My "people"

Going back to school.  New class schedule, new teachers, new school supplies.  The graceful dance of locating old and adding new friends.  Maybe not so graceful but it is a fascinating illumination of our inherent human desire to find and flock with others who help us feel like we "fit".

I was fortunate to be asked to volunteer in the middle school office on the first day of school and wow,  I learned more there than during an entire semester of college sociology!  Hovering parents, terrifying their kids with their worry, gawky and uncomfortable kids who had lost their schedules, kids with medication to turn in, secretly hoping no one saw.

I saw giggly, happy reunions of cute girls in brand new clothes, hugging and jumping and jumping and hugging.  (I'm still nauseous.)  I saw boy-men casually acknowledging summer facial hair accumulation.  (one girl too, but I think her accumulation was unintentional.) I watched my son's friends happily greet him by nickname.  They even greeted me, one high fived!  I did no jumping or hugging and think I avoided being embarrassing.  I watched teachers welcome kids by name and seem genuinely happy to see them.  I read the hopeful and unsure faces of the new kids, who had yet to find a friend.  It was a whole melting pot of potential. Nine months of opportunity to forge life shaping relationships.  (I hope they learn stuff too.)

The desire to find and flock with people who "get us" doesn't end in middle school. I'm 42 and it is at least as important now as it was then.  Its a comfort level, a mutual understanding of each other, a confidence that the other person has your best interest at heart.  You don't have to have the same view of the world, just the ability to respect and try to understand mine.  Conversations should be some about you and some about me.  Not every time, no score keeping, and if you're in a crisis, you get the floor for as long as you need it and you'd do the same for me.  There should be trust that you'd drag me from a burning building if necessary and I'd do the same for you.  (Which explains why I try to choose very strong and agile friends or hang out with them two at a time.)

I believe most of us have a heart need to find "our people".  In my case those are the people I call when I find success, whether silly or grand and they are genuinely, giddily happy for me with no thought about how my success reflects on them.  The people I text when my feelings get hurt because they'll know what to say and will remind me of who I am when I lose focus.  The people I call to temporarily remove my children for a "time out" from my presence before regrettable actions occur.  The people who help nudge me to think more creatively, challenge me to love more broadly, risk telling me I'm wrong and cajole me into forgiving when the hurt still hurts.  And they can do those things for me because they are "my people".

These days my tribe of people is as varied and colorful as the BIG box of Crayons.  (You know, the one with the sharpener you always wanted but had more crayons than were requested on the supply list?)  I flock to colorful people.  Surprise!  In the past couple of years several new, wonderfully colorful personalities have joined me in the Crayon box.  Some are colorful in appearance, some are colorful in thought, some in light and dark shades of experience.  We all nestle together quite nicely with our different color combinations and contributions.  Some are deep, challenging thinkers, some are bold and inspiring, some are sage and wise, some are all of those things with a little fun thrown in.  They all contribute something essential to my tribe of people and I am honored by the beautiful colors each adds to my rainbow life.

As I watched the middle school scene yesterday, I thought about the crew I ran with during my years at Five Oaks Junior High.  They were a wonderfully varied crew, they added immense wealth to my life back then and continue still.  They were my early "people" and a great gift.

As the year begins, I pray that each of those middle schoolers finds their tribe, their soul feeding "people" and they set about adding rich and life giving color to each others lives.

Waves

I love vacation!  We have just returned from a week in Hawaii for a wedding.  (It's good to have discerning friends who invite you to their honeymoon!)

It is amazing to be able to swim in the ocean an not fear Oregon coast hypothermia.  It was wonderful to introduce the boys to snorkeling and boogie boarding and watch them fling themselves into the waves with abandon.

There was a man on the beach with us who may have been a shaved Kodiak bear.  He was like a slab of stone, straight up and down stocky with head shape to match, skin the color of a Hershey bar.  This guy, maybe 55, would barrel into the waves and THEY would get out of the way.  As I was waist deep, attempting to balance in the water I would see him turn straight on and head butt the oncoming wave with a confident, well timed dive just under the curl .  He would dive in and come out standing, unruffled on the other side.

While watching this bear-man I also saw a number of other very sunburned beach goers who had the obvious stamp of tourist, from their streaky sunscreen and beach bags to their tentative strokes in the water.  I watched tourist after tourist head into the surf and try to hold their ground during these oncoming waves.  They would try to out run the wave or try to stand firm, digging their toes into the sand as it approached, or try to jump over it.  I watched again and again as Midwestern Mike and Chicago Charlie got violently rolled by these oncoming crests, tumbled head over heels and come up having ingested well more than a pleasant gulp.

In watching this play out again and again I realized I was watching gravitational life lessons.  There are waves in life, they keep coming, sometimes in quick succession and sometimes there is a moment of stillness before the next.  You know they are approaching YOU, so the life lesson is in how you approach THEM.   In the face of each wave, Bear-man squared off and flung himself into each, letting it cover him.  His willingness to surrender to the weight of the water left him standing (dripping) but standing comfortably, on the other side.  Midwestern Mike tried to control his body during each wave.  Tried to remain upright, keep the water out of his eyes, keep his sunglasses dry, making sure he had his pasty gut sucked in.  The oncoming surf saw all that "control", grabbed him and body slammed him to the ground.

So in the end, being willing to get soaked, giving up control for a minute and risk going into the wave   left the Bear-man having had much more fun and in a better position on the other side.

I wonder how many of us are trying to hold in our gut and keep the water spots off our sunglasses as we weather our daily waves.  I like to control my position, standing firmly planted where I think I want to be, fighting for stability.  A false and fleeting sense of stability.  Maybe risking a good dunking is just what I need?  Maybe there are things under the water or on the other side of the wave that I miss while trying to control the immense ocean of life?  

Maybe I need more research time in the Pacific Islands?

A whisper of a voice

There is much in scripture that unnerves me.  Today the concept of “be still and know that I am God” is crackling around in my head with a distinct lack of stillness or serenity.  For a high energy girl like me, the idea of being still is tough.  If I am still I am sleeping.  My body is rarely still, my mind – never, my hair even moves with a mind of its own. 

I don’t know what this “be still and know that I am God” means.  YET, I think it was written with me in mind.  In the midst of so many things that bend my nerves and crackle around seeking clarity in my brain, the idea of hunkering down in forced stillness and letting God order the things in my brain sounds like a much needed vacation for a whirling dervish like me. 

God and I have been negotiating about some heavy duty topics lately.  I’ve recently realized that, as I do with my patient husband, when I have something to say to God, I gear up and spill 1000 words per minute, spilling and spilling and spilling until I feel like I have expressed my thought in a well defended, articulate and unsinkable manner.   (In my defense, my husband IS a professional arguer and it does me little good to approach “the bench” with namby pamby half baked language!) 

Turns out, often neither God nor Josh can get a word in edgewise with all my unsinkable and speedily articulate brain crackling.  I am well gifted to present impassioned arm waving and powerful monologues.  I think it might well be very frightening to the uninitiated.  I can hold my own and stand my ground perfectly well when given ample space for my 6 foot wing span.     It turns out I am much less gifted at the being still and listening part. 

This month I am pretty sure God raised his voice loud enough to tell me to sit down and shut my mouth.  I am in a really high burn spin at the moment.  Lots of muddy places where I would like clarity.  Lots of emotional stress and insecurity.  Lots of impassioned negotiations with God about which way is up.  Today His voice was raised just to get my attention but once my head was turned and my mouth closed he dropped back down to a deliberate whisper. 

I think there is a reason that his voice comes so often like a quiet breeze.  For during your most chaotic and unsettled time,  you have to stop spinning, lean in really closely and  sit still before you can hear the full benefit of His peace filled tone.  

There is rest and fresh air in stillness and serenity.  I could use a fair bit of both.       

being heard

I'm thinking about Diana Nyad today. She is the endurance swimmer who is going to swim for 60 hours to cross the span between Cuba and Florida in shark infested waters.  She has been training by swimming for over 12 hours a day.  12 hours a day!  She is almost 62 years old and says she is in better shape, frame of mind and more prepared than she was when she first attempted this, and did not succeed, in 1978.  Back when she was 29!

What is making her do this?  She said in an interview that she has been "listening to herself" over the past 10 years and could no longer ignore the little voice that was telling her that, after all these years, she was ready.

That makes me think about listening.  When people share their stories with me do they feel heard?  How long does it take me to actually "hear" what they are telling me?  I think I am often hesitant to actually listen to myself.  I wonder why?  A painful message?  My heart knows that I need to be nudged out into the unknown?  I am committing to listen more closely.

How effectively do you listen to yourself?  What has been nagging you that you need to hear?

Middle school geek and really pretty okay with it

It is 9:15 and my children are still asleep.  Yesterday they didn't wander up until 10:30!  Really boys?  10:30?  They haven't been staying up extremely late and we haven't been training for a marathon during the day.  What's up with that?  Is it possible that their little bodies are preparing for the stress of starting middle school and 2nd grade so they are sleep loading all summer?

I have been thinking about the similar way I approach life.  How I mentally psyche myself up for anticipated challenges or difficulty.  I know most people likely play this mental game differently.  I like to think through all the angles, anticipate all the different scenarios and how I will handle each.  God and I usually have some significant conversations about the best way to tackle things and after I have thrashed through it and gotten myself intensely wound up, he reminds me that he has already worked it out for me.  (and I carb load, but then I do that all the time....just in case.)  

What do you do?  How do you approach a new or challenging situation that makes your heart beat just a little faster?  Do you remember when  you started middle school?  Were you terrified or did  you just walk right in like you already owned the place?  Did your fears come true?  Was it easier than you anticipated?  

I was a geek.  Big time.  I made a fabric cover for my trapper keeper notebook.  It was yellow quilted fabric and I think I even embroidered some hearts on it somewhere.  (hearts?  Really Tanya?)  Oh Yeah!  Tanya is ready to ROCK and ROLL!  Not only was I gawky with hip length hair and HUGE bangs but I could sew my own smarmy yellow notebook cover.  Look out world.  My sister practically dive tackled me when she saw it.  (she was a big 9th grader at my school)  She gently informed me that I might not have increased my hip quotient with that yellow, quilted monstrosity.  (Thanks for the insider intel Rene')  

Things improved from there.  I continued to be and still am a pretty huge geek.  That's fine with me and I am less concerned about making a fool of myself these days!  How did you fare in your formative years?  What did you learn about yourself?  Who did you learn from?  I'd love to hear your tales as we take this step into middle school.

cheerleaders

I was a cheerleader in ninth grade.  There it is.  I said it and now everyone knows.  I am not anti cheerleader, really just anti ME as a cheerleader.  I don't follow team sports, I am not terribly perky and am far from having shampoo commercial perfect hair.  But I was captain of the cheerleaders in ninth grade.  Full disclosure: that was the year that they changed the boundaries for my jr. high and it happened that all the popular, beautiful, athletic, shampoo perfect cheerleader type kids got sucked out to a different school leaving behind the normal kids like me.

Back then sum total of my football knowledge could have fit inside a thimble.  Yes, we regularly cheered D E F E N S E when the ball was going our way.  But I learned the purpose of our job.  We encouraged, we were spirited, we brought levity and we ALWAYS supported and nudged our horrible football team to be their best.  (remember, all the athletes went to the OTHER school.)

I have been thinking about the role of cheerleaders in our lives.  No, not the Dallas Cowboy girls with jump around in "skirts" which normal people would consider a belt.  I mean the people in our lives who encourage, add spirit and ALWAYS support.  When I think of my "cheerleaders" a few specific faces come to mind.

Those faces belong to the rare people in my life who have showed me what selfless friendship is about.  They cheered my successes with total gleeful abandon.  My good fortune was their good fortune independent of what was happening in their own story.  No competition just raw encouragement. They nudged me to stretch and reach for professional milestones even while they were struggling, unappreciated in their own jobs.  They insightfully anticipated what was on my mind and coaxed it out in conversation so they could encourage me to stretch life to all four corners even if their lives were currently stagnant.

I have learned so much from those supportive faces.  You have regularly surprised me by your lack of self protection, your sincere desire to boost me up on your shoulders and resist comparisons and competition.

I appreciate the spirit your selfless cheerleading has left in me.  There is definitely a great need in the world for people who are able to look outside of themselves and whole heartedly cheer other people on.  People who will sincerely shout their support and lend spirited energy to encourage, rally and motivate.  

Clapping and leaping in the air is helpful too.

Grudge free grace.

I am not a good forgiver.  I find it really tempting to hold a grudge against people who have "wronged me".  You know, heinous crimes.  Things like not appreciating me for the help I give, minimizing me to elevate themselves, acting like jerks or crossing the line and jabbing too hard.  Yeah, my scale of "wrongs" is pretty light.  I have had some legitimate hardships but really nothing to complain about and certainly nothing worthy of grudge carrying.  I know better, yet, I carry.

I had the honor of spending 3 hours today with two survivors of child sex trafficking.  Middle aged women, both far along their journey of healing and wholeness yet scarred both physically and mentally in ways that will never fully mend.  They told me stories of unfathomable abuse, of being bought and sold, of evil and brokenness at the hands of relatives and people who should have protected rather than crushed.  THEY know something of actual heinous crimes.  

I was mesmerized by their stories of God's redemption, of his healing and recovery.  It felt natural to follow the thread of their lives and cheer them on.

Then one of them began talking about her pimps, how no one ever talks about how they got to be who they are.  How they were very likely abused as well, how they are repeating trauma done to them.  This woman knew the stories of the men who had sold her and she felt compassion for them.  She talked about how we vilify and convict them and give them no further thought when we should really consider ministering to their pain and consider that God wants to redeem them too.

Wait, what?

I want to hate them.  I want to help the girls they victimize and let the bad guys rot.

Sitting in front of me was a scarred survivor and she, without a grudge, wants to minister to the "bad guys" and invite them to share the grace she has found.

I didn't expect to see God right there in a coffee shop on east Burnside.  I prayed this morning that he would allow me to be his hands and feet today but he decided to use someone else's grudge-free grace to show Him to me.