May 25th, 2020: A Story-keepers remembrance

Grandmother’s Story ¥ Artist: SALTINI, Pietro : 1839-1908 : Italian ¥ Credit: [ The Art Archive / Museo Civico Trieste / Dagli Orti (A) ] ¥ Ref: AA345604 (42539788)

I’ve often been called my autoimmune tribe’s Story-keeper. I’ve shied away from that some. However, it may be true to some extent. I tell our story in the moment and keep our rawness in reflection. Here is that rawness that I shared on May 25th 2020 during the COVID-19 pandemic globally and in the USA the day we all watched the horrific death of George Floyd.

If you are like me, you might be experiencing a kind of pandemic and societal fatigue. You are more than tired of living in this reality. You are exhausted by the relentless information that comes our way about the virus. You’re exhausted because all that information tends to be the exact information we knew the day before. You’re exhausted by the incompetency of our leadership and subsequent results. You’re exhausted and grieved by the ever growing deaths. You’re exhausted because somehow a virus became a way to declare your political affiliation and a way to attack the other. You might be exhausted by the mundanity of a life lived in close quarters.

You are exhausted of watching horrific videos of gun violence that is all too common in our country. Our children hiding and blanketed in fear, knowing that in their lives it’s not just fire drills but more frequently active shooter drills that take up their days.

Photo by News Service of Florida

You are exhausted, terrified, and filled with rage at yet one more murder of a black man by those in authority with a badge blatantly flaunting their lack of care. Either through malice, idiocy, hate, bigotry, all the above, or an actual belief that it is their duty to not only arrest but murder those that inhabit black bodies. It’s enraging. It’s exhausting. It’s spirit, heart, and body breaking.

Image from Kekla Magoon- How It Went Down

I’m exhausted. I’m broken and so exhausted that most days, ok pretty much every day, I have no clue how to make a life within this context. What does my best self look like in all of this? I don’t know. All I know is that I’m at some threshold and the steps I make now will shape every step I take moving forward.

“Restore us! Restore us! I demand it! We have forgotten what a restored life looks like! We want to reflect You and shine!” – April Beth Pearce

When I come to these threshold moments in life I often do not have words to express my concerns or rage. My prayers feel lacking and often lonely. It is within these moments that I yearn to commune in a state of prayer with the saints who have gone before me. To be shaped by their love once more and by their wisdom. To be reminded that even now the prayers they prayed are still in motion.

I am incredibly lucky because years ago I was gifted a piece of paper with a few bible verses from the psalms written on it. They were copied down by my Grandmother Ruth. I don’t know why she chose them. I don’t know the context in which she was living when she copied them. But what I do know is that at some point they were meaningful enough to her that she copied them and saved them.

My beloved grandmother’s own handwriting

I can imagine her writing them down. Praying them. I can even see where in her home she would be writing them. I can turn to this little piece of paper, read these verses, read them prayerfully, and know that I have joined fully into joyful communal prayer with one of my ancestral saints. It strengthens me. It encourages me. It wraps me in abundant love.

If you are exhausted today. If you are enraged today. If you are heartbroken today. If you are all of the above and you find yourself at a threshold; I urge you to join me in communal prayer with the saints that came before us and who will come after us.

And if you need inspiration here are the verses that my grandmother left us with her own beloved hand.

I will sing to the Lord for He has been good to me. Ps 13:6

You are my Lord; apart from you I have no good thing. Ps 16:2

My God turns my darkness into light. Ps 18:28b *(My darkness is everyone’s darkness for I am not in the light and unburdened until all are in the light and unburdened)

With your help I can advance against a troop; with my God I can scale a wall. Ps 18:28

May the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be acceptable in your sight, O Lord, my strength and my Redeemer. Ps 19:14

To you, O Lord, I lift up my soul; in you I trust, O my God. Do not let my enemies triumph over me. Ps 25: 1-2

The Lord is my strength and my shield; my heart trusts in Him, and I am helped. Ps 28:7

*My own intentions behind the words “turn my darkness” because of my own theology

Painting by Jyoti Sahi, based on John 20:22

Mystical Needles: Encountering 3’s and 7’s

Since my Beloved asked me to marry him in February of 2020 I have dreamed of knitting my own wedding veil in Shetland lace. I adore knitting. It is more than a passion for me. It is a way of connecting to the Divine, to my Creator. In many ways it sanctifies me. I cannot explain it. It just does. Which is why I so desperately wanted to include it in my wedding ceremony to my Beloved. For, when we found one another we saw each other beyond what we chose to even show to our ourselves. We saw the truth of who each other were as the Divine created us and shaped us to be.

Well, 2020 soon turned into what we all know 2020 turned into. Luckily for me, I was able to live in quarantine with my Beloved and that experience affirmed what we already knew was true. That the Divine really had called us into true marriage and oneness together. However, we suffered great losses through the pandemic. Dozens of friends from my autoimmune community died from covid as did one of my Beloved’s family members. I, along with a few friends, started a non profit that allowed over 30 families to be fed, sheltered, clothed, and medically cared for throughout the pandemic.

Still, the stress and grief of caring for so many while mourning took a physical toll on me. All of that resulted in a severe flare of my own autoimmune issues that precluded me from partaking in my knitting passion. It has been a devastating blow to not be able to pick up my needles during such a grief-filled time.

My Beloved and I continued though. We move forward, holding an intimate religious wedding ceremony via zoom. It was uniquely us. And while it wasn’t a typical walk down the aisle wedding, it was exactly the wedding we felt called to in response to 2020.

However, my veil was MIA. I had not been able to pick up my needles for months which meant there was no veil to be worn. Fortunately, because the ceremony was purely religious and we told everyone upfront that it was, we knew it was just wedding part 1. Wedding part 2 will be in person and will have all the legalities in place. I am also hoping that my veil will be in place as well by then.

In that hope, I picked my needles up again a couple of weeks ago. My illness, still ongoing, has affected my knitting a bit. I decided to restart the veil because the stitching would look different. And while I’m not a complete perfectionist I would like it to look like it was knitted by the same person.

I have been convinced for some time now that knitting can be a mystical experience if the knitter allows it. Truly, anything can be a mystical experience if one allows it to be. For me, knitting is always a place where I feel the shaping hands of my Creator. So, it shouldn’t be surprising when I find myself experiencing something more than knit one knit two together while I’m stitching.

Artist

I have struggled trying to describe effectively what I’ve experienced these past couple of weeks as I’ve started knitting my veil again. It’s difficult to describe knitting stitches to non-knitters but adding in the reality of a mystical experience and that difficulty increases. I hope you will bear with me as I do my best to invite you into my sacred space and truth.

When looking at the knitting chart for the center panel of my veil you’ll see two bold vertical lines. Under the chart and in between those lines are the words “Repeats of 16 stitches.” This section of the pattern starting on the 3rd row from the bottom is what I will be focusing on. You know it is the 3rd row because on the far right side there is a number 3. A knitting chart is read backwards from how we read English, right to left.. Why? Because knitters knit right to left.

Ok, hang in there my non-knitting friends. There’s about to be a lot of knitting jargon here. But I promise this all has a point.

If I were to transcribe this chart into words starting from the 16 stitches repeat portion it would read like this: slip 1, knit 2 together, pass slip stitch over, yarn over, knit 1, yarn over, slip 1, knit 1, pass slip stitch over, knit 7, knit 2 together, yarn over, knit 1, yarn over.

Whew!

That would leave 16 stitches on my needle. That’s a combination of previously single stitches merging into one, making entirely new stitches, and stitching into singular stitches and keeping them singular.

However, that first “slip 1, knit 2 together, pass slip stitch over.” It’s a bit tricky. All of that wording is marked by that little triangle that you see in the chart. It’s a triangle because it is a double decrease. It takes 3 stitches and makes them 1. More importantly, the 10 side stitches before it leaves an extra stitch between that bold vertical line and the 16 stitches section after it. It means the knitter must “borrow” that first slipped stitch from the section preceding it in order to complete the very first stitch of the repeated section.

A finished Slip 1 Knit 2 Together Pass Slip Stitch Over

In other words, to find the three in one you must have the generosity of that which came before. The section starts with 3 in 1. It adds new stitches by using those yarn overs and then there is a new union of 2 stitches becoming 1.

Here we come to the very center of our section. Here we have 7 plain and beautifully simple knit stitches. 7 stitches of wholeness and completeness. 7 stitches of catching your breath. 7 stitches of gratefulness for the great generosity that came before, which led you here. 7 stitches of contemplation on what you thought would be simple but you found was not. 7 stitches of preparation on what lays ahead. 7 stitches of shalom.

Then you move forward, maybe hesitantly, maybe exuberantly. Knit two together. Wholeness leads to unity and oneness. This leads to more newness and the creation of yarn overs in new stitches, a remembrance and tradition of knit 1, and again creation of new reality yarn over.

All this though brings one more reality that you may or may not have prepared for. Because you were gifted your first slipped stitch for your 3 in 1, you now have 1 extra stitch in you 16 stitches section. You have an abundance. More than you need. More than makes your pattern work and you hear the call. You were gifted from those that came before and now you must give to those who come after.

I shift, and start the next section all over again. 3’s and 7’s. 3’s in 1’s. 3’s and 7’s.

Suddenly I see.

The Divine before me
Wholeness within me
The Divine after me

The Divine before me
Newness beckons me
Oneness calls me
Wholeness within us
Oneness We reflect in us
Newness we share in us
The Divine stays after us

Etching by Marina Terauds

And now, instead of words or a tune. My prayers are filled with 3’s and 7’s. Triangles and slashes. Empty boxes and dots.

I sit cross legged with the mystical rhythm of my needles and revel in the great wisdom of the Holy who made themselves known in the very fabric of my own mystical union.

A Faith Deeper Than Souvenir Silver Linings

How many times have you heard the phrase “Every cloud has it’s silver lining?”

I’ve heard it so many times that it is almost useless and meaningless. I, by nature, am not an optimistic individual and silver linings are a bit too trite for my taste. Why? Because silver linings are the cheap last minute gifts the universe gives us from the airport gift stores of life when it forgot to bring something back from it’s big trip. “Oh! Your house burned down and you lost your t-shirts? That’s horrible! Well, at least you got this new T-shirt I got you that says ‘I lost everything and all I got was this lousy T-shirt’. Haha! Funny right?”

Aww humor. Silver linings. Hard pass. In the immortal words of Ariana Grande “Thank U, Next.”

Silver linings aren’t what feeds your soul or your well being. The time has come for us to stop peddling silver linings and start braving the clouds we’ve been trying to avoid.

Psalm 6 reads as one learning about braving those clouds;

“Turn, O Lord and deliver me; save me because of your unfailing love. Among the dead no one proclaims your name. Who praises you from the grave? I am worn out from my groaning. All night long I flood my bed with weeping and drench my couch with tears. My eyes grow weak with sorrow; they fail because of all my foes. Away from me, all you who do evil, for the Lord has heard my weeping. The Lord has heard my cry for mercy; the Lord accepts my prayer. All my enemies will be overwhelmed with shame and anguish; they will turn back and suddenly be put to shame.”

Reading that, praying that. “I flood my bed with weeping. My eyes grow weak with sorrow.” How long O Lord? How long? Those are prayers I have prayed for years.

One day as I prayed that psalm the tears ran down just as I prayed “The Lord has heard my weeping and my cry for mercy.” I knew then. Right then, the Lord showed up.

“Oh my dear, you’ve been looking for the flimsy souvenir silver linings and I’ve been showing up in that cloud with you. The Divine wastes nothing.”

Sit for a moment. Rest in that. The Divine Wastes Nothing.

The Divine doesn’t cause everything that is harmful and broken. But if you want to grow, if you want to place yourself in the path of the Divine, if you want to have more than the “all I got was this lousy t-shirt” faith, you must lean into that mucky cloud of brokenness and say, “I’m not going to waste one single moment of this.”

I would love to list all the ways I can name in which the Divine wasted nothing as I leaned into those clouds this year but this little writing would become a tome instead of an essay. Instead, I invite you to call or message me. I invite you to join us in the clouds. I invite you to look back and see not the flimsy souvenir silver linings but to those “Divine wastes nothings” of this past year in your life.

And as you do so, your story becomes our story, the Divine’s story. It feeds all of our souls. How is that possible? Because truly, the Divine Wastes Nothing.

Thanks Be to the Holy.

Lord, have mercy. This Sucks: Forgiveness as a Spiritual Discipline

I’ve not posted much about what’s been going on in DC or with me physically and how it’s impacted my spiritual formation these past couple of weeks. I’ll be honest, I’ve had a rough physical health week and the current state of our nation has taken a toll on my own willingness to engage.

There is a call from many that we should strive for unity and healing, which on the surface sounds good and even holy. However, we forget sometimes that healing can only come when there is an acknowledgement of woundedness and an accurate diagnosis of what caused that woundedness.

Grace and mercy may be achieved, but that doesn’t mean justice will be excluded. In fact, often times the very nature of justice brings about grace.

For now though in regards to our own spiritual formation it could be helpful for us to focus on the concept of forgiveness.

Forgiveness is perhaps the most difficult spiritual discipline for me personally. It may be for you as well. Forgiveness is not a one and done type of activity. Forgiveness isn’t even predicated on the offensive party’s acknowledgment of wrongdoing. Forgiveness is something the hurt, the wronged, and the abused, give to their attackers because it is what the Divine has done for them.

We don’t forgive because the wronged are worthy. We forgive because we are to reflect the Divine. If we truly reflect the Divine then forgiveness is a forgone conclusion.

That whole reflecting the Divine means forgiveness is a forgone conclusion thing…it sucks. It’s easy to say and practice within a loving family system. But in a world where oppression, abuse, and hatred reigns so freely….it really really sucks.

In Matthew 18:22 Jesus tells Peter that one should forgive their brothers 70 times 7.

Now that is basically bible speak for infinity. As a kid, I took that literally though. I made a grid that kept track of how many times I had to forgive my brother John. I taped it on the wall in our shared hallway. About two days in my brother noticed that every time he ticked me off I would go and fill in one of the squares and then walk away. He realized what was happening.

Welp, needless to say, I got a slight dressing down by the parental units. They asked me what the plan was when he filled up the boxes. I replied “I figured it was free reign at that point.” To which my dad laughed and my mom did not. It was explained that “No April, you can’t just count up your forgiveness tallies. You can’t try to count up emotional contracts. You must choose to be the best version of who God made you to be, not the sassiest or cleverest or the snarkiest. You must choose to learn, gain wisdom, to love more, forgive freely, but not forget who those around you are and who God created you to be.”

Everyday is a choice. Every moment is a choice. Forgiveness is a choice, not an erasure of fault. It’s and acknowledgement of the woundedness, a call of grace, a call of greater wisdom, and perhaps one that holds another to justice. But make no mistake you must choose to practice forgiveness every day, even for something you thought you already had forgiven. Wounds don’t heal in one day.

Today, in the hardest of moments. Recognizing that this sucks.
I remember the truth that this spiritual discipline is still necessary.
Choose forgiveness everyday.
Holy Lord, have mercy. This sucks.

2021: A Call To Remember Your Vows

As we enter 2021 the typical tradition of new year resolutions just doesn’t seem like a good fit this year. Too much has happened societally this past year. We must not make trite goals but instead be literally resolute in our vows we make.

I have no great words of my own today. What I do have are the words, images, and music of others who have helped shape me and point me towards the vow I made with the Divine almost 20 years ago.

Here is my reminder of my vow and the pieces of this world that keep me resolute in keeping that vow.

2021: A Call To Remember Your Vows

Mary Knew. Do You?

This past Advent and now Christmas season (yes we are still in Christmas) I have intentionally focused on Mary. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for within the character of Mary in the story of my faith. Yet, I felt that compelling tug of Sophia asking me to look beyond the shallow end of the pool that most of us wade in when Mary is involved.

Raised in a Protestant home, perhaps even an Evangelical home, although I doubt most Evangelicals would call us that, Mary was brought out at most two times a year regularly. She might be sprinkled in a few stories as a side character but mostly the images we were given were a young pubescent girl suddenly pregnant and joyfully welcoming the honor of being so. Then, we would get the story of Mary making an appearance as Jesus is preparing or is dying at the cross. The image painted was one of an elderly grieving widow and mother in deep loss. That’s weird because if she was pubescent when Jesus was born and Jesus died around the age of 33…Mary wouldn’t be all that elderly. Though, I suppose hair dye wasn’t really happening much and raising Jesus probably added some stress.

In the Catholic faith they deal with Mary with a great deal more respect. Yet, there are still some problematic issues.

Envisioning Mary for myself meant I needed more of her. More than I had been given previously. I’ve read all the canonical scriptures. I decided to read non canonical gospels mentioning her. I went searching for Mary Iconography. I searched for modern interpretations of Mary.

And then, as I sat resting in the limited words in scripture I knew of her story, all written by men. I felt a familiar playful nudge from Sophia. “Imagine. She was real. If you were to write creatively a story with just these words as prompts, who would Mary become in that story?”

Knowing full well that what happened from that point forward was my innate being interacting creatively, not historically or factually, with the Divine, a new Mary arrived.

I’ve never enjoyed Christmas music all that much. Perhaps I’ve sung too many cantatas. I don’t know. Yet, there is one Christmas song that immediately annoys me beyond all others and no, it’s not Dominic the Donkey. It’s Mary Did You Know?

It’s a beautiful tune. Those words though. It’s one big facepalm after another. The title alone is ridiculous. We are given so little in our scriptures about Mary. The one story that is explicitly about her is literally learning about the fact she was pregnant with the Son of God. She absolutely knew.

“But April Beth, the song talks about all the horrible things he had to go through, the miracles he would perform, how he would save us all! The angel didn’t say all that in the story.” I imagine this is what pro-Mary Did You Know faction members are yelling at their screens right now.

You’re right. So what? The story was written by a man after the fact. It wasn’t written to be entered into a court by a court reporter. Do you envision someone was just following Mary around recording her interactions word for word? That’s not why they put the story there.

Furthermore, I have a theory that one cannot encounter a Divine unveiling, whether through messenger or the Divine itself, without glimpsing more than they wanted to. Those moments are so incredibly intimate, it’s rare for anyone to share the totality of the experience.

I imagine Mary saw too much but preparing to give birth to a deity was enough to handle in the moment.

I think she spent a great deal of time being adventurous because she’s always on the move in the scriptures. Visiting Elizabeth, going to Bethlehem, going to the temple, fleeing Nazareth, in Cana for a wedding, following Jesus, at the cross, in the upper room.

Makes sense for an adventurous woman to be picked for the role of mother to Jesus. She certainly would need a certain amount of tenacity to undertake her calling.

Still, she probably spent those months leading up to the birth occupied with the idea about birthing the Son of God. That would have been the forefront of every other difficulty she faced.

So, when she finally does go into labor. The difficulty and exhaustion, the pain and anticipation, she was still expecting the Holy. Then Jesus is placed in her arms and he breathes. He gasps in what sounds like Yah. Followed by that exhale that sounds like Weh. The breath of the Divine breathing and speaking through this baby.

But, wait. It’s just a baby. He doesn’t look like some god. In fact, his eyes…are those eyes the eyes of Mary’s father? That nose, she could swear it was her mother’s. This baby, it was not just carried by her. This baby was MADE by her.

She’s now not just a child of God but somehow mysteriously a mother of God. God chose her to be His mother. How does one go about being the mother to your God? How does one raise your God to not only live into his humanity clothed in your own flesh but to live into His Divinity.

We see her making appearances not as a side character but as the ultimate wisdom all true mothers have. It was Mary who set Jesus’ ministry in motion. Jesus acts like every child who is stubborn, fearful, and vulnerable. Mary tells him to help at the wedding. He refuses. What does Mary do? When I hear the story creatively, I see an eyebrow go up accompanied by that look every mother inherits as soon as a baby is placed in their arms. Cowed, Jesus does as he is told.

Imagine that kind of dual intimacy with the Divine. The kind in which you know way too much like every mother. The kind in which you can call the Divine out. Yet, you are still following the Divine. Just imagine.

I imagine as we see her mentioned in following stories she is around the disciples and Jesus more frequently than what we may realize. That her presence becomes one of wisdom, love, and discernment. Which is why Jesus tells them that she is their mother.

One of the holiest acts in our scriptures isn’t that Mary said yes to a virgin birth. It was that Mary said yes to the adventurous, terrifying, glimpses of mothering the Divine while also displaying the reality of true sacredness that is motherhood, or for that matter, parenthood.

I wonder now, if we are asked to see where Jesus is in our world, is it not just as important to see where Mary is in our world? Who is creating the Divine with their own flesh and work?

And do we dare ask the more difficult question?

Who is the Mary today that knows the heartache of knowing too much about what the future holds for their children, that we refuse to see?

Watch contemplative video below featuring art that will lead you through various Mary interpretations and perhaps encourage you to engage in these more difficult questions.

Mary Knew. Do You? Contemplative Art

Rage and Praise

As a part of my daily spiritual practice I pray through the Psalms once a month, which means that most days, I read at least one psalm with the intention of prayer. Typically I’ll read a phrase or stanza and take a beat for it to sink in. Then I’ll re-read it. However, instead of reading it with my eyes, I’ll re-read it with my soul and open my soul for those words to read my soul at the same time.

What does that even mean? In simplest terms I can think of it’s that moment when you move from knowing the letter of the law to understanding the spirit of the law. Except it’s not about “law” it’s about self, soul, and innate being. It’s your inner self looking into the mirror and seeing the truth and yearning to speak it back to the Holy.

Today I read one of the most infamous imprecatory psalms followed by one of the most infamous praise psalms. It is a jarring experience to pray these two back to back. Yet that is how they are placed within the collection of Psalms itself.

There were many times before in which the imprecatory psalms left a bitterly uncomfortable taste in my mouth. Praying for others to be harmed and destroyed never sat well with me. I yearned to be above such violent thoughts.

I must admit, as I’ve gotten older and experienced more communal trauma those imprecatory psalms have found more and more meaning to me. Today for the first time I understood the last and most infamous line of any imprecatory psalm out there. You know, that line where the psalmist celebrates and prays for a future in which someone dashes their enemies children’s heads open on rocks. Horrific no?

Psalm 137: 7-9

It is. It’s horrifying. A shameful thing to say outloud let alone write and pray, to hand down over generations. And yet…I’m thankful Hitler didn’t have children and I do regret the children that his followers and advisers had who continue his legacy.

I do think about those in our world who I wish we could just pull up from the roots and be rid of. These people who seem violent and toxic. People who breed dishonesty, conspiracy theories, violence, hatred, and bigotry. I admit, I hate knowing they procreate. I think frequently, “My God! These people are raising children!”

Not much different than, “blessed are those who dash those children upon the rocks.” It’s a prayer to pull the evil out from the roots. It’s honest and brutal. Not necessarily what the Divine wants us to do to one another, but it is what the Divine wants us to be able to admit about ourselves and others. That we are broken to the point that the options we see only lead to violence. Our options left seem like more bad options.

And then the psalmist goes through something and we don’t know what. He comes back and a song of praise is written. “On the day I called, You answered me; the strength of my soul you increased.”

Psalm 138: 1-3

We can try to extrapolate what was happening. We can creatively imagine based on history or other texts. Or, we can take a chance to look at the literary implications. Immediately after the psalmist’s rage filled groaning against his enemy, the next psalm is filled with praise that the Divine heard his cry and strengthened his soul to face the world again.

The reality of chaotic hurting despair and rage, answered with the balm of Presence, sustaining life, and strengthening of your innate being by your Creator. Breathe that in. What a Truth to encounter.

We like to cherry pick verses to argue for or against the wisdom of today or yesterday. We use the verses to support a position or to condemn a fellow human. What we find is that in a daily practice of relating to the fullness of scripture, that those who wrote it were indeed people of their own time, with their own context, within their own tribulations, and trying to describe what their own spiritual formation was like. Every hero of the the Bible was human. Even the trinity. For the trinity has Jesus who was fully human and fully divine.

The beauty of scripture is not necessarily the individual words. The beauty is watching the slow unveiling of the Divine that continues even now. That scripture tells not just one story but it tells all stories and invites us to join in that story. Angry rage or thankful praise for sustaining life, both are welcomed. Thanks be to the Holy!

Stagnate Waters Churned To Strange

In the sought out silence amidst the chaos of 2020, the refrain continues to be whispered deep within me and echoes within the spaces that have felt so empty;

We have waded much too long in the stagnate waters of familiar traditions with little sense of why they are traditions.

Time and time again we have been invited into new and strange waters and stubbornly refused. “We’ve always done it this way.”

We have now been thrown into these new waters because the world has churned those waters and deepened them. Those stagnate shallow pools, they are gone, at least for quite a while. There was no easing in. It has felt much like drowning, especially when we have gotten used to the easy life of cooling our feet in the shallow end of familiar waters.

Photography by Steffen Binke

We have a choice among us. We may rail against this new reality of strangeness and continue to flounder.

Or

We can listen to the Holy beckoning once more. “Join me. Dive into these strange waters. New realities, new understandings, hard truths, exhausting journeys, perhaps pain and suffering. And yet…Oh! Look at all the beautiful love we leave in our wake!”

I confess to relying on the easy comfort of wading in those stagnant waters. Life is short and change is hard. Fear is real and so is my obstinance.

Today though, I eagerly dive into these new strange waters the Divine has already been beckoning me into.

Photography by Lucie Drlikova

Holy one, bless me with eyes to see the beauty of newness, a mind opened for knowledge and understanding, a spirit that will not tire, and a heart that takes precedence over every other sense so that all my actions may be done through the lens of love. Make me a diver fit for these strange waters.

May it be so.

Thanksgiving in Truths

It’s that time when we all do the perfunctory I’m thankful for lists. Let’s be honest, 2020 has been rough and most of us have romanticized Thanksgiving because most don’t view it as a religious holiday. Although, historically that’s not quite accurate. But it is still a holiday that is steeped in heavy mythology. It’s steeped in heavy American White Mythology which at it’s roots doesn’t make me feel all that warm and fuzzy inside. However, this year may be the one of the most accurate re-creations of “the first Thanksgiving” as people go out on ill-advised travels because they feel entitled and then spread deadly illnesses in their wake.

(Woah, this Thanksgiving post escalated hella quickly. I apparently had feelings. Sometimes I don’t quite realize just how strong they are until my fingers start typing away. My bad folks…well no, not my bad. Blame Rev Alexander Young, the Bostonian Unitarian minister and local amateur historian who came across the only recorded harvest feast from the original pilgrims and dubbed it “The First Thanksgiving” as it was a religious practice already to practice days of Thanks giving in harvest and autumn. Thus, a myth is born unintentionally. Regardless, we often use this myth to tell our colonizing history with a twist. The twist being that the Native American tribes, more specifically the Wampanoags gave us permission to steal and colonize the land! Hooray Manifest Destiny!)

Oh dear, I did it again on the aside bit. I swear I was just going to mention all the things I was thankful for and then my little social justice heart got all worked up again. Well, I guess we’ll start there.

I’m thankful that the Divine gave me a heart so on fire that it cannot help but be passionate, that it spurs my mind to deep dive into subjects and the real humanity behind everything to separate truth from fiction. I’m thankful that my heart burns so hot, that I must open my mouth to speak truth to power just so that my being can withstand the flames of injustice.

I am thankful for being a Wiles and all of what that means and who it makes me. For the laughter, the many many words, the stories that never end, for that love that both comforts and drives us crazy, the memory making, the music, and the sacredness of belonging.

I’m thankful for the joys of technology that keeps little ones near even when far away and that it continues to connect us in ways we never imagined we could need or want.

I am thankful that Lyonel Pearce and I chose one another this year and got engaged on February 8th. I would never have imagined a world in which I would want to marry anyone, let alone someone wanting to choose to marry me and all that I come with. I’m thankful for the living tangible proof that Sacred Grace is real and exists. I know because for me it has arrived in the being we call Lyonel.

I am thankful for the Pearce family and their kind and warm welcoming of me into their family. They have been patient as I ease into their dynamics and they have also been quick to laugh with me when my confusion or my own ridiculousness draws us all into the joys of absurdity. (I still contend that Lyonel was born as an adult within a child’s body and therefore never was an actual child. They have done nothing to dissuade me of this notion and have only confirmed my previous thoughts)

I am also thankful for perhaps one of the wisest words ever spoken to me from the one and only Mrs Pearce.

I was very uncomfortable at a dinner with the Pearce family. We had been eating in complete silence for at least 20 minutes. No, “please pass the salt” or “this is good” or “thank yous.” Utter silence. I was beside myself. This is not how it works in my home or really anywhere else I’ve ever been. And I finally broke and said “Well, this just gives me so much context.” They laughed a bit. And when I explained that I’ve never had a meal in complete silence like that without warning some kind of warning first, Lyonel’s mother had these wonderful words to impart:

“Well, what you need to realize is, we’re all comfortable with our own thoughts.”

And what a word of wisdom.

I’m thankful that Dad retired this year and was able to move to Iowa to be reunited with Mom. It is a great joy having them in one place.

I’m thankful that Dad was diagnosed and made it through a rough start to retirement and through radiation. It’s not been an easy year for Dad but just yesterday after talking with him my heart was filled with thankfulness as I finally heard my Dad be his intrinsic self again. That is a gift I can’t adequately describe.

I’m thankful for the mystical miracle of Lyonel and I meeting when we did. For had we not met at that exact time we would not have been able to spend this year of societal upheaval, pandemic trauma, personal health crises, racial tensions, and deep mourning together so intimately together. I believe that living with one another this year, quite by accident on our part, may have indeed been the biggest and most shaping mystical experiences of both our lives.

We are both thankful that all of our parents have either retired or will be retired by the end of this year. They deserve so much freedom and liberation from the servanthood they each have lived out all these years.

I am thankful for Zoom and Facebook Livestream because it has enabled me to introduce Lyonel to the beloved community at Berean Baptist. This has meant a great deal to us both.

I am thankful for my two patriarchy smashing nieces, one of whom is on her way to college soon, and the other whom is probably on her way to running her imagination wild.

I am thankful for my two sweet and funny nephews, one whom never fails to make me laugh uncontrollably and is a dynamic performer, and the other whom I adore watching process the world around him.

I am thankful for my mother who has declared there’s no where else to paint in her home. I believe she’ll find some place in her home or someone else’s soon. But I’m also thankful that she sees what is missing and what is meant to be there. Sometimes that’s a coat of paint, other times it’s a piano that her daughter needs for her own soul. She’s incredible.

I’m thankful for spectacular siblings who call, text, message, and show up. For a brother who sends me stories of amazing children and checks in daily just to make sure all is well. For a sister who calls and shares her life and loves me as I share mine.

I’m thankful that Lyonel has a stable job that allows him to work from home, and care for us financially as well as help care for me physically as my health acts up.

I’m thankful for my health team who has worked tirelessly to treat me as safely and as aggressively as possible during unprecedented times.

I’m thankful for anyone who has chosen to follow CDC guidelines. If you have worn a mask, you have no idea the impact you may have had. But 19 of our loved ones may not have died if others had worn a mask. Who knows how many of our over 250,000 citizens could have survived. When you wear a mask you might be saving my life. Thank you.

I am thankful for the incredible friends who chose me as their story keepers. For my 18 friends who died from Covid complications and entrusted me to carry their lives and humanity forward by holding on to those sacred pieces of who they are.

Most of all, I am thankful for the Divine. I’m thankful for knowing that the Divine wastes nothing. I’m thankful that the Divine continues to reveal new realities to us and how we may commune with each other, the saints, and the Divine. I’m thankful for the knowledge that in times of unknowingness, silence, when we might feel abandoned, and when we might be feeling the excruciating pain of it all, that this is when the great Shaper is holding us in their hands shaping us anew.

That’s what I’m thankful for in 2020, or at least today.

Learning Curves and the Sanctuaries they lead to

Did you know that it is a bit of a steep learning curve when it comes to suddenly living with someone with a chronic illness who has also been identified as a mystic; all while being under mostly forced quarantine because of a global pandemic? (That’s a very long and probably run on sentence. Whatever, it’s 2020. Everything is taking too long and is way too messy)

Well, I cannot attest to whether or not it’s actually a steep learning curve for that previous question or not. I assume it’s not the easiest. One, more than likely, would need to have the patience of a saint, the ability to grant grace freely and without reserve, have deep compassion, and a willingness to enjoy the absurdities of life.

What I can give personal experience on is that it’s been a very weird learning curve for me to live with a partner who actually wants to be my partner fully and is invested in who we are together. I’m just not used to someone sharing in some of my most intimate and sacred moments.

When the pandemic started to take off and my friends within my autoimmune community started getting sick and then rapidly dying, I had this visceral ache that I couldn’t describe appropriately. It was more than grief. Although, between my friends and my Beloved’s uncle we lost 19 loved ones. Grief is bound to feel like more than grief when multiplied so many times over.

At the time, I kept writing in my prayers and my journal that I felt like I needed to flay my chest open and somehow envelop all of these vulnerable loved ones inside of me. To open my chest as wide as possible and then sew myself back up.

I’d keep them safe. I’d go through the trials while they rested in the closest place I knew they could interact with the Holy. The place where I meet the Holy. Internally, prayerfully, and expectantly.

But of course, that’s not possible. And on a practical level sounds disgusting. How big would I have to be to put 19 people inside my body without going all Hannibal Lecter, or Donner Party on them? Real world applications is not that helpful here.

I pushed that feeling aside even as I kept acknowledging that I felt it. It’s my grief talking, I’m too weary and worn. Let it be.

Then, as a nation we watched three horrible injustices happen to our BIPOC brothers and sisters. We watched George Floyd be murdered right in front of everyone by those who are supposed to protect and de-escalate. We saw Ahmaud Arbery literally run down and killed. And we heard the story of Breonna Taylor, when the police came in the middle of the night, frightening her and her boyfriend, her boyfriend did what many legal gun owners would do. And when he did shoot, police blanketed the apartment and others in gunfire killing Breonna.

As the nation and world started banding together recognizing that racism in America is still poisoning our country, there was a lot to grapple with. I remember praying, thinking, and writing about my need to make more room in my heart.

Not more room for the clearly oppressed. More room for myself so that I could confront my own internalized racism without getting defensive. I also needed more room in my heart for those I did not want to love. For those who had no right for my love. For the oppressors, the leaders of hate, the champions of division. I struggled with it. I still do.

Among all this, my body decided it was about time to remind me of the lessons it had already taught me. Those lessons of empathy, compassion, and newness within chaos. That sometimes it’s the brokenness that’s points to the wholeness of the Divine.

In laymen’s terms. I got sick. We realized that I was having fluid once again starting to accumulate around both of my lungs. A host of other health complications started occurring much like dominoes tipping.

I would love to say that I’m just the most incredible, chipper, sunshiny chronically ill person all the time. But…I am a horrific liar. I’m a whiner. I dislike being sick a great deal. What’s harder though is doing all this during a pandemic. I can’t get certain treatments because of the risk of coming into contact with Covid is too high.

So, we are doing all of this at home and my chest is one of the major areas of frustration. My ribs are fragile. The break fairly easily. Some like to pop a little out of place. I continue to have that fluid. I have to be consistently aware that I might have a lung collapse, again. But it’s been years since the last one. However, the pain and discomfort is more than I would wish on most people. I also have a tendency to shy away from asking for help or even realizing I need help. This can sometimes make life more difficult than need be. It has been hard for me to learn what I am not sharing by accident as well as what is worthy of asking for help. My current condition brings a level of exhaustion I wasn’t expecting. So in reality, pretty much everything is worthy of asking for help, and yet I still forget to ask. I’m sure it’s frustrating for the one I’m supposed to be asking for help from. However, between the exhaustion, pain, and my own accidental complications because I forgot to ask for help my normal “it is what it is” attitude has slipped some.

Last week I was having a bit of a whining session and I told my Beloved that I just felt claustrophobic from the pain. I felt every part of my body all of the time. I felt caged in, too many boundaries, and no way to even see the illusion of freedom. Even internally it felt tight and pressured. My chest felt like the first and most egregious offender.

I’ve been banging on the walls, gasping for air, screaming for someone, anyone. Please let me out, if only for an hour. Please. I need sanctuary.

Last week I started praying a prayer by Mirabai Starr and using it as a meditative passage during my contemplative practice.

“Let me swallow the Sacred and burn with the Presence, Illuminating a way home to the Truth. Lit from within, let my blazing heart become a sanctuary.”

It’s a beautiful prayer. Today, as I prayed it and I stayed on that final line, “my blazing heart become a sanctuary” something cracked deep inside of me.

I am sitting at the feet of the Divine. I feel or hear, as much as one can explain, the Divine ask me a question. “Do you want your heart to become a sanctuary or not?”

Already still, my breath catches. I turn my face upwards. “Please, today is a day I’m ready to hear from Sophia.”

And as I sit I feel my soul crack open through my sternum and hold my chest open wide. I’m flayed out, spirit, soul, heart, and mind while Holy Wisdom holds the doors of my being wide open.

Here I sense my friend rushing towards me. Chandra lost so early in this pandemic. She stops. I feel her smile and I know a piece of me is a sanctuary for a piece of her. One by one, friend after friend. I cannot contain my tears.

Silently I cannot thank the Holy for this gift enough until my dear friend Lydia comes and I can almost feel her kiss on my cheek and hear the words she says. “A keeper of stories is a keeper of souls for those who are left behind.” A gift for the son she never got to hold.

I cannot be silent. “This is not wisdom this is sorrow mixed with thanksgiving and responsibility.”

“What else is wisdom? Where does it grow from? A life of ease?”

I am silent again. I am still flayed open. Held onto by the Holy. “Make me a sanctuary.”

Eyes closed, images flooding in. My Beloved standing over me gently waking me up after a fall. Tender eyes and patient heart. “Come on, let’s get you to bed. I know it hurts.”

My Beloved opening up a package and tossing it my way. It’s a headache wrap. “If it works well and stays cold long enough we should get multiples so you don’t have to wait when your in pain.”

My Beloved bringing to me freshly made dinner straight to my bed. Always delicious and always kind. Many nights end with homemade pies because that’s one way he shows his love for me. (He knows me too well)

Me existing, trying to adapt, and apologizing for the process of it all. My Beloved’s constant refrain. “No apologies.”

I hear you. It’s full disclosure no matter if I think it sounds too whiny. I’m not on my own nor am I someone else’s responsibility. We are partners.

“Make me a sanctuary.”

“This is going to hurt.”

“I already hurt. Make me a sanctuary”

“All those people, those who abuse you, abuse your Beloved, abuse the vulnerable, abuse the oppressed. You need to make room. There will be some who will see the Truth. Do not turn them away.”

“And the ones who refuse the Truth, the ones that continue the abuse? Who am I called to be then?”

“Who everyone is. Truth teller, grace giver, mercy lover, a compass to point toward the Holy, and none of that ever excludes justice. But you can only succeed if you do it all through the lens of Divine love.”

I am flayed open. I am being stitched back together from my time today. That ache I feel, it is deep. It is heavy. It is one that cannot just be pushed aside.

I asked for sanctuary. I asked to become a sanctuary and that was a deep ask. It broke me wide open, shook me up, and made me encounter truths I already knew but were too intimate for me to hear.

So as I sat there sobbing face turned upwards, I suppose it’s no surprise that my Beloved heard and rushed in to make sure I was ok. And as he laid a hand on my shoulder and asked if I was ok. I rubbed my chest and said “I’m ok. Welcome to living with a mystic. Hard good word today. I’ll explain later, if I can.”

And as he walked out of the room looking slightly bewildered I thought, “You know, someone might want to set up a support group for partners of people like me. I bet that learning curve is pretty dang steep.”