learn the brutal and beautiful lessons of love and self-sacrifice and family. May you find God there.

I am grateful for the 'church ladies' everywhere who throw parties and fiercely love those who need it most.

All is grace.

Of dust and the best sort of magic

Sun is shining. It's a bit of a tease these days, considering the deep collective yearning for spring. If only I could flip the calendar an extra page and coax the sun to follow suit...

No dust particle floating freely can escape these winter rays, strong and true. What kind of magic turns dirt to glitter mid-air, anyway?

The best sort of magic.

* * * * *

Lift the heavy history book down from its place up high, out of sight, out of reach, out of remembrance. Down to earth, to heart, back to mind. Down down down it has been awhile, you think. Exhale and dust flies off the familiar pages. The scar-words. The penned lies written like facts meant only for rote memorization. No, no, you mutter, that is not me. Exhale all the foul thoughts and watch them scatter under breath and light. Exhale you are foul. Inhale you are loved.

* * * * * 

The boy says that Lent starts today anyway so it's a good time to give up all dairy and see if he feels better. Lent is for giving something up, he tells me. Everybody gives up something for forty days. Like chocolate or coffee or video games.

I tell him the old story about ashes, repentance, humility, this tradition of soul-searching by sacrificing bits of self. I feel it again, familiar, ash cross on forehead for all to see. 

I am dust. I am human.

Daily residue builds up. It has built up, I realize again. Today's failures, unspoken dreams, all the agony of watching Hurt fester in others, all the helpless nights and fearful mornings. All of it, dead cells, waiting to be sloughed off.

I am dust and it's getting caught in my lungs.

...because we were created from dust, I tell him, and some day our bodies will be dust again. We remember who we are, that we are The Created. And by remembering our dustiness, maybe we also are reminded of our shine. Reflectors of Light and of a magic turning.

If Lent is about recalling my own brokenness, my dusty self, my handwritten lies and biting past...if Lent is about sensing the need to depend on God to stitch up my open wounds and make me whole again, then I am already there.  I am sitting in it, and there is grace here. This terrible and marvelous year of dependence. This is all Lent, I say.

And God isn't asking me to go on a diet and call it sacrifice. "This is the kind of fasting I want," He says.

He just wants me.

He wants to breathe Life into my dusty corners and let me watch the past turn to diamonds in the winter's sun. Even ashes reflect Life, I hear whispered.

Exhale I am foul. Inhale I am loved.

What kind of magic is this that brings the dead to life?