37 The In-Between

Liminality is a delicious word. 

Liminality. It's delicious to say. I knew what liminality felt like, but I never knew the textbook definition until the last couple of years. 

According to all-knowing (wink) Wikipedia, liminality ... "In anthropology, liminality (from the Latin word līmen, meaning "a threshold")^[1] is the quality of ambiguity or disorientation that occurs in the middle stage of a rite of passage, when participants no longer hold their pre-ritual status but have not yet begun the transition the status they will hold when the rite is complete.^[2]

Liminality is a person standing at their college graduation ceremony. Or a couple getting married on their wedding day. 

Or humanity living during a global pandemic. 

Kate and/or Jessica quote anthropologist Victor Turner who says that liminality is like being at a threshold - lifting your foot up to enter a room but before you put it down on the other side. "We are at a threshold - something still becoming - but we don't know yet what all the factors are, and how to frame them. We yearn for normalcy only to find that liminality has become our 'new normal'" (p 210). 

We can be in-between all kinds of things: 

• Relationships
• Seasons of independence and dependence 
• Jobs 
• Friends
• The diagnosis and the cure 
• Feeling courageous and feeling afraid 
• The life we have ... and the life we want 

When you're in a liminal space or time, you're unsettled. And a little lost. Feeling a little exposed and vulnerable as you wait for what's next. 

And maybe instead of rushing ahead to "what's next," maybe it's better to linger in the liminality for just a little bit longer. 

"Instead of trying to escape it, let us settle there for the moment. Knowing and trusting we aren't alone. We're in this strange middle place ... together" (p 211). 

Kate and Jessica point out that liminality is all a part of losing our life for Jesus's sake:  “Whoever loves father or mother more than me is not worthy of me, and whoever loves son or daughter more than me is not worthy of me, and whoever does not take up the cross and follow me is not worthy of me. Those who find their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake will find it." (Matthew 10:37-39) 

Blessed are we, somewhere unnameable, fully present to our reality. Tracking it, with all its subtle gradations and colors and contrasts, the sweetness and the struggle, the stuck and not-quite fitting. (p 212) 

Pastor Allison 

I'm curious: 

Liminality is uncomfortable, to be sure. But Kate and Jessica advocate recognizing it when it happens and lingering there for just a bit. 

In their "A Good Enough Step" on page 213, they write, "For one hour, consent to the in-between. Nestle right in there, not knowing anything for sure. Crazy, isn't it? That's not where we are comfortable. But try it for one solid hour. No strainging for answers. Not pushing to land on an idea. Or solve a problem. See if a poem or song fits. ... (They suggest trying Psalm 131.) 

"And if you do happen to get a nudge where something becomes clear, a just-noticeable difference - sometimes the shift comes sideways, the truth that something has changed - receive it. And if not, just read awhile in the unknowing. Because someday we will see things as they really are. You can count on it" (pp 213-214). 

 

36 2:00 A.M. / 2:00 P.M.

"There is no small talk at two o'clock in the morning," writes Kate and/or Jessica in this entry from their book, Good Enough.

Have you ever noticed that? 

Have you ever noticed how you (or others) suddenly say things in the middle of the darkness of night that you would never say during the light of day? And you don't even decide to do it -- it just comes spilling out. 

There are many conversations I wish could happen at 2:00 a.m. that instead happen at 2:00 p.m. - 2:00 p.m. when we are not our truest selves but instead are wearing the masks we always wear in the light of day - trying to be smart enough, successful enough, likable enough. 

I think there is more truth spoken (for better or for worse) at 2:00 a.m. than at any other time. And pain probably feels more acute at 2:00 a.m. than at any other time too. 

The realization of the difference between the 2:00 p.m. self and the 2:00 a.m. self crystallized for Kate on her middle-of-the-night plane rides for cancer treatments. She began to notice the "hard truth of living, that for many people, carrying on, for days and weeks, and months will feel like an existential struggle to simply keep living. For them, it's always 2:00 a.m."

Especially the woman pretending to wait for a flight but who lives, with her two children, in the airport. 

"Once we know pain, it is like the dark side of the moon. Hidden from view, but every bit as real. The world is full of 2:00 a.m. people. It is me. It is you. So we reach out to hold hands in the dark" (p 207).  

I love that last bit: "So we reach out to hold hands in the dark." Because we're not alone. Even if there's not something sitting next to us, we're not really alone. 

I'm reminded of Frederick Buechner's words (which I used in my sermon from Sunday): “Here is your life. You might never have been, but you are, because the party wouldn't have been complete without you. Here is the world. Beautiful and terrible things will happen. Don't be afraid. I am with you. Nothing can ever separate us. It's for you I created the universe. I love you."[i] 

Blessed are you who see it all now. The terrible, beautiful truth that our world, our lives seem irreparably broken. And you can't unsee it. ... 

May you experience deeper capacity and glimpses of hope, as you continue to see the world as it is. Terrible. Beautiful. Fragile. 

Pastor Allison 

I'm curious: 

Check out the "A Good Enough Step" on page 209. 

They call it "dislocated exegesis" - get out of your normal place of reading and see what happens, how the Spirit speaks in a different way. 

Read Isaiah 40:1-26 outside after the sun has sunk over the horizon. 

(Here's a link to 2 versions of the passage, including my favorite, "The Message!") 

Read it once quietly. Then again out loud, slowly. 

What do you notice about the passage? How do your surroundings inform what it means to you? 

---

[i]  https://www.frederickbuechner.com/quote-of-the-day/2016/9/9/grace

35 When Words Fail

What better entry for us to be reading right now than one that ponders what you do when words fail?

Because, frankly, I struggled mightily with the words for the sermon I'm going to preach later today following the recent spate of shootings, especially the one at Robb Elementary School on Tuesday, May 24, 2022. 

In my weekly email to the church, I confessed that it feels like we're living in a Good Friday world. We're experiencing something akin to what the disciples must have been feeling when they watched Jesus' cold, dead body being laid in the tomb. And again, as they watched him ascend into heaven "to sit at the right hand of God." (Tomorrow is Ascension Sunday.) 

As Jessica and/or Kate write, "There is hope for someday, but someday is not now" (p 200). 

Words often fail - at least, words that are spoken thoughtlessly or carelessly. 

"Perhaps it is here where we might need to learn a new way to pray" (p 200). 

They explain, "It's a way of paying attention that author Marilyn McEntyre calls 'the subtle difference between listening for and listening to.' It's an attitude of readiness without an agenda, an openness to what might come. Of breathing into a possibility of hearing and receiving something new" (p 201). 

Have you ever experienced that kind of prayer, when you listen to God speaking in an unexpected way? 

For me, it's often when I read (listen to) poetry that I hear God speaking. Especially when I listen to Padraig O Tuama's podcast, Poetry Unbound, where he reads and explores a poem that has caught his attention. The number of times what he says speaks to what's on my heart is uncanny. And providential. It's a wonderful gift to receive these kinds of words. 

When my words fail, I turn to the words of others. Especially poets. Especially the psalms. 

Sometimes that takes me out of myself and drops me in another place, kind of like the "forest bathing" Kate and Jessica talk about in "A Good Enough Step" on page 204. It seems so much easier to listen when you're surrounded by something so much more beautiful than anything humans could create. 

"God speaks in the silence of the heart. Listening is the beginning of prayer."  
-Mother Teresa

Blessed are you in your radical honesty. In the way you speak of your grief (or listen to others speak of their grief) - the long sleepless nights in an empty bed. Of the physical pain you feel - the joints that don't work like they used to, your brain fog or chronic migraines. Blessed are you who speak of your loneliness, the empty home or nest or womb. Who have the audacity to ask for the miracles you need. The healing or a new friend or a redeemed family.

Pastor Allison 

I'm curious: 

I am grateful to Shawnee Mental Health here in Portsmouth for their post on Friday, May 17 because sometimes our words fail because they're not the right words. Here, they offer some alternatives:  

They suggest these alternatives to the question, "How are you doing?" which can be awkward and empty if asked thoughtlessly. 

Why not try ... 

1️⃣ How are you today?

2️⃣ How are you holding up?

3️⃣ I’ve been thinking about you lately. How are you doing?

4️⃣ What’s been on your mind recently?

5️⃣ Is there any type of support you need right now?

6️⃣ Are you anxious about anything? Are you feeling down at all?

A more specific question may garner a more caring interaction. 

34 The Reality-Show Gospel

What exactly is "The Reality-Show Gospel?" 

Kate and Jessica define it as the thing people say when things don't work out the way they expected or hoped, and don't know what else to say. 

And conclude that this negative thing "must bring about something better" (p 195). 

Until it doesn't.  

Until the devastating diagnosis is delivered. Until the divorce papers arrive. Until a friend is killed in a senseless accident (p 195). 

Everything happens for a reason ... until it doesn't. 

When we run out of reasons, they write, we need something else; we need each other. 

"It's so tempting to skip past the difficulty and pain and rush to find a rationale. But in the long pause, there is wisdom. Sometimes a reason isn't readily apparent, or perhaps it's not ours to assign. Job's friends got it right when they offered him the gift of their presence, but not the weight of their reasons" (p 197). 

It's OK to want more than empty cliches when you are hurting. And it's OK to give more than empty cliches to someone when they are hurting. 

Instead, give the gift of presence. (Or receive that gift, as the case may be.) It's part of the "cost of caring" (which we talked about yesterday). 

Blessed are you when you realize you are way out of your depth and you have no idea what to say. Blessed are you, confronted with suffering you can't imagine, but you don't say it. You do not say you can't imagine their pain, because you do want to imagine. YOu want to be there with them, in your heart and mind, imagining what they are feeling and what they might need. (p 198) 

Pastor Allison 

I'm curious: 

I love the practice they suggest on page 199 about "What Not to Say to a Friend in Need" and how to practice NOT saying those things for real. 

Empathy and actions - that's what you need to have on hand to give in these situations. Not empty cliches that ring hollow and may even make things worse. 

33 The Cost of Caring

Welp - it was bound to happen eventually: I missed my deadline for these daily posts. (And if I told you about the week I've had, you'd understand. But I'll spare you the gory details!)  

Instead, I'll just say that I did realize before the deadline that I didn't have a post ready to go, and I wondered if I should just throw something together in order to adhere to the letter of the law I set when I adopted this daily discipline. 

Then I decided it would be better to stick to the spirit of the law and miss the deadline while (hopefully) creating a "good enough" post a day late as a compromise. 

### 

"The Cost of Caring" 

I've often wondered what would happen if a church's fall stewardship campaign slogan was, "Give until it hurts. Then give a little more." (p 189) 

What would the response be? 

A variation on that, once shared with me by a pastor-friend used to solicit funds for a beloved yearly conference, is, "Don't give until it hurts; give until it helps." 

The same, but different. 

The title of this entry is "The Cost of Sharing," and it's a testament to the conflicted relationship with pain we have these days: "Part of the confusion here lies in our understanding of the purpose of pain" (P 190).  

Kate and Jessica note that several kinds of pain should be avoided: abusive relationships, self-harm, brokenness, dysfunction, and pathologies of every kind. "That kind of pain is not part of God's desire for us and violates the deepest, truest things about us: that we are deeply worthy of all good things. Full stop" (p 190). 

But some virtues are developed that require sacrifice, which involves pain. "When we want to grow, there might need to be some pruning. Some hacking at deadening habits and beliefs. Some watering and readjusting so we might grow toward the light" (p 190). 

Kate writes about her friend Christie who is a nurse: "She explained the brutality this way: the way you know you are doing your job correctly is that it costs you a part of your own soul. Even with the best self-care practices, the job of any caring professional - be it a nurse or doctor or social worker or teacher or chaplain - comes at a steep price. It costs you to care. Caring, she said, is an occupational hazard" (pp 190-191). 

What will good things cost us? 

Hope costs us the satisfaction of cynicism. 
Love costs us selfishness. 
Charity costs us greed. 

These words hit a little differently now after this week's shooting at the elementary school in Texas. I wish caring wasn't an occupational hazard for me as a pastor - even caring for people I don't know and will never meet. 

It's tempting to look away from the pain, to save myself the pain of seeing the grief of so many families. It is "beautiful, terrible work" to see another person's humanity, even from a distance. This sentence that ends this entry reminds me of the chapter, "The Bad Thing" we talked about here. 

But I am reminded of the image they mentioned there: "Seeing pain up close [your pain or someone else's] can give you an incredible experience of awe. It's like seeing a garment turned inside out and all the rough seams are showing. You see someone's absolute humanity shine through all the pain, and that vulnerability makes them more - not less - beloved" (pp 93-94). 

Blessed are you who listen to long, winding stories from lonely hearts instead of rushing off to more interesting friends. You picked boredom or loving strangers instead of the warmth of being known. That was your time and you're never going to get it back. (p 192) 

Pastor Allison 

I'm curious: 

How are you handling the pain of the last few days - whether from stories you see on TV or tragedies that are unfolding in your life and the lives of those whom you know and love? Can you look it in the face? Are you ignoring it? Are you "doomscrolling" or getting too obsessed with the pain? 

What does a healthy relationship with pain look like? What pain is pruning, and what pain is damaging? 

And, just so you don't think I blindly buy in to everything Kate and Jessica write, at the end of the "A Good Enough Step" on page 194, when they write, "Somehow, we are more blessed when we give than when we receive," my soul shouted, "No!" 

Well, maybe not shouted exactly, but definitely disagreed. 

I know this chapter is advocating caring ("giving") despite the cost, but in my 2021 Christmas Eve sermon, I explained my experience of "excruciating humility" resulting from the onset of seizures. It is excruciating and humbling to have to ask for help ... to receive, instead of to give. 

But isn't that the foundation of our relationship with God -- receiving, not giving? We didn't do anything to deserve the Incarnation, to deserve salvation. That's the whole point actually.

Yes, I'd much rather give than receive ... but sometimes it's better to receive than to give. (Just saying!) 

32 Gondola Prayers

Gosh, I think my favorite line of this chapter is this one:  

"We are praying to the God whose very sweetness has broken through to us" (p 185). 

I'm not sure that's a sentence that resonates with every believer in God. If the God you pray to is often angry and needs to be appeased by your prayers, this idea of sweetness probably feels foreign to you.

But if the God you pray to is a refuge or a peacemaker, loving like a father and/or a mother, then you know exactly what Kate and Jessica are talking about here when it comes to prayer. 

Prayer, which is ultimately a mystery.
Prayer, which sometimes God answers.
And sometimes doesn't. 
And sometimes we can't see or don't understand the answers. 
And sometimes answers in a way we didn't want or didn't expect. 

"In prayer," they write on page 186, "we are brought into the presence of God, whose eternal reality translated for us. We sense we were created because we are loved. Just that. We are not a means, but an end. And we are more whole, more alive, with a wellness that we didn't create through some transactional effort on our part." 

"The mystery of prayer is that we may never understand exactly how it works, just that it draws us into intimacy with a God who hears" (p 186). 

Pastor Allison 

I'm curious: 

Waiting is a necessary part of prayer. "To pray means we have to yield up space and time, and some of our darling preoccupations. For one hot minute there is a self-emptying that mirrors God's own" (p 186). 

Grace fills empty spaces, but it can only enter where there is a void to receive it, and it is grace itself which makes this void. Simone Weil (p 188) 

Look at your life: is there maybe a void now that you could yield up to God in a time of prayer? 

31 Bottling Magic

Stop for a second and think about this: when did you give and receive the most love today? 

Or, if you're reading this first thing in the morning, when did you give and receive the most love yesterday? 

Take a few moments to really think about when you felt most alive, most full of joy, most yourself? 

What was that moment like? Did it feel like time stopped or slowed down? Was it simple? Was it sweet? Was it bittersweet? Who was there? Was it something you said/did or something they said/did? 

Once the moment passed, how did you feel in its aftermath - joyful? tired? sad? 

Did you even notice how wonderful that moment was as it unfolded or is it only now that you're looking at it in the rearview mirror that you see it for what it was? 

And just how tempted are/were you to try to hold on to that moment? To create it again, this time to capture it like magic in a bottle so that you'd never have to get it go? 

"When something is that good, the temptation," Kate and/or Jessica write, "is to keep it, hold it, bottle it, preserve it, and, if we're the entrepreneurial type, maybe even sell it. But often, those precious moments are fleeting. They are precious exactly because they are few and far between" (p 179). 

I'm not entirely sure I agree with that -- that precious moments are actually that few and far between. Frankly, I think they happen all the time but we're not often paying attention or actively looking for them. 

But I agree with the point that when these beautiful little moments happen -- even if it is in the wake of something terrible -- "we want to instrumentalize (remember that word from this post?) the moment. We want to stay there. When something is good, we want to build a fortress - move in and live there forever" (p 180), much like Peter wanted to build the three houses up on the mountain in the wake of Jesus' Transfiguration. (Here's that story in Eugene Peterson's "The Message" version of the Bible because I love it!) 

Can we make this moment last longer? (p 181) 

Nope. 

But we can "learn to see the signs, to feel the moments swell around us. We begin to see those brief periods as delicate, precious .... We can become more beautiful, more transcendent, as we learn to carry them with us, changed by the things we might never see again" (p 181). 

Blessed are we who recognize that spark, that glimmer of transcendence that feels ... otherworldly. Like points of light that converge to reveal a reality we can scarcely believe, yet somehow we remember in the depths of our souls. The sunrise that no picture can capture. The moment of clarity we can't exactly describe. It is a magic suffused with delight and goodness and beauty and joy. And we know it was You, oh God" (p 182) 

Pastor Allison 

I'm curious: 

Have you read the "A Good Enough Step" on page 183? It talks about making an Ebenezer. (Remember this line from the beloved hymn -- "Here I raise my Ebenezer, hither by thine help I come"?) 

Why don't you try it? The next time you're outside, find a rock. Think the last time you felt the transcendence of God - write a word on the rock to remind you of that experience or attach a note to the rock, then put it somewhere you'll see it. 

"No, we can't bottle these moments, but we can be changed by them" (p 183). 

BONUS: Sometimes these moments of transcendence are intermingled with immanence. Sometimes you can only see something beautiful after something terrible. And sometimes it's the other way around. If you feel particularly drawn to this chapter, you may want to check out this additional reflection. 

30 Refuge

Ouch. This chapter hit home for me. 

"In an effort to save yourself (and others) from pain, sometimes you start to hit the mute button on your own life" (p 173). 

It doesn't start out as an intentional lie, that little phrase, "I'm fine!" usually accompanied with a cheerful smile.  

Now, for the record: a friend of mine taught me about "tiered responses" - how you don't have to tell every person who asks, "How are you?" how you really are feeling on the inside. Sometimes, "I'm fine!" is the right thing to say to a person you do not trust to handle your tender soul with care.

But sometimes - even with the right tier of people who WILL handle us tenderly - somehow it ends up becoming a lie because we don't want to bother others with our pain. Or suffering. Or confusion. 

Then what happens? "You don't feel nearly as entitled to the full spectrum of emotions - from joy to sorrow - that you wouldn't mind hearing from a loved one" (p 173). 

We shortchange ourselves. We stand in the way of our own healing by not admitting the beautiful, terrible reality of life as we experience it. 

Isn't it funny (in a terrible way, I mean) that we'll sacrifice almost anything for someone else, but can't imagine someone doing the same for us? So we start to tell lies instead when our life is shattered because we don't want to bother others with it. 

(We don't want to be "the bad thing" that reminds others that life is fragile and that bad things can happen to them too.) 

And then we start to feel guilty for lying. And then we think God will abandon us for our lack of faith. 

But Psalm 46:10 is just the assurance we need: "God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble. Therefore we will not fear, though the earth give way and the mountains fall into the heart of the sea, though its waters roar and foam and the mountains quake with their surging" (Psalm 46:1-3). 

When the world as we know it "has been upended, it is right there we can find shelter with God, our refuge. God is our safe place, not after the worst is over or before the other shoe drops. But right in the midst of our pain and grief and loss" (p 175). 

Pastor Allison 

I'm curious:

Have you ever tried the "A Good Enough Step" kind of prayer on p 178 using Psalm 46:10?  

It's one I use and have taught others. If you're looking for a simple prayer to give you words when you can't find them yourself (the Psalms are good for that kind of thing!), try using this grounding prayer and notice how, as the words drop away, so too (hopefully) will the burdens you are carrying. And maybe even the lies you've been telling yourself or others.  

29 The Burden of Love

"There is nothing we can do with suffering, except to suffer it," says C.S. Lewis in today's chapter from Good Enough. 

Kate and Jessica recount the story of his book A Grief Observed, an exploration of the experience of realizing he loved someone just as she was diagnosed with terminal cancer. They had only three years together. 

He writes of grief as leading one down deep ravines that descend in winding circles, bringing you to a normal space where you can breathe again only to be plunged into another ravine. And then suddenly, "it takes your hand and settles you silently into something like joy made holy - wordless, indefinable, more real than your memories somehow" (p 168). 

("Hello, Goodbye" talks about this same theme.) 

Grief, they write, is the burden of love. "It can't be defined or drawn, only suffered. But what must be said, what must be given, is the permission to feel it. All of it. Not as a state, but as a process. No one can tell you what that process must be for you, just now. So gently, gently, let is lead you through" (p 169). 

Blessed are you, dear heart, grieving that which feels irreplaceable. And you are right to think so. Don't let anyone place upon you any other truth, but know this utterly. 

Blessed are you under the burden of all that love. Because bearing it along with you is the faithful path for you to walk now. 

Pastor Allison 

I'm curious: 

"A Good Enough Step" (p 172) 

Go on a prayer walk. Let the prayers be spontaneous. Sit down and rest if you find a bench along the way. Hear the birds or cicadas or frogs. Listen as theirs songs become prayers. Add yours to the chorus." 

28 Mediocrity for the Win

Lately, I've been thinking about what life looks like when you have a "scarcity mindset." Both as individuals and as groups, like churches or boards or volunteer organizations. 

"Scarcity affects our thinking and feeling. Scarcity orients the mind automatically and powerfully toward unfulfilled needs. For example, food grabs the focus of the hungry. For the lonely person, scarcity may come in poverty of social isolation and a lack of companionship." (Read more here.) 

Groups often think they don't have enough to do the work that needs to be done. Not enough people. Not enough money. Not enough time. 

Individuals often think they'll never be good enough. Or smart enough. Or successful enough. Or happy enough. (That's a link to a previous chapter that ponders the same themes in today's chapter.) 

There's this neverending longing to be enough. To be perfect. To be able to do it all and to do it impressively well. 

The thing is ... we aren't ever going to be able to be all those things. Or do all those things. Maybe we'll look like it on the outside, but the insides will never match. It's part of being human. 

"If only we could trust that the giving of ourselves, with all our imperfections, has a value beyond rubies. We need a deep permission. Permission to ask for help. Permission to get better. Permission to fail" (p 163). 

In their "A Prayer for When You Feel Like You're Not Enough" on page 164, Jessica and Kate write, 

"There are cracks in everything, but You fill them with love. Fill me with Your divine presence that is entirely unimpressed by my attempts at perfection." 

And maybe this Leonard Cohen song flashed through your mind when you read that. (Remember when I preached a whole sermon series on that song?) 

But what immediately came to my mind is the Japanese art of kintsugi, in which broken pottery is repaired using powdered gold, platinum, or silver.  

Kintsugi pottery, as a philosophy, views shattering and restoration as a natural part of cracked pots’ history, instead of something which should be hidden. 

We all have cracks - individuals and groups. Why not fill them with love (instead of fear)? 

Blessed are we who see that intrinsic worth comes, not through our talents, but from You. Thank you for saving us from our own dreams of perfection. 

Pastor Allison 

I'm curious: 

Look at this bowl. 

See the cracks in it. The imperfections. There's even a piece missing. Not every crack can be mended, I suppose, but the bowl is still beautiful.  

Imagine running your finger over the thin gold threads holding the broken pieces together, mending them. 

You may never be able to use this as a soup bowl again - because of the missing piece - but think of all the things it still can hold. 

On page 165, they describe the sacred rhythm or spiritual practice of "visio divina" - "divine seeing." Contemplating art - like looking at this picture - is a spiritual practice you can do anywhere. 

They write, "Let's try it. Pick an image. It can be art on your wall, or you can pull up something online, or head to a local art exhibit, or visit an outdoor mural. Settle in. Ask God to reveal God's self through the work of art. Rest your eyes on the image and drink it in for several minutes. How do you feel? If you are in this image, where are you? Are there words that arise from this practice? What is God showing you?" 

Why don't you try it? 

27 To My Body

Oh, my. This chapter is so powerful in and of itself that my words will only get in the way. So I'll keep my comments brief. 

If you are someone who has had, is having, or know someone who has health problems, this chapter is for you. 

It's a love letter to your body. 

It starts out saying, "Sometimes, I hate you. You ache. You get tired sooner than I'd like to admit. You wake me in the night for no good reason. Your cells duplicate at unpredictable rates. New gray hairs and fine lines and silver stretch marks show up out of nowhere. You let me down just when I need you the most" (p 156). 

Further down the page, it says, "Yet here we are. This flesh and bone. These cages. These places of freedom and constraint" (p 156). 

It's beautiful and terrible, don't you think?  

These words - "This flesh and bone. These cages. These places of freedom and constraint." 

These bodies of ours - imperfect, flawed, beloved. 

With the passing of each day, our bodies bear the marks of time and love and grief and life, marks worn deep into our skin. "This is the beautiful, terrible evidence that we have lived" (p 158). 

Blessed are these imperfect, fragile bodies. This flesh and bone. These cells that sometimes duplicate for no reason whatsoever. This skin that is stitched together with scars and stretch marks and fine lines. 

Blessed is the body because it is a home. Not just for us, but for those who love us (p 159). 

Pastor Allison 

I'm curious: 

At the end of "A Blessing for the Body" on page 159, she writes, "And sometimes you need to stand in front of the mirror and take off all your clothes, and remember that this body, your body, is God's home address." 

So that's my suggestion for today. Do that if you can. 

And if you can't, stand in front of the mirror and read Psalm 139 -- click here for Eugene Peterson's "The Message" version, which is dear to me. 

Here's a snippet: 

Oh yes, you shaped me first inside, then out;
    you formed me in my mother’s womb.
I thank you, High God—you’re breathtaking!
    Body and soul, I am marvelously made!
    I worship in adoration—what a creation!
You know me inside and out,
    you know every bone in my body;
You know exactly how I was made, bit by bit,
    how I was sculpted from nothing into something.
Like an open book, you watched me grow from conception to birth;
    all the stages of my life were spread out before you,
The days of my life all prepared
    before I’d even lived one day.

26 Say Potato

"Say potato." 

That's clearly the most fun sentence I'll write all week! :-) 

Hopefully by now you've already read today's Good Enough chapter about the writer who joined Tinder, found herself caught in the monotony of small talk, and created her own version of the "Turing test" to expose the Tinder bots masquerading as real people. 

In the midst of the getting-to-know-you small talk, when she was suspicous of a bot, she would say, "If you're human, say 'potato.'" 

Here's the thing: "Bots don't have a programmed response for something so absurd" (p 153). 

Funny, right? But what does any of this have to do with anything, you ask? 

Well, remember the post from the other day about The Velveteen Rabbit and becoming real? That's what this is all about: the fact that AI (artificial intelligence) can only approximate human behavior to a point because humans are flawed and good enough, not perfect. 

"None of us is perfect, and somewhere in those imperfections we can be found" (p 153). I like that: we are found in our IMperfections. 

I find profound beauty in these words: "Maybe it's true that it hurts a little to become real and risk intimacy with a stranger who might become that friend we're looking for. Or we might be the one they need at that precise moment. Perhaps it is our real job to help one another become more real, one absurd question at a time" (p 153). 

Blessed are we, opening our hands in readiness to risk intimacy, to receive the gift of friendship and give it in return (p 154). 

Pastor Allison 

I'm curious: 

Remember this post and it's "A Good Enough Step" about letting your pen do the talking and naming what your soul wants to say to God? Well, if you haven't finished that yet (I'm pointing the finger at myself here), maybe circle back and work this into that. 

Or, follow the "A Good Enough Step" on p 158 and "Write a terrible poem about longing for a friend." One way or another, express the disappointment and longing growing inside of you in an attempt to name it and then let it go. 

25 Give Up Already

Jesus tells his disciples, "When you fast ..." 

Not "If you fast ..." 

Or "Consider trying a fast ..."  

Or "Maybe, someday, you might wonder about fasting on a strictly intellectual level ..." (p 146) 

It was assumed that fasting would be "a regular part of the Christian life" - a way of "setting aside comfort in order to pursue God" (p 146). 

"Fasting is simply giving up something for a time. ... It's not really meant to have any concrete benefit except the experience itself" (p 146). 

And somehow this act of giving up something for a time will lead to freedom. Or so Dietrich Bonhoeffer -- famous theologian, pacifist, and Hitler-assassination-attempter -- says. It doesn't seem like it should compute, but, as they say in the book, "... there is a strange liberation in letting things go" (p 146). 

My most recent experience of fasting is I suppose what you could call a "forced fast." 

It's now been over a year since I officially (or at least legally!) drove a car since, in the state of Ohio you can't drive for 6 months following a seizure, and I can't seem to go 6 months without having another one. 

And while I initially deeply lamented the loss of independence that goes along with not being able to drive when you live in a small town with no mass transit system, I am SO GLAD not to have to worry about a car anymore. I mean, it's still there with flat tires and a dead battery (yes, I do know that I shouldn't have let that happen, but that's not the point here), but, for now, I don't have to worry about strange noises or overdue oil changes or the number of lights lit up on the dashboard because who knows when I'm going to be able to drive again. 

I mentioned this newfound joy to a friend who was, of course, driving me somewhere: that maintaining a car is one of the things I dislike most in the world and that I'm glad not to have to worry about that right now. 

And you know what his reaction was? Jealousy! He too dislikes car maintenance and actually was envious of me because I don't have to do it during this forced fast. 

I am loving this "strange liberation" in letting this thing go. I do miss my freedom to run to the store when I need something, and my ability to drive for many hours at a time on a road trip with my sister who hates to drive. 

But even as I lost that freedom, I have gained many hours spent in the company of people I love as they cart me around from place to place. (And as we sit in my driveway chatting at the end of the journey - my favorite part!) 

More than anything else, it has loosened my "attachment" to doing things MY way at MY pace on MY schedule. Which is another "strange liberation." And that's a habit I hope will stick if/when I start driving again. 

I wholeheartedly agree with our authors when they write, on page 147, "... something quite lovely happens when we let go, when we live with less, when we give up something dear. Somehow, we make a little room for God to take up more space. And wherever God is, that's where we want to be." 

Pastor Allison 

I'm curious: 

What is your experience of fasting? Love it? Hate it? Never tried it? Did it lead to a strange liberation or just endless frustration? 

God, give me courage, give me strength, give me hunger for You. Let this set time of less be a chance for more of You. Let this fast be an entrance into the discernment I desire, the divine presence I'm longing for, and the hope to will what You will, oh God, to be who You've called me to be (p 148).  

24 Kindness Boomerang

Remember when committing "random acts of kindness" was a movement sweeping the country? All the drive-thru or Starbucks orders that were unexpectedly paid for by the person in front of you? 

Before I moved to Portsmouth, two friends helped me pack up a whole bunch of stuff, so I took them out for dinner ... only to finish the meal and find that someone else in the restaurant had already paid the bill for all three of us! I didn't even see anyone I knew there!  

I'm a fan of acts of kindness, but I prefer them with some purpose or intentionality. For example, the person behind you in the coffee line probably can afford the coffee they're buying ... but I bet the barista behind the counter could use a few extra bucks. If you want to show someone kindness, perhaps that's the person who really needs it. 

The act of kindness I received wasn't random. I don't think it was, at least. It was intentional - probably someone's anonymous way of saying thank you. 

Kate's story of her parents' anniversary tradition of picking out a grumpy couple and paying for their meal -- that's an intentional act of kindness. It is specific, a reflection of the specific way Jesus loves us. 

I love how she describes it: "It is a strange kind of magic. It feels good to be kind. Even when it's done in secret" (p 140). 

Perhaps it's the secret part that matters the most -- a "mysterious act of kindness" (p 144), an act of love done for someone else with no way of returning the love. The only thing one can do is receive that act of love and be blessed. 

"Kindness is a restorative act done for the good of another, handing over something valuable without the expectation of return. And yet, it does offer us something. There is this unexpected boomerang effect. The day gets better -- not always easier, definitely not perfect, but a bit sweeter" (p 142). 

So now we are beginning to understand blessing itself. The overabundance of delight that flows from the heart of God into our own. The excess of bliss that descended pure as a mountain stream to create all that is, and sustain it by love alone. Blessed are we, carried along in that flow. To love and give and give again. And when we are spent, to be gathered up and restored so we can love again. Bless again. And be blessed. Because that's why we were made in the first place" (p 143). 

Pastor Allison 

I'm curious: 

What else could I be curious about other than what mysterious act of kindness you did after reading today's chapter?!  

Let us know in the comments how you made someone's day a little sweeter! 

23 Being Honest About Disappointment

What do you do with the loneliness of disappointment? 

None of us can escape disappointment. It's part of the human condition. We all know the hollow loneliness that accompanies it. 

But what do we do with it? Do we ignore it, stuffing it down deep inside us somewhere, hoping it will never resurface again? 

Or do we boldly look it in the face, name it for what it is, and talk to God about it? 

In this entry, Kate and Jessica step into the often murky waters of THEODICY, which at its most basic form is a "philosophical and/or theological theory which attempts to explain how a good God could create a world containing so much evil." 

Of course, Kate and Jessica are going to advocate for praying in situations like this. (As do I!) 

But what kind of prayer is best? 

According to Father James Martin - whom Kate posed this exact question to - "Prayer begins with acts of unbridled honesty. God, this isn't enough. God, I can barely make it through the hour" (p 136). 

We think it would be lovely if, as the book says, the world was run by formulas: I am good therefore I will thrive. I am loving therefore no one will leave me. 

But a quick look at the world around us -- wildfires out West, a mass shooting in a Buffalo grocery story, a shooting at a church in California, my gentle friend's scary and confusing messages about the neurological problems he's having as part of post-surgery complications -- and we can see there is no formula at work. 

Aside from donating money to these tragedies and checking in on my friend, prayer is the only other thing I can do for them. And probably the best thing I can do for them. 

But before I get to "all the good things that can come from prayer -  trust, acceptance, connection, occasional miracles," first comes radical honesty. 

As Kate says, "The more genuine our prayers, the more freedom there is to acknowledge the reality of all a life with God can be." 

Since my own major health crisis, my prayers have gotten more honest. MUCH more honest, to tell the truth. The book of Psalms is full of laments, and I have gotten to know them well: 

How long, O Lord? Will you forget me forever? How long will you hide your face from me?  (Psalm 13:1)

Since I led my first retreat on prayer, many moons ago, I have always advocated for people to be honest with God in their prayers. God can take it. God has heard it all. You're not going to upset God or shock God or scare God away. 

And I love how Kate and Jessica end this entry: 

" ... tell God. All of it. Fiercely. Even the unanswered prayers. Don't leave out a single one. Even if you sit among the broken things and your confidence seems to shrink with each day, know that you may feel lonely but you are not alone" (p 136). 

Blessed are you, dear one, when you don't know if you can pray. Because even that very thought is the beginning of prayer, whether you know it or not (p 137). 

Pastor Allison 

I'm curious: 

I notice that I am increasingly interested in people who have a high level of self-awareness and understanding. Sometimes that's due to natural emotional intelligence. Sometimes it's the result of intense spiritual self-examination, sometimes under the influence of a spiritual director. Often, it's the result of a good therapist. 

Whatever the source, I can't help but think radical honesty is at the heart of it all. 

In some sermon a couple of months ago, I shared this quote (by Ruth Haley Barton, I think):  "You'd be surprised what your soul wants to say to God right now." 

What does your soul want to say to God - right here and right now? 

Check out "A Good Enough Step" on page 139 - "When was the last time you let yourself be honest with God? Really, radically, honest. Not just in your disappointments, but in your hopes too. What do you hope for that you are afraid to say aloud out of the fear of being disappointed? ... Tell God everything. ... Settle in. Take a deep breath. Trust that God hears, that God hasn't left your side. God can handle it all." 

22 Loving What Is

I have a dear friend who is about to turn 40. Conversations with him lately are peppered with references to and jokes about middle age. (Seriously, he's already talking about retirement with great sincerity!!) 

As one who is on the northern side of 40 myself, I grin at his comments. But I also appreciate the way he is acknowledging this significant marking of time. 

I don't think either of us would say, "The best is yet to come" in the sense that life up until now has just been a warm-up for the "real thing" that's to come. 

I guess I shouldn't speak for him! I wouldn't say that, at least. I was never one of those kids who, when they were 8, wanted to be 10 or when they were 10 wanted to be 13 or were 13 but dying to be 16. I've generally been content to be where I am in the moment. 

Perhaps this is on my mind because I'm still thinking about the book I referenced in the last post ... but there is something about middle age that allows a different perspective: finally reaching a point where it's OK to love what is, instead of mourning what isn't or never will be. 

Kate Bowler's own stage 4 colon cancer diagnosis in her mid-30s propelled her into this category. She writes, "When we start to have more past than future, we must allow ourselves a gentle honesty. Just as God numbers the hairs on our head, so too our days on earth can be counted. This ends, and part of accepting our finitude is bringing greater appreciation to what's gone, and what still may be" (p 130).  

This same friend I mentioned earlier recommended the book they reference on p. 130, "Being Mortal." (I get a significant number of my book recommendations from him!) 

Kate recalls a beautiful story in the book about asking people with whom they wanted to spend their time. The results? Kids wanted to spend time with their families, teenagers with their friends, and the guy in his thirties wanted to meet Bono. 

"But then the closer people grew to death, the more they wanted to spend time with their closest friends and family again. The horizon had expanded from childhood to adulthood, and then shrunk back to that beautiful, precious core" (p 130). 

She concludes, "When we have more past than future, our desires may change to love not simply what might be, but to love what already is. Our nearest and dearest. The people we couldn't get rid of if we tried. The ways our bodies and minds have carried us. The small moments of a single day" (p 131). 

Blessed are you who are attempting to love what is here, what is now. You who recognize the wonder and pain looking at life's rearview mirror, at those things that are gone. The person you were. The quickness and sharpness of a body that didn't tire as quickly. The relationships and jobs and aspirations. The people you can't get back. Blessed are you, holding the gentle compassion that wraps memories in grace (p 132). 

Pastor Allison 

I'm curious: 

Has anyone tried the "A Good Enough Step" on p 133? I'm trying to find a block of time in my day to spend on this - the idea of letting your pen "talk to you about what is here, right here and right now. Write letters and words and phrases; write the chaos that is your life." 

"Then lift your pen, start in a new place, and let your pen make a word salad of desires. All of it. The things you have long hoped for, even the things that are not over. All your heart's deepest and most hidden longings."

And once you're done, you can look at that page, and with Kate and Jessica, say, "And all of this - past, present, and future - is still you. It is the particularity that is your life. Precious beyond rubies. Utterly irreplaceable, indelible."  

21 #blessed

Ah, this is a favorite topic of Kate Bowler's - something she has written about before. Railed against, you might even say. (I think she would, at least!) 

We tend to add the #blessed hashtag to the good things in our lives: the perfect pictures on social media or when we (not so) casually mention our promotion at work.  

Since we're 21 entries in, I'm guessing that you've noticed the entries all include a blessing of one sort or another. And often, those are the parts of the chapter I love the most. In the video promo for this "Good Enough" book, I think she even mentions something about believing in blessing the crap out of everyone. 

And she really means that with all her heart ... but not in the "partially nude bikini shot" or "Christmas card professional photo shoot where everyone is looking directly at the camera wearing matching chambray tops" kind of way (p 122). 

When she says #blessed, she means it the way Jesus uses that word: 

• Blessed are you when you are at the end of your rope. 
• When you are exhausted and despairing. 
• When tears are your food, morning and night. 
• When your stomach grumbles and your mouth is dry. 
• Bless are you who forgives the person who never said sorry and who definitely didn't deserve your forgiveness. 
• You who are ridiculed and humiliated, left out and left behind. The timid and the soft-spoken. The one who works toward peace instead of the easy road of vengeance. (p 122) 

(You can read Jesus' exact words here in Matthew 5.) 

Kate and Jessica write, "These beatitudes should make us uncomfortable. Because God is celebrating who we try so hard not to be. Dependent. Needy. Desperate" (p 123). 

These words are not for the folks who are "succeeding" at life. That's not who Jesus was talking to. 

"He was looking into the eyes of those who felt like the misfits. And then used everyday experiences of weeping, hungering, thirsting, suffering as a badge of belonging" (p 124). 

In an interesting moment of serendipity, I am 98% of the way through a novel (audiobook, for the record) that is told from the perspective of someone who feels very out of place among her friends, as she looks at their perfect lives that seem to have turned out the exact way they expected whilst wondering where she has gone wrong because NOTHING in her life had turned out the way she expected. 

Spoiler alert: it turns out no one's life turns out the way they expected. And while they may not say it out loud, no one really thinks they have it all together. 

Spoiler alert for the book, I mean, ... but maybe also for real life too. 

The longer I listen to the book, the more I want to slide into Kate Bowler's DMs to recommend it to her! I think she would love it - it's a beautiful if profanity-laden meditation (and I'm using that word loosely!) on the reality of life and when you feel like a misfit and how beautiful and raw and honest conversations can connect you to another human being unlike almost anything else. I have chuckled out loud numerous times as I've listened while doing my dishes but also (carefully) wiped my eyes as they filled up with tears. 

The left out will be welcomed with a warm embrace. The forgotten will not just be remembered but honored. The ones who don't have it all together are exactly who God is inviting into the kingdom. In fact, the whole kingdom belongs to the ones on the edges. This is the upside-down kingdom - directly available to those of us who don't have it all together (p 124).  

Blessed are we. The imperfect and don't-have-it-all-together. God's beloved.

Pastor Allison 

I'm curious: 

Maybe go back and re-read "A Blessing for When You Don't Feel #blessed" again (pp 125-126). Are these words you need to hear? Are they words someone else needs to hear? I think twice now I've sent pieces of the blessings from this book to those who are struggling. Maybe share a paragraph or two from this one with someone. Or, maybe get them their own copy of this book! 

I love this snippet from the Madeleine L'Engle quote on p. 127: "I have suggested that it is a good practice to believe in size impossible things every morning before breakfast, like the White Queen in Through the Looking Glass. It is also salutary to bless six people I don't like much every morning before breakfast." 

Jessica and Kate write: "Your turn. Think of six people you don't like very much. I certainly didn't have to look too far. Bless them. Even ... especially ... if you don't want to" (p 127). 

20 Becoming Real

Will you stop reading this blog if I tell you I'm not sure I've ever read The Velveteen Rabbit? 

Or, if I have, it's been so long ago, I don't remember it. Nor do I have a particularly nostalgic feeling about it like so many other people do. 

With all that being said, I can still appreciate the beauty of the story - the beauty of being made real through our wear and tear. 

And the beauty of these words: 

As the Skin Horse explains, “Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.”  (pp. 118-119)

What may be even more beautiful is the story behind the story - that the author, Margery Williams came to love literature through her father who died suddenly when she was seven. Kate and Jessica write, "In her stories for children, there is a tender ache for the lives we’ve lost and the loves that endure. We are changed, and we often wish it were otherwise" (p 118). 

We've already talked about "Mourning A Future Self" and the difficulty of knowing that even as we have to say goodbye to something we will deeply mourn, there is still a chance to say hello to something new which is born in its place ("Hello, Goodbye"). Kate and Jessica are no strangers to looking deeply into loss and pain in a very real and genuine way. 

As they have in so many of these entries, Kate and Jessica don't try to erase or resolve the tension inherent in being human. Indeed, as Kate writes in another book, there is no cure for being human; no way to escape death and suffering without also squeezing out any sign of life. 

There will always be "a tender ache for the lives we've lost and the loves that endure. We are changed, and we often wish it were otherwise." 

Perhaps we, like the Velveteen rabbit are getting a little shabby from the wear and tear of loving and living which may not sit well in an Instagram world. But we are not coming undone; rather, we are becoming - becoming more real than we ever have been before through that tender ache. 

Blessed are we who are becoming, who have lived so long in this strange state we call time that it shows. We are changing, and that's how we know we are alive. 

...

You may not recognize yourself in the mirror. But this is what we hoped for, right? To live and love. To be loved. To have our experiences show on our faces and in our cells. It is the real life of Jesus in us, being made visible, as all our seams show" (p 12). 

Pastor Allison 

I'm curious: 

What does the story of "The Velveteen Rabbit" mean to you? Was it a favorite growing up? If so, who read it to you? 

From the "A Good Enough Step" on p 121: 

Find a minute alone. Take out a photo of yourself as a child. Allow yourself to appreciate what was - who you were. All the pain you had yet to know or perhaps already did know. ... But then also take time to tell your younger self all the way that living and aging and suffering have carved out within you a space for reality and more love and compassion for others. Be effusive! If a prayer comes, pray it. If a poem appears, write it. If you want to create art, do it. 

19 No Reason Whatsoever

I love learning new words. And it only took 2 paragraphs from today's Good Enough entry to teach me a new word. 

Hyper-instrumentalization. The obsession with use. 

"It's a symptom of the pragmatism that has wound its way into almost every part of American culture. How useful was your day?" (p 110) 

This raised an interesting question for me: do I ever do anything I'm not good at or for no good reason? 

I've already told you that I'm an over-achiever by nature and nurture here, so of course, I don't! And I have inherited the competition gene from both of my parents (though each would say the other is more competitive!). 

I suppose that without even realizing it, I have fallen into the habit of hyper-instrumentalization -- thinking that everything I did needed to be done well and have some purpose to it. 

But I do have a playfulness streak in me - a streak that I think has gotten stymied in the last couple of years for any number of reasons. 

In fact, not long ago, I was reading a book with some friends, and one of the chapters was about the spiritual discipline of playfulness. And I puzzled over what silly, playful thing I could do on my own. 

And then I remembered that I have some friends who adopt street cats. I had previously drawn portraits of their cats with their names in fancy cat-themed scrawl. And my friends framed those portraits and hung them above their food bowls, six inches off the floor, in the corner of their dining room!!!  

Well, it occurred to me that they had adopted a new cat, and I was behind in my commissioned portraits! (I use that term very loosely!) 

So that very night, I pulled out my sketchpad, pencils, and markers, and scrolled through my phone to find pictures of the cat, and got to work, sketching away. 

It was so silly and delightful that I decided that (of course!) I should ALSO sketch portraits of my friends, so they can hang those up too! 

And since I know you're dying to see the pictures, here you go: 

Cat portraits to hang over their food bowls. Does it get any more absurd, really? 

Probably not. 

But what joy I experienced simply in the trying, knowing that what came out may not be high quality, but that my friends would love it anyway. 

It turns out being silly and playful comes a lot more naturally for me when other people are involved. 

In fact, after chatting about this very subject (playfulness and absurdity) with another friend who says he excels at making irresponsible and silly decisions, I may just have found my spirit guide to shedding my habit of hyper-instrumentalization. 

Blessed are you who see the art in absurdity. Because when you think about it, life is unexpectedly and terribly and wonderfully absurd. So why don't we just embrace it? (p 113) 

Pastor Allison 

I'm curious: 

What's the most absurd thing you've done lately?  If you can't think of anything, what about asking a silly friend to do something absurd with you? 

I have to say my perfect recipe for absurdity is a group of friends and one of the antique stores here in Portsmouth. There is no limit to the odd, silly, or bizarre things we can discover! 

18 Hello, Goodbye

Kate and Jessica say that there are two simultaneous truths (p 104): 

1. When something changes, a world we love ends 
   
   
2. Change happens every day. 

And so we set about trying "to solve the sorrow inherent in change by giving it up entirely. Routines become a bulwark against the threat of pain" (p 104). 

I suppose we all sank a little deeper into our routines in the last couple of years during the pandemic. We probably found even more security and safety in routines when everything else felt so uncertain and uncontrollable. Routines we can manage. Routines make us feel like we're in control. 

And while that may be appropriate for certain seasons of our lives, holding closely to our routines so as to avoid suffering ("the order of nature") will ultimately squeeze out life itself (p. 104). 

Maybe this is part of the COVID-19 hangover/sluggishness a lot of us are feeling these days. Maybe the routines that served us well before are no longer serving us in the same way. Maybe it's time to find a new routine. But we're not sure how. And that makes us afraid. 

Using what we've been learning about in this book, maybe it's time to exchange our old routines to create a routine regula we can live with hands wide open and that allows space and room for the Spirit to move in a wild and uncontainable way instead of routines that leave us clenching our fists in fear. 

But there's something else we should consider too, Kate and Jessica say. 

Not every change is a bad thing; it's just a thing that happened. What made it good or bad depends on how we responded. 

How did you respond during the pandemic? How did you respond the last time you got bad news from the doctor? When the relationship with you loved one was broken? When you lost your job? 

"Did we become better or worse? Holier or crustier? Softer or quicker on the draw?" (p 105) 

We may have had to say goodbye to a lot of things in the last couple of years; but what have we said hello to in their place? 

"May you, dear one, find comfort from places and people you don't anticipate who remind you that you are not alone. You may be saying goodbye to something - someone dear ... but something new will be born. 

I cannot promise it will replace what was there, and I won't try to tell you it will always be better. But, I do believe that we can find beauty, meaning, and truth right where we stand" (pp 106-107). 

Pastor Allison 

I'm curious: 

Are you one of those people who gets stuck in their routines as a way to avoid the pain that sometimes comes from changing? How has this entry made you re-think that way of living? Might you be ready to CHANGE something - maybe something small - just to see how you might surprise yourself with your response? 

In their "A Good Enough Step" on page 108, they suggest finding a tiny notebook and creating a list of things you're saying goodbye to - honoring each thing for its importance to you and your life. Where is the "beauty, meaning, and truth" right where you're standing, even as you're saying goodbye? 

"Truth makes love possible; love makes truth bearable."  (Rowan Williams, A Ray of Darkness)