Into Your Hands

Not only does the cross demonstrate God’s willingness to love us at the ultimate personal cost, but Jesus also modeled for us how we can live in that trust – “Into your hands I commit my spirit.” When I can’t figure out what God is doing; when I’ve just messed up to the greatest degree; when I’m lonely and empty the answer is still the same: “Into your hands, I commit my spirit.”

– Wayne Jacobsen, “He Loves Me: Learning to Live in the Father’s Affection

I like to be in control. I admit this freely. I am a first-born, Type A personality with control issues and I like to plan my day, plan my month, plan my year and life and everything down on through into eternity. I need to know what comes next. When I pick up a book to read I always flip to the last page first because I have to know how it ends. I spoil the endings of movies for myself because I can’t handle the suspense of not knowing. My blood pressure usually skyrockets during sporting events because there’s no spoiler or internet feed that’s going to tell me the final score.

And the fact that I can plan and make lists and schedule to my hearts desire and still not know what tomorrow is going to bring? Pretty much scares the life out of me. I mean, almost literally. It’s enough to make me want to hunker down in my closet, shut the door and put my hands over my hears while singing “la-la-la-la-la I can’t hear you” at the top of my lungs.

This is probably why I also don’t like to drink a lot. I’m not a huge fan of that slow slipping away of inhibition. I like my inhibition fully intact, thank you very much. And for the most part this has largely kept me out of trouble in my life. But. BUT. This is the problem. (And please understand me that I’m not necessarily condoning inebriated drunkenness right now). Fear of the unknown, fear of the future had kept me from experiencing… who knows what?

Luckily, over the past few years I’ve met some people who have helped me realize that not a lot comes from all this worry and stress. It’s just a big ugly cycle of panic attacks and insomnia and medication and more stress. What good does any of that do? Like the great Tom Petty sings, “Most things I worry about never happen anyway.” I can sit and worry about everything that could happen tomorrow and I can hide in the closet to keep that all at bay and yeah, maybe it will get me through until tomorrow night – but what amazing thing did I miss experiencing while I was stuck in that stupid closet?

Whatever happens, happens. What will happen, will happen.

I don’t mean this is a crazy predestination sense – I do believe that we write our own destinies. But whatever is going to happen, is going to happen. What happens tomorrow is what happens tomorrow. We can live it or we can hide from it. We can be active participants in life or we can watch it happen.

Trust me, I know that it’s never easy to let go of that worry. I want to sit and worry over the future and my career and why I haven’t found the right guy and why I never have enough money and why this and why that and why why why. It’s not easy to look heavenward and say, “God, I give this to you.” And then, you know, to actually give it to Him. To let go and say, “Direct me where you will.” Which is crazy because it should be the easiest thing in the world. If someone came to you and said, “give me all your troubles, I will take care of it,” you’d think we’d jump at the opportunity. “Here! Have at it! ”

But we’re human and we’re faulty and we fight everything and we like to have answers, here, right now, assoonashumanlypossible. We're going to home onto that control until it kills us, right?

Matthew 6:25-34 reads "Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; about your body, or what you will wear... See how the lilies of the field grow. They do not toil or spin. Yet I tell you that not even Solomon in his splendor was dressed like one of these. If that is how God clothes the grass of the field, which is here today and tomorrow thrown into the fire, will he not much more clothe you, O you of little faith? So do not worry... but first seek his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well. Therefore, do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of it's own."

I do find a lot of comfort in these words. God is there, always, ready to take our troubles and our burdens and we just have to fall into him and trust. Trust – that tricky little keyword.

It’s almost unfathomable that at the moment of most excruciating pain and torture, Jesus was able to look toward God and say, “Into your hands, I commit my spirit.” He gave it up. He gave it up to God’s will and planning and good grace. He trusted. I can’t even comprehend that. Throw me a little bit of loneliness and a couple bills to pay and I’m ready to thrash around on the ground screaming “Why God, why?!”

Pathetic? Weak? Human? Yeah, maybe all of the above.

I am trying. I am trying to give up my worries and live in the moment and enjoy the here and now, the blessings I’ve been given. Terrible things happen and plans are broken and hearts are broken and there’s no telling what tomorrow will bring. But I do know this, that when I do give up my troubles to God, when I let Him direct me, when I just let a moment take me – I feel my most at peace, more content than I ever do when I plan and arrange and schedule. A fulfilled plan is nothing compared to a moment that is really truly lived in passion and laughter and relationship with friends and family. So.

In honor of this then, this beautiful Easter Sunday, I will go and live and leave that empty closet behind and prepare for… whatever happens.

Love always and blessings,

Shannon

The Proust Questionnaire

Cause I'm bored, I'm never going to be on Inside the Actor's Studio and I really just like answering questions like this.

1. What is your favorite word? Enthusiasm. It literally means "filled with God" and I love the idea that being enthused or excited about something is God's joy speaking through me.

2. What is your least favorite word? Moist. Or panties. I'm also not a huge fan of the "c" word.

3. What turns you on? Intelligence and humor.

4. What turns you off? Close-mindedness.

5. What sound or noise do you love? Besides laughter, my favorite sound is the hissing cracking noise of a striking match.

6. What sound or noise do you hate? Phlegm. Any phlegmy kind of noise like hawking a loogie. Yuck.

7. What is your favorite curse word? Clusterf**k.

8. What profession other than your own would you like to try? Photography

9. What profession would you not like to do? Doctor, or anything where I was responsible for another life.

10. If heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say to you at the pearly gates? Welcome home, your family and friends are over here.

i carry your heart with me by e.e cummings

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

buzz

curled up in an overstuffed leather chair, notebook balanced on my knees,
my mind wanders lazy over disjointed prose and the chattering clatter
of customers wandering in like a steady tide as the
deep roasted aroma of coffee beans hovers in the air.

ice clinks in a plastic cup, melting slowly into diluted remnants of chai tea
as i twist the straw up and down - mindless in a dull, slow, echoing scratch,
repetitious harmony and the whirring whir of a blender
lulls my mind into a heightened sense of wait

the touch of my skin pulses with artificial frenzy
to the beat of some indie song no one knows the name of,
buzzed high on caffeination, anticipation, the hazy humidity of a summer day
and the falling in love with each stranger that walks through the door.

THIS SONG

Do you ever get in one of those weird moods where you can listen to the same song over and over again on repeat and never get tired of it? In fact, it's like you can't get enough? Well, this is that song for me right now. The entire album is fantabulous and I'm in love with every second it it but this song especially has caught my attention.

The lyrics. The lyrics! Oh my gosh, it's like some one wrote a song about the past year of my life. Amazing. Get out of my head Frightened Rabbit.

So here you go:

Not Miserable by Frightened Rabbit

Well this is easier now
I've found all the pieces that I lost in the flood
And it wasn't that much

And though it's easier now
I will always remember the night that I almost drowned
All alone in a house

And the love that I lost
With all of the shit that came out in the wash
Just a pocket of fluff

And I'm not put upon
I'm free from disease, no grays, no liver spots
Most of the misery's gone
Gone, gone to the bone

(I am)
Not miserable now
No one knows
No one knows
I'm not miserable

So the hymns that I sung
Prayers for the fucked, from a bitter, forked tongue
Sing of history now

Though the corners are lit
The dark can return with the flick of a switch
It hasn't turned on me yet, yet

(I am)
Not miserable now
No one knows
No one knows
I'm not miserable

(I am)
Not miserable now
No one knows
No one knows
I'm not miserable

Ellipses

…want, this thing I want but cannot name
that sits, tantalizing, at the tip of my tongue,
dancing along the edge of my brain, (tap-dancing over curiosity)
My lips make shape of the formless word,
yet sit there silent – continue.

What is this thing? Where am I stuck
restless, legs sticking to green vinyl
as the waitress asks me again,
pen at the edge of the table, tapping out my indecision.

I am consumed with craving for food that doesn’t exist.
Some unknown taste concoction
of tangy and sweet and spicy and smooth.
This empty ache in my stomach persists, persists
for something that’s not even real.

What is this thing? Where am I stuck
restless, legs sticking to green vinyl
as the waitress asks me again,
pen at the edge of the table, tapping out my indecision.

This faceless thing that chases me.
feels perpetually close, closing in
The hair rises on the back of my neck
but when I turn there is nothing and just this emptiness
of something I didn’t know was lost.

What is this thing? Where am I stuck
restless, legs sticking to green vinyl
as the waitress asks me again,
pen at the edge of the table, tapping out my indecision.

I itch to jump up and run out the door, legs pumping, feet pounding the pavement in steady rhythm where there is no path, on the way to somewhere new, unknown, dancing over the edge of a cliff to where I can swim through satin dreams of yellow and pink hues and climb back up raindrops through a dizzying lightening storm whilst screaming myself into a million pieces of light and sound and fury.

Impossibility.

Running in a circle to places I can’t name.
And this is wanting… And this is wanting…

City Street

I am born in the middle of the week. In the middle of a hospital. In the middle of a busy city. My parents hold me close and count all ten fingers and all ten toes. The nurses bustle in and out. In the room next door there is another sharp cry. Down in the city below a steady stream of business men and women cross streets and hail taxis.

You are born on a Saturday. Local news channels report record-breaking heat and monsoons. Your mother almost passes out after you take your first breath. Your father holds you in front of the hospital window as lightning streaks across the night sky.

I see the Pacific Ocean for the first time when I am three. I run across the beach in a pink bathing suit. My mother leads me out to the water. Her belly is growing again. They tell me I’m going to be a big sister. The wet sand is squishy between my toes. The water sprays up and I run away shrieking as a white foam wave chases me to shore.

You are four when you break your first bone. You’re climbing a tree with your brother and a branch snaps. You hit the ground and can’t breathe for a moment. Your arm is bent at an odd angle. You don’t cry much but your mother almost screams when she sees you. You’re in a cast for six weeks.

I fall in love for the first time on a Tuesday. I am ten years old and wear my hair gathered in a large pink scrunchie at the side of my head. He makes me laugh and my stomach begins to feel funny. I slide down in my seat and wonder if he will turn to face me again. The teacher stands at the front of the classroom and talks about fractions. The dry smell of chalk is faintly in the air.

You fall in love for the first time on a Sunday. She goes to your church and wears bows in her hair. She sits next to you in class and answers all the questions. Two hundred miles away I turn around in my sleep.

My first broken heart happens in the middle of July. I spend my days working and he comes to see me and tell me at lunch. When I get home I curl up in my mother’s arms and cry. She strokes my hair and offers me chocolate. We eat a tub of Rocky Road that night and watch three romantic-comedies in a row.

You have sex for the first time at her house. You are both nervous. It’s awkward and afterward you lie next to each other and stare at the ceiling. She holds the sheets against her body and you think about how she used to wear bows in her hair.

I have sex for the first time after a late night study session at the library. We are laughing and high on caffeine and lack of sleep. The sofa upholstery is scratchy against my back. He kisses my neck and tells me he loves me. There are tears in my eyes. Outside the moon is low in the sky, full and round, surrounded in silvery wisps of clouds.

Your first broken heart happens in the middle of her second year of law school. She drives two hours to tell you. You stare at a dry patch in the grass while she speaks. A door slams a couple houses down and she is gone.

I meet you on a Thursday. It’s the end of August and the air conditioner is broken. You walk in and make a comment about inflatable pools. I laugh because it’s too hot to think up a comeback. Later that night I will recall the way the corners of your eyes crinkled when you smiled.

We kiss for the first time on a Wednesday. We are watching a movie and I can’t even pretend to know the plotline because we are sitting so close and I have never been so acutely aware of someone that it’s made my toes curl like this and I’m thinking too much. And then you get up to leave and there is this voice screaming in my head and then suddenly you’re there and your lips are against mine as I practically breathe you in.

We have sex for the first time on a Monday night. It is frantic and hurried and full of want. You whisper words against my hair. I am shaking. My toes seem to pulse with electricity. The room falls away. In the morning you will find crescent shaped marks from my fingernails in your back.

We are married on a Saturday. In the church of my childhood. The bridesmaids wear green and we eat cake and dance until midnight. My feet are aching and your dress shirt collar is hanging open. Afterward we collapse onto a hotel bed and fall asleep within minutes. Down the hall a pair of lovers moves in gasping rhythm with the night

You almost leave in December. We’ve been fighting again about money and I’m crying into the phone as tears roll down my cheeks and under my chin. I’m sitting against the refrigerator door when you pad into the kitchen in your bare feet. We sit next to each other and talk until the sun comes up. You don’t leave.

Our daughter is born in the middle of the night. The contractions have been strong since we finished washing the dinner dishes. I lie on the floor in the living room. Counting. You run back and forth between rooms. We arrive at the hospital before midnight. I ask for drugs. I am worn and tired when they place her in my arms. She holds tightly to my fingers as I curl her tiny body against mine.

We buy our first house in our fifth year of marriage. The children run up the stairs to claim rooms. James helps you lug in all the furniture. We stay up late that night, cross-legged in the middle of the living room and unpack a box labeled “Knick-Knacks.”

It is June when our family first visits the Pacific Ocean. The kids pile out of the car and run toward the water. I have made peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for everyone. Susan dives headfirst into the waves. I hold Davey’s hand as he walks toward the water. The sand is squishy between our toes. The water sprays up and he runs away shrieking as a white foam wave chases him to shore.

We receive the call at 2:23 a.m. My heart pulses loudly in my ears at the sound of your voice. We drive toward the hospital in silence. Four days later I will lay a yellow rose on my daughter’s casket.

It is a Monday. Or a Tuesday. Or many days when we sit around the dining room table. We lean back in our chairs telling stories. Lucy tells a joke she heard in school. We laugh so hard our bellies ache. Later that night you move against me, whispering into my hair. The rest of the house is silent and still.

We dance at our son’s wedding in January. There are lilies in the bride’s hair. He rests his hand over her ever-growing belly and they laugh. You stand and say something with tears in your eyes. A photographer snaps a picture as you kiss the top of my head.

We fly over the Atlantic Ocean in the middle of the night. The vast waters are spread out beneath us in inky darkness. You hold my hand when the plan lurches suddenly. Two hours later we step out of an airport into blinding sunlight. Buses and taxis whir by in a blur. Strangers walk past murmuring in an unknown language.

I lose you in the middle of January. It’s been a long fight. Our children cry at your memorial service. I hold little Jenny on my lap. She asks about grandpa. I sit on the edge of our bed that night with your pillow in my arms. The night quiet is disturbed by teenagers laughing as they run up the street.

I learn yoga in the middle of my seventy-sixth year. It is Lucy’s idea. She and her husband want me to move into their house. I look at the framed photos scattered across our walls. There are marks in each of the door frames measuring our children as they grew. I wake up each morning and make my own coffee and try to master Downward Dog.

I die in the middle of the week. In the middle of a hospital. In the middle of a busy city. I don’t feel much. Someone is holding my hand and saying something far away. I love you. Down in the city below a steady stream of business men and women cross streets and hail taxis.