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Reblogged with pics…I’m learning, slowly!

Jana Greene's avatarMusings of a Gypsy Soul

By:  Jana Greene

  It is Monday. Although rainy days and Mondays don’t always bring me down, there is a tendency to feel a sense of let-down on the first work day of the week.  Sunday mornings have eclipsed  Friday and Saturday nights as the highlight of my week these days, maybe because I’m getting older, but mostly because I attend a church I look forward to attending.  It is full of people like me: broken but crazy in love with Jesus.  The worship is wild and the message is radical, and I leave feeling….vibrant. .  Technicolor.  No matter how washed-out I felt as I took my seat in the sanctuary, I am renewed when I leave the building.

                But now it’s Monday.  I can already feel the monotony moving in…the ho-hum.

                In an effort to revive my enthusiasm, I picked up my Bible. In the interest…

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Jana Greene's avatarMusings of a Gypsy Soul

By:  Jana Greene

 

My mother used to call it “petering out”.

“You’re always starting things without finishing them,” she would say.  “you just peter out.”

Oh, how hard I try not to “peter-out”!

I start out strong, and by ‘strong’, I mean obsessive-compulsively.  I gorge myself with information about any given pursuit, lunging into it with enthusiasm.  I will go the distance!

It makes no difference what the pursuit might be.  Below is an incomplete list of projects I have begun without finishing  (what…you expected a complete list?) :

Yoga:  This routine involved a DVD set in which I was to emulate the “poses” of unnaturally flexible people.  Thinking this excercise might be good for a tightly-wound person such as myself, I went all-out.  I bought the mats –  and, I am sorry to say – two pairs of spandex pants. (The mats are now rolled up decoratively under our living-room coffee…

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Jana Greene's avatarMusings of a Gypsy Soul

 I originally wrote this piece for a collection of devotionals on the book of James that my church was compiling.  I hope it blesses you today 🙂

 

Jana Greene     

For the past several days of Vacation Bible School, the children were encouraged to bring their parents, grandparents and friends to this Sunday service.  Today, they would parade into the sanctuary, assemble in front of the altar and perform songs in culmination of all they had learned during the week.   To the delight of the congregation, they sing songs about God, of course, and about loving one another.   And just as many generations have sung before them, they often sing about the joy, joy, joy, joy down in their hearts and about being happy, so very happy.  The last verse of the song really gets them excited.

“And if the devil doesn’t like it, he can sit on a tack! OUCH!”

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Poetry

Five

Jana Greene1 Comment

I’m kicking around the idea of making Saturday Blog entries a showcase for poetry.  The poem below, entitled “Five” is one I wrote about several years ago for my step-daughter.  It addresses the blending of our families, in simple prose.

Please let me know what you think about “Saturday Evening Poet” blog posts in the “Comments” section, and thank you!

Five

Once upon an August day

I happened on a family,

A father and his lovely girl.

Familiar, at once, they were to me.

Two daughters I’d had all along

Bright and loving, brave and strong,

And somehow yet,

Somehow still…

Our hearts and lives had space to fill.

As time went by, soft  memories stacked

Like building blocks placed back-to-back,

Like traveling to places far away

And salty, swimming beachy days,

Talking together and movie nights

Laughter abundant (occasional fights),

All knowing each other deeper each day

And loving each other

Anyway.

Could it be that the whole five

Would find a way to survive

As not just two

And not just three

But as a God-shaped family?

So

Once upon an October day

We became that family,

A Dad, a Mom, three lovely girls

As it was always meant to be.

I gained a husband that day tis’ true,

And I’m blessed to be his wife,

But I gained a daughter, too –

Bright, loving, brave and strong

In my life.

 

– Jana Greene

Spiritual
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Reblogging this one, as image was just added.

Jana Greene's avatarMusings of a Gypsy Soul

By:  Jana Greene              

             Several weeks ago, I wrote in my journal about the experience of breaking my right ankle.  It was a deep and angsty piece  ruminating on the inconvenient timing of the accident, why God would allow it to happen two days after I quit my job (didn’t He know it was supposed to be a happy time?) and why it happened before I had other health issues resolved.  “Why?” I asked God as I typed.  “Why?”

                Surely God knew I needed to find another job, at least part-time.

                Surely He knew we didn’t need any more medical bills.                

                Like so many other things, it seemed a random misfortune, especially considering the manner in which it happened.  I didn’t injure it skydiving or bungee jumping, or even by participating in that fitness staple of the forty-plus-year-old woman, “Zumba”.

                I broke it by stepping…

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Inspirational

Write, Wrong or Indifferent (Part 2)

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Write, Wrong or Indifferent

Joining a Writer’s Guild

Part 2

The night of the first guild meeting finally arrived.  Because it was December, it had already become pitch-black by the 7 o’ clock scheduled start.  I was haggard from work, and had been in a fair amount of back pain all day.  On especially trying days, I cannot wait to come home from work and pull off my shoes and put on comfy clothes, usually PJs.  This was definitely one of those days.  I chose a decent pair of sweats to wear to the meeting, and when I passed my husband as I walked out the door, grumbled:  “I hate clothes.”

“I love you,” he said anyway.

How I adore that man.

The guild meeting was held in a church classroom, and the parking lot was only dimly lit.  I realized how dimly lit when I accidentally ran over an orange traffic cone, and then another.  The last cone was still dragging under the Jeep when I screeched into (what I assumed was) a parking space.  When I look up, there is the silhouette of a woman standing in the doorway to the classroom.  I can tell by her body language that she is trying to look casual, as if she is unsure whether to laugh, offer help, or call the cops.  I am five minutes late now, and I hate being late for anything.  Maybe I should just go home.

When I step out of the car, it immediately begins to rain.  I am cold, nervous, embarrassed and now wet.  The six copies of my article are wet too, I notice, around the edges.  I slog up to the door, and the woman I had seen in the doorway was gone.   But I do see Melissa!

She is standing at a “welcome “area.  Melissa is a kindred spirit.  She claims to feel awkward, too, on a regular basis, but it is hard to imagine her insecurity.  She is deeply and powerfully beautiful and disarmingly candid – which made me love her right away when we met several years ago.

I couldn’t wait to hug her.

She explained how the guild meeting works, and gave me some pamphlets and other materials.

“I’ll sign you in,” she says.  “What is your genre?”

I had no idea.  This article would not fit neatly in any one “box”.  If I were to “shop” the piece out, what magazine might buy it?  Again, no idea.  Although it was essentially about parenting, it would certainly not be a fit for parenting magazines (which, really, only cover the predictable parenting topics like potty training or making popsicle-stick art.  Show me an article in a magazine for parents entitled, “You Want to Pierce WHAT?” and I will buy a subscription on the spot).

There are spiritual aspects to the piece as well, but I doubted a Christian magazine would touch it, what with its subject matter (tattoos) and generally snarky overtones.  And, it was neither comedy nor horror, though to be honest, there were elements of both.  I tried to quell the anxiety that I am in the wrong place at the wrong time, with a genre-less essay.  This was not a good start.

“Don’t worry about it,” Melissa soothed.  “It’s ok.  Just find a seat.”

In a room right off the hallway, the other ladies sat in school chairs in a small auditorium.  It was, actually, the Band room for the Christian school housed at the facility.  There were less than a dozen women scattered unevenly throughout about forty chairs and while I was wondering what significance – if any – choosing where to sit might have with perceived writing skill, they stopped chatting amongst themselves to say hello.  I responded, took a random seat, and resumed thinking about the universality of Band rooms all over America, with their distinctive scent of woodwind oil and their porous ceilings, and …yes?

Oh, yes…..Nice to meet you, too.

A lady had just arrived and taken the seat right next to me.

She was well-dressed (business-casual, you might say) and I noticed that her brown leather purse matched her brown leather shoes perfectly.  A quick look around the room revealed that all of the ladies are lovely.  They are all “put together”, by outward appearance anyway.  No-one else is wearing sweatpants.  No-one else had her hair in a poorly executed (and wet) ponytail.  Suddenly, I was in 8th grade band again, the new kid.  I wondered why I was there.

I was wondering, too, where did the other traffic cone I hit go? When Melissa sat in the other free chair next to me and took my hand to hold.  And the meeting began.

Inspirational

Write, Wrong or Indifferent – Part 1

Jana Greene3 Comments

Write, Wrong or Indifferent

Joining a Writer’s Guild

Part 1

By:  Jana Greene

Joining a local writer’s guild almost kept me from writing.  I say “almost” because I have since come to love it and look forward to the monthly meetings.  It was because of fear – yeah, that old chestnut – that I nearly didn’t participate at all.

From the time I could hold a crayon, I wrote about things.  I can remember forming “J”s first, and from there, looping and dotting kindergarten hieroglyphics to tell my story.  Because even then, I was a historian of sorts, not a fiction writer.  I felt the need to journal everything I experienced and observed, wanting to chronicle my own life story.  My name is Jana, and I am six was my first story.  And later, I wrote about the things that happened to me as a child – some of them traumatic – that I could not speak about aloud. Many times, in middle and high schools, I wrote angst-laden pieces about my social awkwardness, with titles like:  I don’t fit in anywhere .

What a strange little girl I was.  But writing things down helped me deal with things, big and small, that I couldn’t reconcile in my spirit any other way.

At forty-three years of age, I am still a strange bird.  If I am going to tell my story, I’d better start doing it now.  I am becoming annoyingly forgetful, and I don’t want to erroneously tell someone else’s story by mistake.  One of my dearest friends, a woman named Melissa, also finds comfort in the writing, and has her own story to tell.  We are forever vowing to write a book together about overcoming struggles and such, but we can’t seem to lasso one issue onto the page before another is bucking and rearing back, thus our tales never seem to get written.  This is why we joined a writer’s guild, a Christian writer’s guild.

I missed the first monthly meeting , which was kind of an orientation.  I was sick that day.  But the following afternoon, Melissa left a breathless voicemail on my phone about her experience.

“Jana!” She began.  “Guess what?  I know what we are supposed to DO with our lives!  Call me!”

I could not dial her number fast enough.  Our very purpose, made clear!  (Of course I would be absent on the day my life’s purpose was designated!)  Her line rang only twice.  When she picked it up, I could feel her warm energy burning through the line.

“Write,” she said, instead of ‘hello’.  “You and I, we are supposed to write!”  With her sweet, Georgian accent, she launched into a synopsis of her time at the meeting.  There were other women, she said, just like us, who dream to translate a tiny little fraction of what God whispers into our lives onto the page.

But of course!  We needed support!  Support from a group was the missing ingredient; it might even override the fear….the fear that still says that I don’t fit in anywhere.

That evening, I could hardly wait to write a piece for the next month’s meeting.  But what to write?  Whisper to me, Lord.  Please whisper.

                Nothing.  Like the proverbial author who sits down to his typewriter and taps out the word “The”.  And that’s all.

Oh NO!

I strained for ideas, for eloquence.  I longed to write as Helen Steiner Rice, the prolific Christian poet whose very prose rivals those of the Psalms.  I wanted to present something that would glorify God and really showcase my writing style, except that those two things are sometimes mutually inclusive.

Stalling, I logged onto the guild website and paid my dues (literally, with MasterCard).  No turning back now!  Surfing through the site, I noticed that one of the membership perks was a free critique.

Critique.  That sounded a lot like critic, the root word of criticism, which I am not a huge fan of, constructive or otherwise.  Immediately my concern went from channeling Helen Steiner Rice in order to glorify the Almighty, to how I would soothe my own bruised ego when the bruising commenced.  Ashamedly, I was licking my wounds before the whip was anywhere near.

It is those self-serving thoughts that result in articles titled “The”, wherein the main character – me – does nothing.  Writes nothing.  Glorifies no-one.

God, what do you want me to say?

And with that prayer, a pseudo-crisis appeared in my life just in time to become the subject of an actual story.  The issue was that my eldest daughter decided to make good on a lifetime threat to get a tattoo, and I was upset about it (hey, don’t judge me for judging her!) so I wrote about the experience from a mother’s point of view.  As usual, a serious bout of writer’s block was averted by the antics of one of my children (thanks, girls)!  The piece I wrote was raw and real, and more importantly, helped me heal from an event I couldn’t work through my mind and spirit any other way.  It was twice as long as the guild guidelines allowed for, and did not follow proper grammatical rules.  Also, it contained the word “damn”.  It was a rather rough “rough draft”.

I removed the naughty word, but left the rest alone.  With no idea what to expect (or who my fellow guilders were), Melissa and I agreed to meet at the front door of the church that hosted the meetings.  Still, I wondered…..what if I don’t fit in?

I drove there with my hands on the wheel at “9’o clock” and “3 o’clock”, just like they teach you in Driver’s Ed.  My hands were shaking that badly.

 

 

Inspirational

A World Away – Picture of an African Mother

Jana Greene4 Comments

I have always had a desire to travel to Uganda for a mission trip. 

Maybe one day I will.   It was from that desire that the idea for this article grew.

photo credits below
PHOTO: The then eight month-old Martha Akwango, who was suffering from malaria, with her mother Janet Awor in September 2007. Martha and her mother live in Katine, a Ugandan village where the Guardian is participating in a project to improve medical facilities and infrastructure. Photograph: Dan Chung.

 

              In my mind’s eye, I see an African mother.  She is an amalgam, really….her face a compilation for every young sub-Saharan woman whose picture I have ever seen on the glossy pages of National Geographic magazine.

                Her haunting eyes implore the camera to, “Come. Capture my reality so that the world can see.” And, at the same time,  “Stop!  Don’t record my shame!”

                We, in our comfort, like to banter about who we consider our “Most Inspirational Person”.

                She is mine, but I don’t know her name.

Her figure, baby strapped to her back, is  a montage from every television commercial that has implored me to “feed the hungry” and every picture brought back from mission trips to Africa by white, middle-class Americans.

A powerful beauty, her  hair is shorn close to her head (no time for vanity here) and her sandaled feet are dusty. Always, there is at least one child tethered to her body.  Her hands are never empty because they are  always at task. She doesn’t get coffee breaks or vacations, or time to unwind.  Her work is never done.

Unlike her First World counterparts, she does not have issues with self-esteem. Survival is the esteemed goal here.  Is she a woman who “loves too much”?  What about her “inner child”? Does she take healthy time for herself, and is she setting aside time in her busy day for God? No time for that – she hums prayers as she works, and that is her worship.

                She is a fallible person who makes mistakes, just as we all do.  But doubting her Creator is not a luxury she can afford.

                Her children, barefoot….do they have enough to eat today?

                Yes?  She hums her praise louder.

                No?  Pray and hope, and work all the harder.

                She doesn’t despair in losing the keys to her car, or fuss about the value of her 401k plan.  Her grief, when it comes….is wracking, life-altering. Her loss… it’s behind her eyes if you care to look.

                In the Western world, we like to say that our lives are our gift from God, and what we do with it is our gift to Him.   How presumptuous we human beings are.  My Sister in Africa has little opportunity to bring gifts that we in the First World consider valuable.  I think God smiles on her offerings especially;  they are  her very life and the lives of her children.

                I think that is what God intended us to bring. She inspires me so.

                I, as a white, middle class mother in America, sometimes wonder why I was not born as she. If life were fair, I mean.  If life were fair, I would have been.

                Sometimes, when my kids are getting on my very last nerve, I think about this woman. Because I often say to myself and others, “If this mothering thing were any harder, I couldn’t do it.” I mean it, too, when I say it.

When my children were small, I felt like I knew what I was doing as a mother. Like my Sister in Africa, I wore my babies in a sling on my hip or my back.  I nursed them into toddler-hood.  It felt natural, like they would be tethered to me forever.

                 Nowadays, as they are approaching young adulthood, I’m not quite as confident.  Writing about their growing up and my mistakes as a mother now is my attempt to capture the reality and share it.  And yet I know that during the process I will record my own shame.

                If this mothering thing were any harder…..God would equip me to do it, I suppose.

                But meanwhile, in a third-world, poverty-stricken, war-torn country in Africa….

                My Sister on the other side of the world.  Her life, just as precious to God, lived in the same units of time as mine – minutes, hours and days. Her love for her children just as fierce as mine.  When – if –  her babies  have survived to young adulthood, unclaimed by famine, drought or disease, she is not fixated about the proper way to “let them go.”

She is grateful.

Triumphant.

                I want to meet her one day, to touch her.  And to tell her that she is the Inspiration to another mother, all this world away.

Spiritual

Sleepless

Jana Greene5 Comments

By:  Jana Greene

                Last night was a  self-choreography of tossing, turning, fitfulness.  Like synchronized swimming in the bed.    

                Yet, the sun still came up this morning, right on time.

                Last night, when I scrootched in bed next to my sleepy husband around 10:00 p.m., the possibility of slumber seemed promising.  I was in peaceful spirits because I had made it through the entire day without any pain medication at all.  For over a month, I had been weaning down to only one-half tablet per day at bedtime for pain due to a surgical procedure.  But not today, I thought, triumphantly.   This pain, I can handle.

                I tried to get comfortable, as the mild throbbing in my leg intensified.  Sleeping in the orthopedic boot is as awkward as sleeping with one of those giant “#1!” foam fingers you see waved around at football games strapped to your leg, if that foam finger were made of brick.  Still, I can usually manage to sleep a little.

                Not tonight.  It is now 1:00 in the morning.

                The pain is spread like a rash in my bones.  I take three Advil, and wait for them to negotiate with the pain.

                Meanwhile, I move my spastic-ness to the living room couch and try to settle in there.  There’s no point in keeping my hubby up as well.  Our dog – an elderly Golden Retriever with a lapdog mentality, tries to jump on the couch next to me.    I scold her.  She slurps me with a kiss to the face anyway, because, honestly, Golden Retrievers don’t know any other way to react except with love.  I could learn a lot from my dog.

                On this night, the Advil is a crappy negotiator.  I take the boot off, but my ankle feels too vulnerable.

                 So, I put the boot back on, and it feels heavy on the hardware in my leg, like there is no flesh between it and the titanium plate.

 I don’t feel like “#1!”

                I start to worry about things, because the peace in my tired mind had vacated hours ago.  One anxious thought leads to another until the soundtrack to my mind goes something like this:  

“I wonder if I took enough chicken out to defrost last night. Did I remember to feed the cat?  I wonder if Blues Traveler broke up, or if they might be touring?  I like harmonica music.  Hmmmm…..What bills have I not paid yet?    What if our kids live with us forever and never fly the nest? (this is when the thoughts took a turn for the worse, I think.)   OHNO!  How can Bob and I make them NOT WANT TO live at home forever?  We make things way too easy for these girls…..How much RENT should we charge them?  Oh, no….but I WILL MISS THEM when the nest is EMPTY!  When should I look for another job?  WHAT IF I DON”T FIND ANOTHER JOB???  Why is the economy so bad?  Where will the price of gas level out?  WHAT IF I NEVER WALK ON MY ANKLE NORMALLY AGAIN AND   WHAT IF I CAN”T LOSE THESE FIFTEEN POUNDS AND NEVER BRING MY TRYGLICERIDES DOWN AND OHMYGOSH, I”VE BLOGGED EVERY DETAIL OF MY LIFE AND WHY DID I DO THAT???”……

                You get the idea.

                3:34 in the a.m. now.

                My oldest daughter be-bops out of her room to go to the bathroom down the hall and sees me on the sofa.  I shut my eyes quickly and try to fake sleep (oh how the tables do turn)…..it’s too late. She lights up like a Christmas tree.

                “You have insomnia too, Mom?”  She beams, like we’ve both been invited to a Prince’s ball, instead of sentenced to a night without sleep. 

                Because usually, when neither she nor I  can sleep, we agree to watch a movie, or play Scrabble together, or look at funny pictures of animals saying captioned things on the internet until one of us gets sleepy.  She is young, at that glorious time in life in which she can choose to eat or not eat what she wants.  Sleep or not sleep.  It makes no difference to her body….yet. 

                No, I grouse at her, turning over on the couch.  Not tonight. 

Then, it comes, the slightest hint of drowsiness, as if someone is pouring sleep over my head.  Ah….sweet, sweet slumber.  Sleepiness is warm, I think, pulling my soft blanket up and smiling a bit.  Really warm.  Whew…..I kick off the blanket, panting.  Dammit!  This is not sleepiness!

                HOT. FLASH. 

                If these villians all formed an alliance to combat the superhero of Sleep…they would be Pain, Anxiety and Menopause. 

And they were attempting to take up headquarters in my body! 

                I start to cry a little now, because I am being slowly drenched in sweat, and I’m already miserably tired.  Sometimes I have to get to the point of crying to remember to pray, and this was one of those times.

                I began to pray for myself.  I asked that God would help me combat the forces keeping me awake.  Ouch, Lord.  Ouch!  And a hot flash, really?   But as I pray, I began thinking about all of the people I am blessed to know who are standing in much bigger need of prayer.  I didn’t really want to , to be truthful.  I wanted to complain and be grumpy.  But….Names and faces, appearing in  my mind, rapid-fire….until there is no room to worry about lesser things.   I lay still (and blanket-less) and try to concentrate. 

I see the face of a friend who is in the intensive care unit in a hospital in Chapel Hill, fighting for her life.  Pray.   I think of my three closest friends, and the battles they are going through right this very minute, real issues with potentially lasting implications, and I ask God’s guidance for each of them by name.  Several long-distance friends from high-school, brought back into my life via the miracle of Facebook, who stand in the need of prayer two-thousand miles away…..please, Lord, hear their cries.

Miles are no hindrance to God.  And neither are units of time….hours, minutes, seconds…time that I’ve designated for sleeping.  Maybe He had designs on my insomnia for other purposes.  Maybe for prayer.  

There was no sleeping last night, and I will stumble around today with Uncle-Fester-esque circles under my eyes.  I will also most likely be a bit ill-tempered with sleep deprivation.   But as I write this, my elderly Golden Retriever is wrapped around my feet, not seeming to mind the awkward orthopedic boot under her head, not seeming to mind that I wouldn’t let her on the couch with me last night.  She is sleeping, not a worry in the world.

I could learn a lot from my dog.

Spiritual
Jana GreeneLeave a comment

Jana Greene's avatarMusings of a Gypsy Soul

More than Many Sparrows

or

A Tale of My Daughter and the Audacity of Ink 

By:  Jana Greene

October 12, 2011

      The first thing I noticed about it was the blackness of the outline, almost as if it were drawn with bold magic marker.   My next thought was that I must absolutely write about this, the design that now lay bare on her skin.   As if, somehow putting pen to paper would give permanence to the moment, as the needle brought it to her flesh.

My daughter’s first tattoo.

     I had known that it was coming, that she considered it a rite of passage. My girl had always danced to the beat of a different drummer; a lover of eclectic music, performance art and sculpture.  If she had a credo it would be this:…

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Spiritual

“Can You Hear Me Now?” – God

Jana Greene9 Comments

By:  Jana Greene

Do you ever wish God used a megaphone?  I do.

I have a couple of friends who are blessed with the ability to hear from God:  that small, still voice, presenting audibly.   I believe it is a gifting, the way speaking in tongues is a gifting, but not one of mine.  At least not yet.

A few months ago, I felt like the Lord was telling me to quit my stressful job.  (Convenient, right?  That’s why I didn’t listen at first).  I was experiencing health issues and as my doctor said, “something had to ‘give’. “  (As I live in a house with three daughters of the teenage persuasion, it was unlikely to ‘give’ at home.)  And my creativity?  Withering on the vine.  By the end of the day, I was too tired to create anything, even dinner for my family.

“It’s ok,” I felt like my Father in heaven was telling my spirit.  “Its ok to quit your job.”

But it was a good job; a full-time job, with benefits.  Employment is hard to come by these days.  So, I figured I must have misunderstood God.  But the health issues got worse.

I wanted to be obedient, but I also wanted my 401-k and paid time off.  In essense, I wanted assurance of a favorable outcome.  Nevermind that, in thirty years of salvation, God has never given me a guarantee that “Plan B” will pan out.  Even when I am absolutely sure that I am being obedient. But things have always worked out to the good.   I suppose that’s why it is called a Leap of Faith, and not a Baby step of Certainty.

My prayers continued.  Please, God….show me the direction to go.

“Write,” my interpretation of his voice said.  “Quit your job, and write.”

Why would God, who knows all, advise me to do that?  And what if I was hearing Him wrong?  What if, because writing has always been my dream, I am hearing what I want to hear?  The stakes are high here, there is much to lose.

But so, so much to gain.

For weeks, there was confirmation that it was time to quit.  It was time to move on and take a risk.  Still, I kept hoping that the clouds would break open, the sun shine upon me, and the booming voice God – who sounds a lot like Morgan Freeman in this scenario – would tell me what to do.  (He also called me a “good and faithful servant” here, but I digress).

If that actually happened, it would not be a Leap of Faith on my part, I guess.  It would be more a Baby -Step of Certainty.

If I want to hear what God is saying, I have to approach it with openness.   I have to ask that He reveal His will.  It seems so simple, but I forget to ask specifically sometimes, but still wait for an answer.  Just asking is the first step.

I have to read what He has to say in His Word.  I use The Message translation because it is plain to me, and although I enjoyed Geoffrey Chaucer’s “The Canterbury Tales” as much as the next 10th grader in high school, I like to read The Word to read plainly, not in King James English.  My soul digests the message easier when my brain doesn’t have to digest it first.

I’ve learned that other Believers are a resource that God expects us to tap into.  I must ask for prayer, and listen to the advice of those who walk closest with Christ.   (Different from taking a “poll” – which  is what I mistakenly did at first.   The reactions amongst my friends were split about 50/50, with “Wow!  Good for you!” and “Are you CRAZY?” being the predominant reactions.)

My believing friends?   Overwhelmingly supportive.  When I ask them for prayer, there is always the chance that they might even hear audibly the confirmation that I received only from a gentle brush to my spirit.

I am so afraid to misunderstand, which of course, I will at times. It’s part of learning to discern God’s voice.  My struggle is that even when I hear from God – quite unmistakably – I still question it.

JESUS (using megaphone):  Quit your job and write.

ME: Get  a mob at night? Fit the fob just right?  Lob it out of sight?  What, Lord, WHAT?

Jesus:  **FACEPLAM**

Maybe that’s why I don’t hear him audibly.  If He did use a megaphone, I would no doubt complicate his command by over-analyzing.  He really isn’t a drill sergeant anyway.  He is love itself, patient and kind.  SO patient and kind.  And if I mis-heard?  He will still use the experience to bless me and others, and to glorify Him.   He is so awesome that way.

I quit my job, and I’m writing.  I don’t know how long it will be before I need to find a paying job, I trust God will let me know.  As for today, I have peace that passes understanding.  As for today, I am healthier, if not wealthier, and my soul is “listening” for the next move.

That small, still voice that presents by brushing my spirit?  It’s the sweetest sound.

Spiritual

Small, Deliberate Wonders

Jana Greene3 Comments

By:  Jana Greene

Yesterday was the kind of day that makes up for so many others.  It made up for the stressful ones, the days filled with worries.  It was the kind of day that seemed lovely in a very non-random way.  A day of a hundred small and deliberate wonders.  Lovely by design.

I just happened to leisurely sleep in, and then took my time having my coffee.  Bob and I decided to take a trip to the beach (okay…”trip” may be overstating it, we live 15 minutes from the shore) and we just happened to find a good parking place.  I held his arm walking onto the warm sand, so it was no problem to navigate the terrain in my orthopedic boot,  and there just happened to be a surfing competition at the beach access we parked nearest.  We spread an old, flowered comforter out on the sand to claim our spot and watched the surfing while sharing a bags of Munchos potato chips and M&Ms candies, which just happens to be the best salty / sweet combo ever. 

The sun was in and out of hazy clouds, but not oppressive with its heat.  My husband and I alternated between lazy conversation and occasional PG-13 make-out sessions.  He walked me down to the water two times, which took forever because I was bootless then and could not  put much weight on the broken leg, and we stood in the chilly waters together while the water washed the wound.  Saltwater just happens to be a wonderful antiseptic.   

When we  got home, we ate cheeseburgers with so many toppings – blue cheese and pickles,  and mustard, lettuce and cheese  (of course) that  it took four napkins just to get the condiments off of my face and from between my fingers.  We watched the movie “Tower Heist”, which was good but not great, but WHO CARES?  We had a lovely time, a time totally devoid of stress or worry.

Then, he and I, sunburned and satiated with full bellies and chilled-out minds, went to bed at the same time that our teenaged daughters were going out for a night on the town, and for once, we were glad to be the old  fogey parents settling in, cozy.  The dog was  lying on the floor of our bedroom, and the cat was asleep at the foot of the bed, and neither launched  an attack  in the usual bedtime turf war.  (See?  Small and deliberate wonders!)  I fall asleep holding my husband’s hand,  so glad that he and I just happen to be perfect for one another.

We are perfect for one-another in a very non-random  sort of way.  Lovely by design.

 

 

Spiritual

Alcoholism and the Art of Intermediate Mat Dragging

Jana Greene6 Comments

By:  Jana Greene

Thebeggarsbakery.wordpress.com

Addiction is addiction is addiction.  If you cannot control it, and it interferes with your relationships (especially your relationship with God), it is addiction.   Alcohol, heroin, crack , porn, online shopping….all reward the reward centers of the human brain, but differently in different people.  Which dopamine receptors scream the loudest determine which drug-of-choice a person might invest in.  Mine happened to be alcohol. But all scream loudly.  I long for the blood of Jesus to replace the toxic flow in my system that not even active recovery can replace.  In constant touch with my limitations, both as an alcoholic and someone who experiences chronic health issues, I need a transfusion of the Blood of Christ every day.

When I first started dealing with chronic pain and fatigue,   I had the “I gave at the office” mentality;  as in thanks for considering me, God….really, it’s an honor just to be nominated…but you see, I’ve already been through the ringer, so to speak , with alcoholism and whew!  I’m glad I got that suffering out of the way.  Except that it has become apparent that I might battle illness the same way I have with addiction.  One day at a time.

Popular among evangelical Christianity is the issue of deliverance.  It is not so prevalent in AA or other recovery programs, where it is considered dangerous to court the disaster of referring to your disease in the past tense.  Everyone has a sticking point when it comes to dogma, and this would be mine.  After eleven years sober (as of this writing), I think I’ve identified the root cause of this stickiness:  I’m jealous.    I envy people who have experienced the very real and one-time-only-ness of deliverance.   God can most assuredly deliver us from a plethora of evils, addiction being the least of them, but not everyone experiences recovery or healing that way.  For years I believed that there was something wrong with my walk with Christ because I still struggle at times, I still live One Day at a Time in recovery.   So foreign was the concept of total deliverance from addiction to me that the first time I met someone claiming it, I thought he must be drunk.

“Sober five years now,” said a middle-aged man at the AA meeting, when it was his turn to speak.  “I just woke up one day and God said, ‘You’re delivered’.  Never touched drugs again.”

I was amazed.  Aghast.  “Really?”  (I didn’t mean to engage in ‘cross talk’ at the exclusion of other people, it just came out).

“Yes.  Really.  He is so good.”

Yes, I know He is so good…I really do.  But this is supposed to be a program of rigorous honesty, after all.  Don’t pull my leg!  This guy  must be high.   He must be high RIGHT NOW; making claims like that!   This man had spent a considerable amount of his life as a junkie, had lost everything because of his drug habit.  His startling statement made me think of the paralyzed man in scripture, the one who Jesus healed on the spot and told to “pick up your mat and walk”.  And the man did.  Just like that.  Astonishing.

I still have a ton to learn about God (no surprise there) but I have learned that He does modern-day miracles like this all the time!  He heals in all ways – maladies of the spirit and the body, every day just like that.  Tumors vanish from x-rays and breast lumps from mammograms.   Sufferers of depression alleviated from sorrow, sometimes instantly.  When I hear of such deliverances, the Child of God within me says, “PRAISE YOU, JESUS!” but the “child” within me worries, “You love him better than me.”

Behold !  I am a new creation in Christ Jesus.

But I still have to drive this clunker.

I want to pick up my mat and walk.  I do not want to be a mat-dragger all my life.  But I am also reminded of the scripture that describes Paul, whom endured unspeakable acts of abuse and torture, had a “thorn” in his side.  The Bible never says what his malady is, and perhaps this is a purposeful omission.  In scripture, different translations describe this “thorn” as an “obstacle”, a “handicap” or a “trouble in the body”.   Or, I imagine, trouble in the mind.  The Message translation of the Bible says in 2nd Corinthians 12:7-10:

“Because of the extravagance of those revelations, and so I wouldn’t get a big head, I was given the gift of a handicap to keep me in constant touch with my limitations. Satan’s angel did his best to get me down; what he in fact did was push me to my knees. No danger then of walking around high and mighty! At first I didn’t think of it as a gift, and begged God to remove it. Three times I did that, and then he told me,
My grace is enough; it’s all you need.
My strength comes into its own in your weakness.
Once I heard that, I was glad to let it happen. I quit focusing on the handicap and began appreciating the gift. It was a case of Christ’s strength moving in on my weakness. Now I take limitations in stride, and with good cheer, these limitations that cut me down to size—abuse, accidents, opposition, bad breaks. I just let Christ take over! And so the weaker I get, the stronger I become. “

Paul knew God could remove the issue, and he believed in deliverance.  He had seen miracles throughout his travels, and if anyone has ever “given at the office”, it would be Paul.

“My grace is sufficient,” Paul was told.  So he had to stumble about with his thorn and live life to the fullest “undelivered” from it.

The thorns of addiction, chronic pain and anxiety?

I am starting to understand that the Lord cares more about whether or not I trust Him than my perceived limitations.  He is limitless-ness.  He seems to tolerate my childishness when I envy those differently-blessed, simply because I am his child.  And although I’m learning to take things in stride, the “with good cheer” is a work in progress.

More of Him; the antidote for the venom of anger, resentment, fear and  unforgiveness.  I don’t know how it works, I just know that it does.

I very well may be a mat-dragger, but I have to remind myself to consider this:  I am walking, sometimes with a little limp, but moving nonetheless.  Toxic thoughts and aching bones, pain and restless worry?  The remedy is the same:  Grace Transfusion, because His grace is more than enough.

One Day at a Time.

Devotional

A Prison of My Own Making

Jana Greene2 Comments

By:  Jana Greene

“Talk and act like a person expecting to be judged by the Rule that sets us free.  For if you refuse to act kindly, you can hardly expect to be treated kindly.  Kind mercy wins over harsh judgment every time.” –

James 2:12-13 (Message)

 

                I’ve heard it said that Christianity is only just “one beggar telling another beggar where to find food”, and I believe there is a lot of truth in that analogy.  But if that is so, I believe it is also “one freed prisoner showing another prisoner who can make him free”.

Currently, there seems to be a spate of television shows about prison life.  Filmed in actual penitentiaries, TV crews camp out in the common areas and just outside of the cells.  They then report on the conditions of the facility, and go in-depth with those serving time.  What must the mindset be to survive captivity?  There are much-needed layers of security, no doorknobs to turn here, and no gates that unlock from within.

From a human interest standpoint, it is fascinating.  Although there are those inmates who use the time to better themselves and the world, many are hopeless.   Hardened by life, they seem to feel justified for whatever crime they have committed, and express no interest in the world outside.   The lifers are the ones whose fates are often summed up with this phrase:  “No hope for parole”; and while I’ve never understood the logic of serving multiple life sentences, it must be unbearable to carry.

Once while watching an episode of “Lockup”, I wondered… what if somebody with a lot of clout opened the door for these prisoners, intentionally and literally– and pardoned all of their debt to society on the spot.  Granted, it would have to be someone very, very powerful to pull off such a feat.  Citizens would no doubt be angry – the time must be served for the sake of justice! – But I wonder….would many of them even walk through?  Fully pardoned, would they accept freedom and face new uncertainties, or stay behind the walls in distrust of the One who bought them liberty?

We believers sometimes remain captives all of our own accord, shuffling through this life with the world shackled around our ankles.  Each of us have our own issues, our own ball-and-chain – heavy and awkward to carry about.  I often haul my burdens around fully voluntarily, knowing the gate is wide open.  It is sometimes a constant struggle for me to slip out of certain shackles – resentment, unforgiveness, anger – because sometimes I feel justified in having them around.  Thankfully, my debt has already been paid.  To me, at least, this Living Free isn’t something you escape into only when you accept Christ,  but that you intentionally do on the daily.   Claim life as a freed captive, and not only live free, but introduce other prisoners to The Only One who has the power to grant a full pardon.  It’s not only our obligation as Christians…it is our great privilege.

“Father God, help us to live free from the power of sin, free from addiction, and free from a mindset that keeps me from your good plans for my life.  Give me the discernment to see and help others struggling and hurting, and let me live a life in this freedom that glorifies YOU!  In Jesus’ Holy name.  Amen”

Spiritual

Simplify (sim-pluh-fahy)

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By:  Jana Greene

It’s complicated.  But sometimes it shouldn’t be.

Last December, the Pastor at my church recommended choosing a single word to focus on for the coming year of 2012.  After much deliberation, I committed to “Simplify”, because I was making the whole process of choosing one word, well…..complicated. 

And also because I had been intrigued by a phenomenon on Facebook in which people describe “complicated” as a relationship status.  I came across this for the first time reading one of my friend’s profiles.   This young woman had chosen not to designate herself as either “single” or “married”, nor did she describe herself as “in a relationship”.  She instead chose the “it’s complicated” option.  Huh…..

I now know that this “status” has been around for years, and that my ignorance of it is further evidence that I am old and very un-hip.  Still, it made me pause and think, and choose it’s opposite – simplify – as my one word to focus on. 

Please forgive my naïveté, but when have relationships   not been “complicated”?   It seems an awfully redundant description of relational-status.  Of course they are complicated, as they consist in two complex individuals relating to each other.   (Being single has its own complications, too.  Just ask any single person.)

 It then occurred to me that this status may be a nifty way to keep your options open without being accountable.

And maybe that justification doesn’t just apply to relationship statuses.  That non-committal  stance?  It applies to so many aspects of living, and fosters the justified train of thought, “I can always change it when I figure everything out.”

Spiritually, I don’t want to be the person with complicated beliefs. 

“Well…..it’s complicated.  I believe that  God sent His only begotten Son, so I know I will go to heaven, but I really don’t want to make a commitment.   But I do….but I don’t.  You know?  All roads lead to enlightenment, right?  It’s complicated.  I believe that the Bible is the in-errant Word of God, but maybe some Bible stories are to be taken figuratively, and not literally….like Jonah and the whale, or Noah’s ark…..it’s just not that simple…..”

I don’t want my relationship status with God to be something I am content with thinking, “Well, I can always change it tomorrow”.  Do I believe or not?  What is my faith status, and what do I want it to look like?  After all, I will never, never, never “figure everything out”, understand how the cogs of complications I’ve gone through work in the overall machine of my time on earth. 

I believe.  No over-thinking, no leaving wiggle-room in my belief system.  Making my walk with Christ the simplest, least complicated relationship I have with anybody in my life. 

Simplify  (simp-pluh-fahy)  verb

Make easy, intelligible

Synonyms:  boil down, clarify, clean it up, clear up, facilitate, make plan, make clear, streamline, unscramble.

Yeah.  That kind of faith!  Unless I complicate it, it’s really not that complicated at all.

Devotional

Telling the devil Where He Can Sit

Jana Greene3 Comments

 I originally wrote this piece for a collection of devotionals on the book of James that my church was compiling.  I hope it blesses you today 🙂

 

Jana Greene     

For the past several days of Vacation Bible School, the children were encouraged to bring their parents, grandparents and friends to this Sunday service.  Today, they would parade into the sanctuary, assemble in front of the altar and perform songs in culmination of all they had learned during the week.   To the delight of the congregation, they sing songs about God, of course, and about loving one another.   And just as many generations have sung before them, they often sing about the joy, joy, joy, joy down in their hearts and about being happy, so very happy.  The last verse of the song really gets them excited.

“And if the devil doesn’t like it, he can sit on a tack! OUCH!”

They are nearly screaming the “OUCH!” for dramatic effect, some of them jumping for more emphasis.  These kids, so much like the ones Jesus gathered around him.  The ones Jesus tells us to be like.

 Somewhere along the path to adulthood, most of us have lost this.  We have lost the joy, joy, joy, joy, but just as importantly, we’ve forgotten to tell the devil where to sit.  True, children are often fidgety, and messy – but they are serious about what they believe!  Time and experience in this world wring the purity out of our inner lives, and with it goes joy.  We come to understand how malevolent the powers of evil really are, but instead of invoking authority over them as Jesus commanded, we allow jadedness to crowd out Holiness.  Sometimes we even romance the sin, whatever that may be.  How can a people so broken become childlike in nature again?

Each one of us has the authority to rebuke the devil himself.  It isn’t that we lack authority to command evil from our lives in Jesus’ name, but that we lack faith that we are given such authority.  It is a supernatural proxy given us by Almighty God, not because we have the strength, but because His strength is manifest in our fidgety, messy weakness. Believe it, like a child; with passion and expectation.

“So let God work His will in you. Yell a loud ‘no’ to the devil and watch him scamper. Say a quiet ‘yes’ to God and He will be there in no time. Quit dabbling in sin. Purify your inner life. Quit playing the field. Hit bottom and cry your eyes out. The fun and games are over. Get serious, really serious. Get down on your knees before the Master; it’s the only way you’ll get on your feet.” – James 4:8-10 (Message)

  Father God, let us remember that we have the Authority through the Holy Spirit to tell the devil “NO” when we are tempted or tried.  Coming to you as little children, please restore our joy to overflowing, as we say “YES!” to You and Your good will for our lives.  In the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit we pray.  Amen.

 

–          Jana Greene

Devotional

Sure-Footed Faith

Jana Greene6 Comments

By:  Jana Greene

 

My mother used to call it “petering out”.

“You’re always starting things without finishing them,” she would say.  “you just peter out.”

Oh, how hard I try not to “peter-out”!

I start out strong, and by ‘strong’, I mean obsessive-compulsively.  I gorge myself with information about any given pursuit, lunging into it with enthusiasm.  I will go the distance!

It makes no difference what the pursuit might be.  Below is an incomplete list of projects I have begun without finishing  (what…you expected a complete list?) :

Yoga:  This routine involved a DVD set in which I was to emulate the “poses” of unnaturally flexible people.  Thinking this excercise might be good for a tightly-wound person such as myself, I went all-out.  I bought the mats –  and, I am sorry to say – two pairs of spandex pants. (The mats are now rolled up decoratively under our living-room coffee table, so that a passer-by might think I am fitness-minded….if this passer-by were not to see my actual body.  I’ve no idea where the spandex pants are and if God is merciful,  I will never see them again.)

Gardening:  This one is a real embarrassment because it seems I have actually  failed more times than I’ve tried, if that were possible.  I plant flowers in the spring, carefully considering the nutrient needs of each kind  (ok, glancing at the tag at Home Depot…sun or shade?) and lovingly transferring into the soil.  Inevitably, each precious plant dies a slow and choking death by thirst and weed.  Yet, each new Spring, I forget that I don’t really  like dirt.  By the first hot summer day, I remember that I don’t like heat either,  and that I would have to stand in the hot sun watering plants all summer if I expect them to live.  I don’t, so they don’t.

Laundry:  I love to do laundry!  That is, I love to start the process.  I forget that the clothes have to be transferred into the clothes dryer  after being washed.  The result is that the clothes either start to smell funky and have to be re-washed, or my husband has to complete the cycle.    I just forget that laundry is in process (Really, Honey….I meant to finish it!)

Bible Study:  Ouch!  This one is hard to own.  I join groups with the best of intentions, but often end up dropping out.  Help me to focus, Lord, has become my prayer.  The initial propulsion is strong and forward-moving, but I am fickle, impatient and horribly inconsistent.

For reasons I cannot begin to understand, God picked me for His team anyway.

We’ve all heard that the “road to hell is paved with good intentions”.  I can testify that the roads to frustration, disappointment (and abdominal fat) are too.

What about the daily grind of getting through life with faith-intact?  What about losing interest in the mundane aspects, and giving up altogether on the difficult things?  Many times during this long faith-walk of mine, I have flat-out told God, “I can’t do this!  You have the wrong girl!”  Or, I fall behind and hope no-one will notice, with the mindset that this is too hard. Because sometimes, truly, it is.  We cannot see the finish line; we have no tangible evidence that it exists, but we are commanded (in the words of “Journey”):  Don’t stop believin’.  Thats the “faith” part.

I have a dear friend who is a runner.  As it turns out, there is an entire  sub-culture of people who engage in running – voluntarily – and with no large, predatory animals  in pursuit!  This friend trains relentlessly to run in marathons where the goal is to cross the finish line.  Sometimes a trophy is awarded, but often the only recognition is completion.  There is no prize for crossing the starting line.

“I feel an overwhelming sense of accomplishment when I cross the finish line,” she told me.  “I always know that I will finish, even if I have to walk.  When I start a race, I start with the end in mind.  And when the finish line is in sight, I push even harder.  There is no turning back.”

My prayer is that my spirit will do what my mind and body refuse to – go the distance without “petering out”.  God tells us that we can follow Him with the sure-footedness of an Olympic athlete so long as we study the way that Jesus did it Himself, never losing sight of where he was headed.  My friend, The Runner, understands that more than most.

Even if we have to walk, we finish.

No turning back.  No petering out.

1-3Do you see what this means—all these pioneers who blazed the way, all these veterans cheering us on? It means we’d better get on with it. Strip down, start running—and never quit! No extra spiritual fat, no parasitic sins. Keep your eyes on Jesus, who both began and finished this race we’re in. Study how he did it. Because he never lost sight of where he was headed—that exhilarating finish in and with God—he could put up with anything along the way: Cross, shame, whatever. And now he’s there, in the place of honor, right alongside God. When you find yourselves flagging in your faith, go over that story again, item by item, that long litany of hostility he plowed through. That will shoot adrenaline into your souls!  – Hebrews 12 1:3  (The Message)

Spiritual

Grace Graffiti

Jana Greene4 Comments

By:  Jana Greene

  It is Monday. Although rainy days and Mondays don’t always bring me down, there is a tendency to feel a sense of let-down on the first work day of the week.  Sunday mornings have eclipsed  Friday and Saturday nights as the highlight of my week these days, maybe because I’m getting older, but mostly because I attend a church I look forward to attending.  It is full of people like me: broken but crazy in love with Jesus.  The worship is wild and the message is radical, and I leave feeling….vibrant. .  Technicolor.  No matter how washed-out I felt as I took my seat in the sanctuary, I am renewed when I leave the building.

                But now it’s Monday.  I can already feel the monotony moving in…the ho-hum.

                In an effort to revive my enthusiasm, I picked up my Bible. In the interest of being honest, I don’t always pick up my Bible when I am feeling blah; usually, I try to comfort myself with any number of things (music and chocolate are high on the list).   But I’m (slowly) learning to identify what void needs a fill-up and the appropriate remedy to fill it.

I read a translation that makes clear the message – a translation called “The Message”.  Today in Psalms 17:6-7, I read:

”I call to you, God, because I’m sure of an answer.

So, answer!  Bend your ear!  Listen sharp!

Paint grace-graffiti on the fences;

Take in your frightened children, who

Are running from neighborhood bullies

Straight to you!”

Grace graffiti?   Pure poetry. 

About a year ago, I was lucky enough to accompany my oldest daughter on a class Chorus trip to New York City.  As a chaperone having three seventeen-year-old girls in my room, there was a tremendous sense of responsibility.  As a mother, life-long memories were made with my child in The Big Apple.  As a tourist?  Pure amazement was the order of the day, four days in a row – starting with the bus ride from LaGuardia Airport to our hotel in Manhattan.

My daughter had never been to the big city, and I hadn’t been since childhood.  As we bumped along on the ride, the driver attempted his tired monologue of landmarks as we passed them, but nearly every kid (and chaperone) on the bus was talking simultaneously.  Alexandra and I could not point fast enough to all of the things we were seeing.  As we moved from the more “colorful” parts of town into New York City proper, we saw what I had only witnessed in movies and pictures:  Graffiti.  Real New York Graffiti.  “Wow….” Alexandra and I said together when we saw it.

The surprising thing about graffiti, it is so full of color.  The structures surrounding it were gray and drab, but the art on so many surfaces were bright.  Huge paintings of reds, blues, yellows and greens – with every shade between.  The sheer size of each was baffling, drawing the eye and demanding attention.

And another thing about it, it’s as illegible as it is illegal. The images are universally understood, but the letters may as well be Egyptian hieroglyphics….. Something only the person – or gang – who crafted it would understand – frightened children and neighborhood bullies, all.   Although the intent was to deface property, most of the murals were beautiful, in truth.  A bright protest of the ‘ho-hum”, they relayed the message:  Make no mistake Who was here.

What does “grace graffiti” look like?  The grace of Christ, not as a Sunday morning phenomenon, but as a testimony?

I want a Technicolor faith walk, but I don’t want to be a billboard that only other Christians can decipher.  I struggle with the implications of voicing the desire for it….. graffiti, no matter how society views it, is an honest and raw statement.  Shouldn’t a life covered in graffiti of grace say to the world:  Make no mistake, He was here?

Broken, but crazy in love with Jesus.

Vibrant.  Even on a rainy days and Mondays.

 

Spiritual

No Turning Back Now

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What actually took place is this:  I tried keeping rules and working my head off to please God, and it didn’t work. So I quit being a “law” (wo)man and so that I could be  God’s (wo)man.  Christ’s life showed me how and enabled me to do it. I identified myself completely with him. Indeed, I have been crucified with Christ. My ego is no longer central. It is no longer that I appear righteous before you or have your good opinion, and I am no longer driven to impress God.  Christ lives in me. The life you see me living is not “mine “‘ but is lived by faith in the son of God, who loved me and gave Himself for me.  I am not going to go back on that.  –  Galatians 2:19-21

Spiritual

More than Many Sparrows – My Daughter’s Tattoo

Jana Greene18 Comments

More than Many Sparrows

or

A Tale of My Daughter and the Audacity of Ink 

By:  Jana Greene

October 12, 2011

      The first thing I noticed about it was the blackness of the outline, almost as if it were drawn with bold magic marker.   My next thought was that I must absolutely write about this, the design that now lay bare on her skin.   As if, somehow putting pen to paper would give permanence to the moment, as the needle brought it to her flesh.

My daughter’s first tattoo.

     I had known that it was coming, that she considered it a rite of passage. My girl had always danced to the beat of a different drummer; a lover of eclectic music, performance art and sculpture.  If she had a credo it would be this:  Live by Deliberate Acts of Impulsivity.

As her mother, I would surely prefer that she not bear any tattoos at all, because (and yes, I am the expert here) she is absolutely perfect the way God made her.  I am rather attached to her being, looking, sounding exactly like my daughter – the only one of her kind, anywhere.  Tattoos are just not my “thing”, whereas she very much is.  

           Nineteen years ago, just after she was born, the delivery room nurses whisked her away for her first bath and returned with my infant girl swaddled very tightly.  No sooner was she in my arms than I was removing the blankets, unwrapping her like a present on Christmas morning.  As mothers have done since the dawn of time, I checked her, head to toe.  I found her birthmarks, the dimples in her plump hands, and worked my way to her tiny, peach-fuzzed back.  There, between two flawless round shoulder blades, I placed my open palm to her skin.  It was a perfect fit.  Never in my wildest dreams could I have imagined anything marring that space.

  In her “growing up” years, there were manifestations of her free spirit, of course… harmless acts of rebellion, none of them leaving a lasting mark.  She formed strong opinions before she could form complete sentences, and had no trouble expressing them.  At around age four, she developed magnetism to the camera (any camera) andmade it a habit to insert herself into any and every photograph.  

Around the same time, Alexandra began displaying fashionista tendencies.  An ensemble she chosen for a summer day in the park might include: a sweater with leggings, plastic Disney princess shoes, a toboggan with ear flaps, seven necklaces and a life-vest (after all, it was July!)…all worn together and on dry land.  It soon became apparent that stares, glares and pointing in her direction by the public at large was not a deterrent to this behavior.  It was more the entire motivation.

This is when the adage “choose your battles” took on meaning for me.  And as I became a student of war, the years rolled on like a tank.

With the advent of tween–hood, there were lines drawn, of course. Not a fan of shirts that showed adolescent bellies and shorts that declared suggestive adjectives across their bottoms, those were not tolerated.  Alexandra compensated with crazy combinations of adornment, including stick-on tattoos of all kinds.  

At twelve, after spending a long day with friends at the beach boardwalk, she returned home with a henna tattoo, ecstatic.  

“Until I get a real one,” she told me.

She managed to graduate high school with only a nose ring as modification, butno sooner was the ink dry on her diploma than she was ready to display ink on her body.

“I’m ready,” she said to me one day.  “I’m getting my tattoo. A bird.”

          Okay.  A bird.

         “A Tribal Sparrow,” she added.

         “What in the world is a ‘tribal sparrow’?” My voice is more condescending than I intend.

          Eye rolling and head shaking.  Translation: “Mother, you just don’t get it.”

          I wonder about the subject she has chosen for the artist, and it’s tribal-ness.  Our family heritage is sort-of a homogenized breed.  We have no “tribe”. We have no “people”.  We are Scotch-Irish with German in the mix, and a little Louisiana-Cajun-French (but you have to really look for it).  No- we are very garden variety, Ellis-Island mutt American.  Perhaps that’s the attraction for her, the tribal aspect.

         “If you’re trying to belong,” I said, in an attempt to appeal to her lovingly (sometimes changing strategy can be effective). “You already do.  You don’t need a tattoo to belong here.”

She knows that, she says.  

“Is a bird something you now,” I pause for effect. “And forever more want to be associated with?  Because you will…you will be ‘that girl with that tattoo.” But as I am asking her, I am secretly grateful she isn’t branding herself with a map of Area 51, or the image of a pop tart, or a beer keg.  “It should be something meaningful to you.”

         “It is.  It represents freedom to me, Mom.”

        “You still live at home,” I reply dryly. “We pay all of your bills…..  Don’t you want to wait until you are free to commemorate freedom?”

        Heavy sigh.  “Freedom from things.  Personal things.”

        “If it’s so personal, why does it have to be permanently inked on your body for the whole world to see?”

        “Why would I not?” she counters, and I have no reply.  All their lives, my children have been told to be authentic, true to themselves.  Encouraged to be real.

Don’t be afraid to show who you are.  It’s the message I’ve tried to impart, even during the years of life-vest accessorizing.  Don’t wear the masks.

         “You know what?” I say. “You don’t even know who you are yet!  You are who you are right now, and a mere five years from today, you will be in a completely different place.”

She says that none of us remain the same, not even for a single year. And it’s true  .I am a very, very different mother than I was when she was born, unwrapping her like a present on Christmas morning.  The particular audacity of getting inked is that it alters your shell, the only one you will get in this life.    It is a deliberately impulsive act.

Parenting is not a sane endeavor, and complicating the matter is that she is, in fact, not a child.  Still, I have to believe she will listen to reason.

“Not everyone is going to be so accepting of your ways in the world,” I bleat wearily..   “There are people who will make value judgments about you based solely on the fact that you have a tattoo.”

But my instincts tell me to RETREAT, as I watch her body tense.

RETREAT, or there will be immediate launch into mutual hysteria, familiar territory for us.  It seems that – these days –she and I are either dissolving into tears of laughter together (our ‘inside jokes’ are legion), or hurling words of frustration at one another, rapid-fire.

“If I ever care what people think of me based solely on my appearance, than I have bigger problems than having a tattoo!”

How can I not admire that statement?  Who can argue?  She is, after all, an adult.  I surrender, but silently, and with a slow refrain of “Taps” playing in my mind.  

What I want to tell her, but do not say aloud, is that she will be marked, molded, and modified, without ever setting foot into a tattoo parlor.  I look at my body, once just as perfect as hers, mapped by the story of my life.  Constellations of freckles from forgetting sunscreen a thousand times, and wrinkles from the same offense.   Smile-lines around my eyes from laughing, scars from mishaps and missteps, and from the pieces I have lost to surgeries…all part of the story.   But it’s the pink, translucent ribbons that cover my lower belly that mean the most to me.  Tributaries of skin stretched to accommodate the growing bodies of she and her sister long ago….. these are my tribal marks.  

When the time arrives, Alexandra comes to tell me it is The Day.  She tells me the name of the artist who will do the work.  I recognize his name; he attends my church.  She is the definition of “all smiles”, luminous.

“Do you want to come with me while I have it done?” She asks.  “You can hold my hand.”  I am instantly frustrated with her for acting like a little girl – still needing my approval, and equally frustrated that she is not one anymore.

I politely decline, and her boyfriend goes with her instead.  I am considering the natural order of things, pondering the business of ‘letting go’ when she walks out the door with him.  I try not to think about ink and needles.  I’m glad he will hold her hand.

It finally occurred to me to talk to God about my qualms; it should have been my first  response.  How many times do I wrestle tiny inconsequential issues to the ground as though they are giants without asking the Almighty God to assist me on the mat?  As usual, He was already in that place I had hesitated to invite him.

The Bible has a lot to say, and the gist of the message that speaks to my life is Grace.  True, there are passages that warn about marking the body, scriptures that warn against cutting the hair.  But it is a verse about birds that God brought to my mind.  Leafing through the pages, I found it right away:

Matthew 10:29.  “Are not two sparrows sold for a penny?  And yet not one of them will fall to the ground apart from the will of your Father.  And even the very hairs of your head are numbered.  So don’t be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows.”

Has my daughter inadvertently given flesh to the scripture I pray over her?    

Though I hate to admit it, Alexandra’s tattoo has forced me to consider the messy business of acceptance.   The “Choose-Your-Battle” cry of all parents has a different tone for each scrimmage and every life stage.  What do I gain, as a mother, if I choose not to accept my grown child’s decisions?  Am I selfishly seeking validation that I have “raised her right” if she refrains from what society might be uncomfortable with?  

The freedom she is trying to parlay is that today, she can still go anywhere from here.  This tattoo is meaningful to her.  And she is meaningful to me.

When she returns, she cannot wait to show me, walking backwards into my bedroom so that it’s the first thing I see.  There is no hiding the work; she will have none of that.  This girl, a lover of eclectic music, performance art and sculpture…now adorned.

So that’s a Tribal Sparrow...  

A clear coat of laminate covers the wound, so that it can heal properly.  In the mental melee of preparing myself to see it, I had forgotten that it would scab and scar…that it would be a ‘no pain, no gain’ commitment, as most things that become permanent are.

“It’s lovely,” I say.  And I think I mean it.

The Tribal Sparrow is a beautiful bird.

Her outline is striking and very bold, not the least bit likely to fade, but her plumage is just the color of Alexandra’s complexion.  Centered between my daughter’s flawless and round shoulder blades, the sparrow is exactly the size of my open palm…a perfect fit.  She is in flight, but I’m not sure she knows where she is going, her two tail feathers pointed high.  Her eye appears to be a soft swirl, peering neither downward or behind, but straight ahead.  Her wings are gently drawn with a curve, as if she is gliding, not yet looking for a place to land.  A true Artist painted her right onto my daughter’s perfect body.  And every time I see it now, I am reminded that His eye is on the sparrow,and that she can go anywhere from here.  

Anywhere at all.