That’s right. A rich fantasy life is a healthy thing. Keep dreaming.

But back to the museum. Along with a small group of friends we were allowed in early before the general opening to the masses and then given a private tour of the exhibit before the crowds of ‘common folk’ descended. As we moved from room to room we had the chance to view original works of  Renoir, Cézanne, Gauguin, and Paul Signac who worked some kind of magic with dots! I realized in fairly short order that I’m no particular fan of Renoir nor was Cézannea particular thrill but all in all there were some remarkable paintings including this one titled “Rest” by the Danish artist, Wilhelm Hammershoi. As we art aficionados are prone to say, “something about it spoke to me.”

But my appreciation for this piece was little compared to what I felt when rounding the corner into one of the rooms I suddenly found myself standing directly across the hall from vanGogh’s “Starry Night over the Rhone.” Let me search for a word here.  Awesome. Powerful. Stunning. Magnificent. Breathtaking. All that and then some.

Among his full body of work vanGogh created several paintings featuring a starry night sky as the primary subject and while this wasn’t the most famous one (“Starry Night” came later in his life) I was none the less transfixed by the incredible energy and boldness of the night sky with every star casting light downward, becoming illuminant on the ripples of water. It truly was breathtaking, and while I used that word once already, the exquisiteness of this painting is double worthy of its application.

I stood across the room about 15 feet away for some time and then as the others standing in front of it began to flow toward the next painting my beloved and I walked up to the painting and stood as close to it as the tape boundary line on the floor would allow. I’d crossed a similar line earlier that morning in front of another painting before I was swiftly  reprimanded by a rather cranky man with a walkie-talkie and an attitude and was acutely aware his eyes were still burrowing into the back of my skull. Even from the position I held on the permissible side of the line I was close enough to vanGogh’s painting that I could have reached out and touched it were it not for Mr. Cranky Pants with the walkie-talkie. An original painting by the incredibly gifted extremely tormented Vincent vanGogh and I was within inches of a canvas into which he’d poured his energy and talent. It was….and here comes number three….breathtaking to consider, but still I became aware of something as I stood within an arms length of the painting that surprised me and then left me feeling a little dissatisfied. Standing that near to the painting the brilliant starlight reflecting downward through the deep blues of the night sky that had first appeared hauntingly captivating to me when viewed from across the other side of the room now looked like nothing more than an accumulation of small splashes and dare I say it, rather ordinary dabs of paint in varying shades of yellow and blue. The sense of awe in being so close to something vanGogh had physically worked on was still there but it was only when I returned to my former position on the other side of the room that the painting again took. my. breath. away. Breathtaking. That’s four.

By this time our friends had drifted into the adjacent gallery room and so we turned and began to walk away to join them but at the point I reached the threshold of the opening to the next collection I turned back and stood, transfixed once again by the painting of a starry night. Then  from out of nowhere I became teary-eyed and understood at once that there was more going on inside me.

So here I am. Maybe you are too. Nose pressed into the canvas of our lives, having lost sight of the bigger picture. There are days that come to us all when all we see are the dabs and splashes. Our lives look like a mess.  Nothing more than randomness and happenstance. No plan. No purpose. And when that’s all we can see then all we can feel is uncertainty, heartache, sorrow, doubt, and fear. What takes us to that place is different for us all. Coming to the self-awareness of being gay and overwhelmed with what that might mean and what it might cost. Coming out to others and walking safely through the emotional landmines of their reactions. Being blind-sided by the unexpected end of a relationship. Confronted by suffering and loss, whether someone elses or our own.  Whatever it is, it doesn’t feel good and it doesn’t look pretty. Not from here. Not now. Yet even from here our hearts tell us something that our eyes have yet to confirm. It tells us to take our comfort because no matter what it is we think we see or know from here, the painting is just as beautiful as it’s always been and the light that cuts through the darkness just as radiant as it once appeared. Our vision may be too narrow at this moment and our view too restricted, but there’s a gentle voice assuring us that the painting remains the same and that one day, from another angle that only another day somewhere ahead can provide we’ll see the painting again in all it’s fullness and it will be just as breathtaking, no, even more breathtaking than we now remember it to have been. That’s five and six.

Same headboard. Same but cooler brother. Same and still adoring sister.

Me and Randy playing with my new race car set on Christmas morning.
Yes. I wanted and got a race car set.
What do you mean you aren’t surprised?
What are you trying to imply?

Out on the golf course with my brother.
Yes. Race car sets and golf.
Seriously. Back off.

The point I’m trying to make is that Randy has always been the kind of big brother every kid sister wishes she could have; a big brother who spends time with you, plays with you, puts up with you, and lets you follow at his heels closer than his own shadow.

To this day it’s a bit of a mystery as to why my brother would let me do that given that I was….
just a little bit of….
an obnoxious little sister.

Hopefully the passing of years have found me less obnoxious (just a little less maybe?) but my brother has become no less the big brother that any kid sister could wish for. Are you getting the idea I still adore him?

When it was time to come out to my family, he was the first one I told and like a hundred times before he was there when I needed him to tell me he loved me and would be in my corner. Okay. And he also said he didn’t get the whole “gay thing” but that he just wanted me to be happy. Good enough. More than enough.

And eight years later when I was sucker-punched by love and D and I were to marry, he was the one who didn’t hesitate to walk me down the aisle and to stand beside me and with me in the love and support I’ve grown accustomed to from my big brother.

Just like any brother – sister relationship it hasn’t been all pony rides and caramel corn. We’ve had our moments.
…..“You brat!”
“You creep!
…..“Shaddup!”
“No! You shaddup!”
…..“Mommmmmmmm!”

And then we made up. We always make up. That’s what real love does. It ruins you from holding a grudge.

I have another brother and a sister. He is strong, true, and good. She is generous, determined, and insane (which I mean in the best of possible ways.) Awesome. Amazing. Equally cool.  But I’m not writing about them.

I’m writing about  Randy because Randy was diagnosed less than a year ago with ALS, also known as Lou Gehrig’s Disease. ALS is what Morrie in “Tuesdays with Morrie” had. There is no cure or treatment for ALS and the  average life span for someone is 2-5 years following their initial diagnosis.

Randy’s ALS began as a slight limp in one leg a year ago. Today his mobility is limited to a wheelchair. In a time too soon to even imagine he’s going to be paralyzed and unable to communicate though his mind and intellect will remain untouched.

My brother’s going to die from ALS. As a family we’re devastated by the thought of our future loss while at the same time being so thankful that for now we’re all together. We’re thankful too that Randy not only has the loving support of an incredible wife, our entire family, and a network of caring friends who all will be journeying with Randy through this time, but he has the financial means to adapt their home to meet his changing physical needs and buy the equipment that’s so vital in helping him maintain a level of independence as the disease progresses.

Randy and our family realize this isn’t how it is for so many living with ALS who lack a wider network of support and have limited access to the equipment and resources that help ease even a little of the devastating burden of this disease.

To honor the brother who walked me down the aisle at my wedding ten years ago, I’ll be walking to support Randy this September with the rest of my family in a”Walk to Defeat ALS”, a three mile fundraiser that will raise money to provide equipment, resources, and support for people living with ALS and their families in Oregon and Washington.

You know  I don’t ask for financial support to keep this blog going but now I’m asking that you’d consider making a donation toward ALS by sponsoring me in the walk. I know there’s a number of equally worthwhile causes that need support and one of them may well have personally impacted you or your loved ones as ALS has done me and my family. If that’s the case then continue to contribute in that direction. But if you have a few bills to spare, then consider my hand outstretched in your direction. I’m not above begging. Not for people like my brother and their loved ones like my family. Any contribution you can make, whatever size it may be, will make a tangible difference in the life of someone living with ALS, and if there’s no loose change in your own coin jar then get your friends to come over here and read this post.  Your rich friends that is.

To learn more about ALS or make an online donation go to my personal ALS page here, or send checks made out to “ALS” to:
Grace Unfolding Ministries
P.O. Box 1319
Danville, CA   94526

And finally, and yes I know this has been a long one but it’s not like you had anything else to do, here’s a short video clip from a recent gathering of family and friends as Randy talks to us about the financial and emotional burden carried by those living with ALS. Randy. Did I mention he’s my big brother. How cool is that? How lucky am I?

I was surprised to read recently that Portia de Rossi has legally taken on Ellen’s last name to become Portia DeGeneres. While I understand the motivation behind taking on your spouse’s last name for the sake of love, shared identity, and all that, what is totally beyond me is giving up a luxurious sounding last name like “de Rossi” for a clunky one like “DeGeneres.” Yes. I’m just that superficial.

Personally, I lean toward defaulting to a hyphen but now that I think about it, there’s just no good way to hyphenate their last names.
De Rossi – DeGeneres.
DeGeneres – De Rossi.
It’s a hot mess either way. Okay, I reverse my original position. Good decision Ladies.

During one of those summers of my childhood when I grudgingly spent more Saturdays attending stuffy church weddings than I did playing outside and splitting root beer popsicles with Joey, my next door neighbor, I realized that every bride was required to trade in her last name for the last name of the groom. I found this whole tradition stupid and was determined that when I got married there was no way I would ever give up Cadonau, the last name of my grandparents and parents, a name that held all my family history, my heritage, and an important part of my identity. I love my last name. I love being a Cadonau. And yes, I realize now that my objection was weakened in that my grandmother and mother had both given up their family names to take on the Cadonau name. Did I mention I was young at the time and my train of thought often ended before the caboose?

At some point along the way I told my Mom of my intention to never give up our family name and in a perfectly mom-inspired moment she said, “When you get married you’ll love your husband so much that you’ll want to share his name.” Hey! Now that I think about it, could my aversion to giving up my last name possibly be what made me gay? I wonder if the Family Research Council has ever considered this as a first sign of homosexual tendencies in young women. Makes as much sense as some of their other theories.

As it happened D had the very same feelings about giving up her last name. She loves her last name because she loves her family history and heritage as much as I do mine and so I don’t ever remember us considering any option other than going with a sweet little hyphen linking the two together. We never took the letters of our last names and tried to mix them into some new amalgam because we had way too many vowels to contend with and while some couples create a completely original last name I just couldn’t see myself as Anita PixieDust or Anita RedMoonRising. Oh come on. If you’ve ever spent anytime around lesbians in Berkeley you’d know how painfully close to reality those names are. There’s every chance that right now some Bay area lesbian couple is saying, “Hey! PixieDust…that works!” And to the two of you, you’re welcome. I aims to please.

So we hyphenated. My last name first. Her last name last. And the reason for settling on that order? Is it because I’m the tool-belt lesbian in our relationship? Well. Yes. And while that explains why there are 14 holes behind every framed picture hanging in our living room, it doesn’t explain the order of our last name which was determined by an evening of saying Cadonau-Huseby, Huseby-Cadonau out loud until we mutually agreed that Cadonau-Huseby sounded better to the ear. Score! I win!

Just kidding. A little bit anyway.

So if you’ve never legally changed your name there’s a whole process you have to go and if memory serves me correctly (which it seldom does) it involves a mess of legal forms, a repeating announcement of a name change request placed in the local paper for a month, and then a formal appearance before a Superior Court Judge who upon determining the name change isn’t motivated by some nefarious purpose such as alluding the Feds, stamps the forms and grants your request.

I have a couple clear and wonderful memories from that day back in November 2002 at the Alameda Superior Court House. The first is waiting downstairs in the lobby until we were called to appear before da Judge. Both D and I were fairly giddy that day and with good cause. We already knew from the vows we made each other on our wedding day a few months earlier that we would be together until death do us part, but in taking on each other’s name it felt like we were taking one more step in sealing our commitment as well as knowing that from that day forward whenever we signed or spoke our last name it would be making a public proclamation that we were a committed couple. No longer would anyone mistake us as friends, room mates or girlfriends. And so we were all a’twitter (which predates tweeting for those of you too young to spice your vocabulary with expressions from ancient times) sitting on a bench off in a corner of a dark wood-paneled lobby waiting to see the Judge, and as is more often than not the case we were looking like two women ridiculously in love with one another. Sitting side by side holding hands, talking in whispers and giving each other warm goopy love eyes. (Reading that just now either elicited a gag or an Awwwwww from you depending on your tolerance for goopiness.) Let me clarify for the record that we’re usually a little more reserved in public displays of affection but this was a special day and besides that, the lobby was empty except for one woman who happened to walk by us at some point and smile in our direction.

The other memory I have is entering the court room along with a dozen other people who had filed similar name change requests. We sat for a few minutes in the front two rows of the otherwise empty court room until we were directed by the bailiff to stand as the Judge entered. We stood and as a big wooden door swung open in the front of the court room the woman who had passed us by earlier in the lobby entered wearing the long black flowing robe of the Judge.

D and I sat down again with the others and waited while one after the other were called to stand before the Judge and each time, she would ask them a series of questions concerning their reasons for changing their name. “Are you changing your name to avoid any standing charge of criminal action? Are you currently involved in any legal litigation under your existing name? Are you a registered sex offender? Is there any other information I should be made aware of pertinent to your request for a legal name change?” After receiving a volley of “No. No. No. No.” from each applicant the judge would sign a document, hand it to the applicant and so order that their name change had been granted.

Though we were as giddy as we’d been down in the lobby a strange solemnity fell over us as we stood before the Judge. It was like being a fourth grader who having done nothing wrong still finds their palms growing clammy and sweaty when called to the principal’s office. So there we were, standing side by side with adolescent sweaty palms when the Judge looked toward us and said through a smile, “Having stumbled upon the two of you downstairs it’s quite apparent why you’re appearing before the court today requesting that your last names be changed. Your request is hereby granted. Congratulations to the two of you and best wishes for your future!”

So while exchanging de Rossi for DeGeneres is a little like exchanging a wagyu steak dinner for a Spam sandwich on white bread, I get it. Congratuations Ellen and Portia DeGeneres.

Oh, and before I forget….

___ Fuji apples
___ Sliced turkey breast
___ Sweet potatoes
___ Milk
___ 60-watt lightbulb

So I was thinking of the Baby J in the manger and I call him the Baby J with no disrespect; we’re just that tight. Anyway, I was imagining Jesus being like the babies in the comedy “Look Who’s Talking,” where the sub-plot revolves around the film’s star babies engaging in very adult like conversations between themselves in the voice-overs while all that the grown-ups are hearing is your standard issue go0-goo-ga-ga-coo.

Now don’t go reading into my theology with where I’m going with this because I don’t believe when Jesus was born that somewhere within that tiny bundle of flesh embodied divinity was a developed mind that understood the sinful state of the human condition, or knew that his life would shift the entire course of world history or that he had any idea about the Good News he would be proclaiming once he had the teeth and the vocabulary to do so. When Jesus was a baby his world was eat, sleep, and poo just like any other baby that’s ever been or ever will be. He was fully human and fully baby just as he was fully divine and fully God.

So having established my theological leanings concerning a Savior who came into the world needing his diapers changed let’s return to the nativity, the visual Hallmark version. There in the stable complete with hal0-illuminated Mary and Joseph, awed shepherds, road weary wise men, and selected barn animals a heavenly spotlight shines down upon a manger where laying on top of the clean fresh hay and wrapped up in form fitting swaddling clothes is the world’s most long-awaited baby. Just rousing from a nap brought on by the exhaustive long journey through the birth canal, the Lord Jesus, (aka Savior of the World, King of Kings, Lord of Lords, Lamb of God) awakens to find himself in a frail little human body complete with a wet bottom and a miserably sore belly button. With hay poking at his backside through the scraps of itchy woolen fabric wrapped around him, he blinks open one sleepy eye, takes in the sights and smells of his more than humble surroundings, furrows his eyebrows, inquisitively tilts his head to one side and looking up to heaven says, “You have got to be kidding me! Seriously?”

I LOVE the shock value of how God most often chooses to work in the world and no place is it more evident than in the birth of God’s Son, Jesus. Absolute perfection! No pomp, no circumstance, no kingly crowns or royal castles or fabric finery sown with golden thread. Just a bed of hay in a damp cave, shepherds smelling of sweat and sheep, an orchestra of stable animals and a pile of swaddling cloth to bundle the baby up against the cold of night. And this is how God’s Son shows up on the human stage. Need I remind you we’re talking about the ONLY Son of the ONE God. You’d think there would be something showy for the one and only Savior of the World. Okay, there was the heavenly host of angels which is a little glitzy by anyone’s standards but considering who had at last made their appearance on the earth, even that seems a little subdued. But when all is said and done I adore the surprisingly understated arrival of the King of Kings.

And doesn’t Jesus continue to show up in just the same style these days? In surprising ways. In unexpected moments. Through ordinary people. Has he ever arrived in the story of your life like that? Speaking for myself (who else would I be speaking for?) there have been times in my life I all but missed Jesus’ appearing because he didn’t come as I thought he should or would or even could. There have been other times when my heart knew that what was before me was all Jesus and nothing but Jesus and yet the unfolding of his presence was so out of my frame of imagining that I was the one looking in God’s direction with furrowed eyebrows saying, “You have got to be kidding me! Seriously?” Realizing I was a lesbian more than sixteen years ago was one of those moments. I had another one a few years ago when I was forced out of a church by several people who morphed from being trusted friends to behind the scenes antagonists in the time it took me to sneeze.  There were times before then and other times since when at first glance I believed God wasn’t anywhere in sight. I’d think “God couldn’t have any part in this fiasco. God would never be found in this place. God would never use those people in my life.”  But then enough time passes and looking back I understand that the very thing that had caused me to doubt the presence of God’s Spirit in the first place was the very thing that had been broadcasting God’s presence all along.

So that was the random thought I wanted to mention. Now get back to what you were doing before I interrupted.

My mom died and now a dear friend is dying of cancer and in time a loved one will be robbed inch by inch of the ability to walk and speak and eat and breathe, and I’m powerless to stop any of it from happening and so I’m sad, the kind of sad that leaves me not knowing what to blog about because right now being gay isn’t all that important to me. Simply being human has my full attention. I don’t care all that much today that “the church” condemns me as a lesbian and I don’t have any energy to spare trying to convince them that God loves me just as I am as I know that God does. And in this moment my first concern isn’t that this country is clueless that marriage equality is simply a matter of justice and fairness or that much of the rhetoric that fuels the opposition is nothing less than a weapon leveled at the hearts of gay and lesbian people. These things will be of considerable importance to me on another day but right now my mind and my heart are absorbed in those I’ve lost and those I will lose, the fragile condition of being mortal flesh and blood beings on an equally fragile earth, and what I will do with my life in whatever time I’m given that will make some kind of difference in this world. All of this leaves me hungry for more silence in my life than for more words.

Loving God, having faith, and walking hand in hand with Jesus and God’s people didn’t make us immune or invulnerable to all that life encompasses. We will be sad. We will know pain. We will suffer. There are days when even the most holy among us will find their greatest comfort hiding out in bed with the covers over their head rather than on their knees in prayer, and there are days when tears and groanings of the heart speak more of being God’s own than all the words of faith and hope we can gather and dispense. God made us for joy and God made us for sorrow. Sweet and sour. Rain and sun. Light and dark. All are part of this life and all are a part of being human and being alive among others just like us.

So this is the place where I am right now and while it doesn’t feel all that great, it’s really okay. I cherish that there are people in my life who are so remarkable that the thought of losing them breaks my heart. I’m grateful for the reminder that life is so uncertain that tomorrow may never come so that I find more appreciation and purpose for this day and this hour.

I’m sad but I’m not paralyzed by it. Today I curled up in bed for the bigger part of the day and it was only when D returned home that I felt up to venturing into the world with her at my side. But Saturday is another day and so tomorrow I’ll sort through the magnificient abundance of the farmer’s market in the morning, make caramel apples in the afternoon, and finish the day at a spaghetti dinner among my church family. When Sunday comes I’ll continue on by assisting at the communion table before going to the bed of my friend later in the day to tell her how much she means to me, what her life is teaching me, and that I will always speak her name gratefully and tell of her faith and spirit and courage to those who never had the chance to know her for themselves. And then at night as I have in all the nights that will follow I’ll go to bed praying for my loved one with ALS, asking that God will grant comfort and that whatever the length of life would be that it would be a life filled with memories of love and grace that would linger on long after a final goodbye on this side of there.

And so….if this post finds you in your own time of sadness or if your heart is breaking or your tomorrow seems uncertain, you aren’t alone. I’m here with you. I suspect others are too. We’re together, you and I and us and them and God and together we’ll get through this time and until we do we’ll look for joy where we can find it because even here there is beauty. There is grace. There is love. There is hope. Even here. Even now.

If during the last two weeks D and I had encountered condemnation or rejection of our relationship from them I would have told you, but that’s not what happened and so it seems only right and fair that I tell you what did.

For the last two weeks D and I have experienced nothing but genuine warmth and kindness from everyone around us. In the hospital waiting room as we sat with family and life-long friends of my mom. In the family home as we met with Mom’s pastor to begin preparations for the events that would celebrate her life. As we gathered with family and a small circle of close friends at Mom’s burial. As we mingled among several hundred people at the reception that followed the memorial service. In all these circumstances there were no awkward moments. No one turned their back to D. No one avoided eye contact. No one stumbled for words when introductions were made.

As it should be D was treated as part of the family from start to finish. She sat among my siblings and their spouses every time we talked together before and after Mom’s death. She sat beside me at the burial and at the memorial service, and when my extended family gathered on the church platform at the end of Mom’s memorial service, D stood among us. At times when grief overcame me, D would hold me in an embrace or gently rest her hand on mine and no one said anything.

All these people are related to me by either blood or by faith. I know what they believe and I know how deeply held and genuine their convictions are in such things. And yet, in a time of shared sorrow they were able to put it all aside to extend themselves in compassion and grace. They didn’t toss us scraps from the table by doing the least they felt they had to do in such a time but instead they gave of their best selves, allowing compassion and grace to lead them.

They behaved as Christians who seek to follow the example of Christ’s life should behave but even though they were doing as they should that doesn’t mean I’m any less grateful that they allowed grace to prevail. In doing so they gave D and I a wonderful gift; allowing us the space to grieve and to mourn and to seek comfort in the peace of God and in the care of one another. They were generous in spirit to us and I will love them forever for honoring the time and the occasion by putting any issues they had to the side.

There are stories every day of Christians who choose another way; who default to condemnation over compassion. Today I wanted you to hear another story; to remind you that God’s Spirit is moving among all of us. Don’t rule anyone out. Don’t give up hope in anyone. There’s no limiting what the grace of God can do.

As soon as D left, I got to work. Hobbling around the kitchen, I emptied the dishwasher, put the dishes away and wiped down the counter tops. I limped into the living room and folded up the blankets that covered the couch where I’d spent the first couple days sleeping when the stairs to our bedroom had seemed no less insurmountable than scaling Mt. Everest. I crawled into the laundry room, emptied the clothes dryer, folded the clothes, and carried them upstairs where I attempted to strip and remake our bed.

I heard D enter through the garage door 30 minutes later. I heard her give out a long resigned sigh in the kitchen. I heard her pass through the living room and as she began climbing the stairs to our room I heard her say, “Anita, what have you done?”

Upon entering our bedroom she was greeted by a pile of crumbled sheets in one corner of the floor, a pyramid of stripped pillows in another, a stack of folded laundry teetering precariously on one corner of our dresser, a heap of blankets scattered and dripping off one side of the bed, and her wife sprawled like a rag doll beside them.

“You’ve been doing everything. I just wanted to help out around the house,” I said meekly and weakly.

She didn’t say anything.

I went on. “Did you look in the kitchen? I emptied the dishwasher and I cleaned up my mess in the living room and I folded the clothes that were in the dryer and look! I stripped the bed and at least got the bottom sheet on.”

Now this was the moment when my beloved was suppose to be touched by my efforts and respond by saying something really warm and supportive; something like, “Wow Honey, you’re so sweet for getting all this done to surprise me and for trying so hard to help out when you just had surgery. I’m so amazed by how you pushed through and did so much despite being weak and in pain. I have the most resilient, strong, thoughtful, wonderful wife in the whole world!”

That’s what I imagined her saying, but what she really said was more along the lines of, “While I appreciate your intention, doing all this when you’re suppose to be healing isn’t all that admirable.”

She shoots. She scores.

I love how life teaches especially when we aren’t even looking to learn anything. I love how the most ordinary experiences of our daily lives drive home the deeper truths we know in theory but often fail to remember or practice.  That’s why after D sent me downstairs to retire to the recliner while she tidied up my well-intentioned mess, I thought about how right she was….again. It wasn’t my responsibility to make the bed or clean the kitchen or fold the laundry. There would be other days for that but I wasn’t suppose to be doing any of that so soon after surgery. The only thing expected of me for the time being was that I breathe, rest, nap, and eat. I was suppose to be healing.

There are times in life when we’re all confronted with our humanity, mortality, and vulnerability. Physical illness. Emotional heartbreak. Spiritual injury. We get sick. Our hearts are broken. Our spirits are shattered.

In one way or another we’re confronted by our weakness and then give ourselves about three minutes before we start thinking we need to hurry up and get better. We look at others who’ve gone through the same thing we’re going through and have come back into themselves and we feel guilty because we think we should be as far down the road as they are. We shouldn’t still feel so needy and weak and vulnerable and the more time goes by the more our self-talk takes on the edge of a drill sergeant.  Pull yourself up by the bootstraps Girlfriend! Ignore the pain and push on through. You’ve been sick, grieving, depressed, confused, long enough and you need to snap out of it! Come on Soldier! How long are you going to lay there in the mud? Get up! Get up! Get up! Woman-up you wimpy little punk!

Behind D’s admonishment to me was a familiar spiritual truth that was ground into the fiber of another individuals’ being centuries ago . . . “To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven” (Ecclesiastes 3:1). When your body is weak and in need of renewed strength, when your heart is broken and in need of mending, when your spirit has been damaged and is in need of restoration, the most important thing you have to do before you is to heal. God and the universe combined has no greater expectation of you than that.

How long will it take for me to heal?
It will take as long as it takes…for you.

How will my healing come?
It will come in the way it will come…for you.

Maybe we think we should experience healing sooner than we are. After all, the people that came to Jesus in need of healing got it right away; a woman touched the edge of his garment and her bleeding stopped, the blind man’s eyes were opened as soon as the dirt mixed with Jesus’ spit was wiped away, the open sores covering the lepers fell away before they could enter the temple, and all forms of spiritual and emotional bondage bolted out of people at the sound of his voice. Jesus healed all these in an instant so we wonder why it seems to take so long for our own healing to come but maybe the reason we wonder is because we fail to remember that all those who were healed with a touch or a word or a spitball had been living their lives in pain and suffering long before encountering the healing touch of Christ. The woman had bled for years and exhausted all other options. The lepers had lived on the edge of society away from their families. For all we know the blind man had one been a blind boy. And from where each of these people stood, their healing didn’t just happen overnight but it came to them after a lifetime of night after night filled with sickness and sorrow. Why did they have to live so long with pain before their healing came? I don’t know the answer to that anymore than I know why you’re grieving continues and your deepest questions find no comforting answers.

I only know that your healing will take as long as it takes and it will come in the way that it comes, and when it comes and however it comes, it will be by the power and goodness of a loving God.

It’s been a week since I was reminded that my physical healing is going to take time and with every passing day it’s true that I’m getting a little stronger. And so this morning I took a shower, ate breakfast and drove to the store to get a few things for dinner. I came home, sat in my recliner and began this post and one minute after I click on the publish button I’m going to take a nap. That’s not because there aren’t other chores to do around the house today but for the time being the most important thing for me to tend to is to rest and heal.

D said so. And I suspect God does too.

Okay. Time to get to the task at hand.

I know you’re wondering how I got my chubby little princess fingers on such an exquisitely rare gem so let me resolve the mystery for you. I went empty-handed to a children’s evangelistic crusade at our church and returned home having hit the Jesus dessert plate jackpot. Okay, here’s how it happened because I know you’re dying for details.

On the off chance you’ve never been exposed to a child and were never one yourself, let me clue you in on something. Whenever a large number of children are jammed in one room together and told to be seated, the odds of them actually remaining in their seats instead of jumping up and down for no particular reason other than hyperactivity is statistically unlikely. This is why those of us with a little more experience with children (having been one or met one) place the youngest and thereby shortest children toward the front of the herd so they can actually see whatever there is that might be worth seeing. It also works well in that the youngest children are usually the only ones in the whole lot of jumping beans who still have any vested interest in vying for the role of teacher’s pet in which case sitting within the teacher’s frame of vision is a crucial element.

Everything was working in my favor that day. I was in the front row, dead center to the stage and so when the leader asked for a volunteer I popped my hand up in the air, kicked my adorability factor up into overdrive and the next thing I knew I was being beckoned up on stage where the leader stood with a wrapped present in her hands.

Her: This present is for you. Do you want it?

Me: Yes!!!

Her: That’s great because this present is for you and I think you’re really going to like what’s inside.

Me: (Thinking to myself: So quit talking and give me the present!)

Her: It’s your present. What do you suppose you need to do to get it?

Me: Hmmmm….say “please?”

Her: No. It’s already yours. You don’t need to ask for it.

Me: Oh. (Thinking to myself: Why did I raise my hand?)

Her: So if the present is already yours and you don’t need to ask for it what do you need to do to get it?

Me: Hmmmm…say “thank you?”

Her: Well, that would be nice to say after you get the present but there’s something you need to do first. (Now she begins to talk slowly as though she’s trying to work the right answer out of a puppy.) If I hold this present out to give it to you, what-do-you-need-to-do-to-get-it?

Me: Pause. Pause. Pause. And then the light bulb lit up over my head. Take it! I have to take it!

And with the right answer finally achieved, the leader placed the package in my hand, motioning for me to return to my chair, front row, center stage, and as you may have already guessed by now, being as clever as we all know you are, the point she was trying to demonstrate was that God’s gift of salvation through Jesus had already been given to us and we simply needed to take (receive) what was already ours, although the point was probably lost on us since our minds were already drifting to snack time and the possibilities it held in sugar consumption.

And that’s the story of how my cherished fake gold Jesus plate came to be in my possession; a story brought back to mind yesterday when I read these words in “Beyond Grace” by Frederick Buechner:

Grace is something you can never get but can only be given. There’s no way to earn it or deserve it or bring it about any more than you can deserve the taste of raspberries and cream or earn good looks or bring about your own birth.

The grace of God means something like: “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. Its for you I created the universe. I love you.”

There’s only one catch. Like any other gift, the gift of grace can be yours only if you’ll reach out and take it. Maybe being able to reach out and take it is a gift too.

So just how am I going to smoothly tie my simple little childhood recollection into Buechner’s theologically profound reflection?

Here’s how.

Take the present. It’s already yours. Come on. You know you want to. Just take it.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

“Thanks Honey but really, no I’m not.”

“You were standing right beside her and I just couldn’t help but notice you were smaller.”

“I can’t be. She was just a regular sized woman.”

“You are a regular sized woman Anita.”

We’ve had a number of similar exchanges over the past few weeks. Sometimes the roles are reversed but the conversation is the same with one of us unable to grasp the reality of being in an average-sized body.

I know I’ll get there, where I see my body as it really is. The reality is I don’t weigh 325 pounds anymore even if there are days when I feel like I do. It’s just going to take some time to adjust, to let go of how I’ve always seen myself in my head and instead look in the mirror and believe that what I see is really me and trust that when D tries to give me a perspective on how I look by comparing my size to someone else, she’s not lying to me just to make me feel good.

If I’m needing to work on seeing my body as it really is, even when the evidence is right in front of my face and starring back at me in the mirror, is it any wonder so many of us struggle to see ourselves as God sees us? We look at our life and remember every little mistake we’ve ever made and sin we’ve ever committed. We’re so obsessed by our weaknesses and failings that we barely have any vision left to see our strengths and the gifts we bring into the world. We remember every person we’ve ever disappointed but we go blank if asked to recount the names of just a few people whose lives were blessed for having known us. We sat in little wood chairs in Sunday School class every week and learned about our sin and wretchedness; our depraved fallen nature and sinful flesh; messages so loud and troubling that they drowned out the messages of glory and joy that we were created in the very likeness of God and that we are the beloved, the children of God, the apple of God’s eye, the delight of God’s heart. We are living epistles, a holy nation, a peculiar people, a royal priesthood. We are the lost lamb worthy of the Shepherd’s attention. We are the coin valuable enough to be searched for and celebrated when found. We are the child so loved God lifts up his hem of his robe so he can bolt down the road to greet us with open arms. We are the baby birds protected in the shelter of the Almighty’s wing. Wait. Let me edit what I just wrote. You are the lost lamb worthy of the Shepherd’s attention. You are the coin valuable enough to be searched for and celebrated when found. You are the child so loved and longed for that God lifts up his hem of his robe so he can bolt down the road to greet you with open arms and tear-stained cheeks. You are the baby bird protected in the shelter of the Almighty’s wing. There. That was better.

But for some that’s only the beginning because there are those of you who were told throughout your childhood that you were a failure, a disappointment, unwanted, unworthy, a waste; and those who came to believe through neglect that you were invisible nothingness or that you deserved the abuse you endured.

And what of the messages ground into the hearts and minds of young people and adults who in secret confusion and torment about their sexuality hear from church pulpits and loved ones that homosexuality is a perversion, a sin, an abomination, and that there’s no place in God’s kingdom or in the church for the unrepentant homosexual; messages that compare gay men and women to pedophiles, adulterers, murderers, and those who practice bestiality.

When I look in the mirror the main obstacle I have to seeing who I really am is letting go in my mind of the 160 pounds that are no longer there on my body, but to see ourselves as God sees us means we have to be willing to let go of so much more. We have to let go of messages, whether the intention be for good or evil, that in one way or another diminished our identity as God’s handiwork. We have to let go of any neglect or abusive that scarred our hearts and devalued our worth. We have to accept ourselves as being human and have compassion on ourselves for living that out in sometimes messy, fumbling ways while acknowledging those other moments when we rose to the occasion and let glory shine through us. We need to silence the voices in our head from those who judge us and remind ourselves again of what the gospel message tells us and only then, but certainly then, we will begin to see ourselves in shades and glimpses as God sees us. Beloved. Beautiful. Adored.

Repent and believe in the gospel, Jesus says. Turn around and believe the the good news that we are loved is better than we ever dared hope, and that to believe in that good news, to live out of it and toward it, to be in love with that good news, is of all glad things in the world the gladdest thing of all. (Frederick Buechner)

If you could but for a moment catch a glimpse of yourself through God’s eyes, everything would change. I pray for nothing more or less than each of you would see what God sees because then you would know and never again question or doubt the unfathomable love God has for you and all the delight that fills His heart with every glimpse of you.

Two years ago my adorable howbeit it manically neurotic TweetyCat died in my arms on the way to the vets. This left us a one cat household with AnnieCat inheriting the reigning position of head feline. In our grieving over Tweety’s death we made a mistake. We assumed AnnieCat was grieving too and would be ever indebted to us for bringing a subordinate cat in the house, if for no other reason than to do her bidding and serve her as a living chew toy. We have come over the past two years to accept this was in fact not what she wanted. We know this because months later she continues to climb onto our faces at 3:00 a.m. waking us from a dead sleep with kitty paws on our eyelids to re-emphasize her displeasure at our decision to bring another cat into the house. But that’s AnnieCat’s story to tell and if she has more to say about it then she knows where the laptop is kept and she can start her own blog which would give her something a little more productive to do at say, 3 in the morning.

As for D and I we’re a two cat household and so a few weeks after TweetyCat returned home enshrined in a little wood box to join the feline ashes of the most furry Sophie and the certifiably emotionally disturbed Sarah, we began visiting nearby animal rescue centers for a new cat. D and I clearly knew what we wanted and did not want in a cat. We had a list. We did not want a male cat. We did not want a grown cat. We did not want a black cat. We wanted a fluffy little calico kitty with a pink bow tied behind her ear. We wanted a little princess to complete our house and since we were just entering May, the season when baby kittens are in bloom we felt the odds were stacked in our favor of getting just what we wanted and so on a Saturday afternoon we stopped in at the nearby pet store where the local animal shelter provided dog and cat adoptions every weekend afternoon from 1-4 p.m.

Let’s go over this again. For weeks D and I had discussed and agreed upon what we were looking for and just in case you already forgot or skimmed over the previous paragraph and missed it altogether, let me review. We wanted

• A kitten.
• A girl kitten.
• A calico girl kitten.

In other words, we were not looking for him. He was the antithesis of everything we wanted in a cat but there he was, a boy cat, the equivalent in age to a pimply teenaged sass-you-back-as soon-as-look-at-you boy and black as midnight in a sandstorm during an eclipse of the moon. His wire cage was situated between two other cages on a table and there he was, stretched out on the cage floor with one long arm reaching through the wires of the cage next to him with his paw lightly resting on the head of the cat napping there. That’s what did it. There was something so tender and sweet about seeing that little guy reaching out to touch another cat that it melted us. We watched him for the longest time, and then reminding ourselves what kind of cat we were looking for and that he wasn’t it, we left the store.

I was back in five minutes, having left D at the check out stand at The Container Store with the words, “I’ll be right back. I just want to go ask if the animal rescue will be having adoptions tomorrow.” Fifteen minutes later and tired of waiting for me to return, D found me in the pet store holding the cat we didn’t want who was hanging like dripping jelly in my arms. “We’re taking him home, aren’t we?” she asked. “Hold him,” I answered. “Just hold him.”

For the past two years, not a single day has come and gone that our little black cat, officially dubbed Simbakitty, has failed to make us laugh out loud and just as often scratch our heads. There are days when he acts so much like a rambunctious, curious little boy I fight the urge to dress him in overalls and stick a baseball cap on his head. He chases spiders that aren’t there. He walks around the house unaware that dangling from his pitch back face is a full white beard acquired in a wrestling match with AnnieCat that remains wedged between his teeth. He dashes through the house like a madman until he’s running so fast he slides out of control across the wood floor coming to a sudden and loud stop against the wall. He meows like his shorts are on fire every time either one of us gets out of the bath because at some point in his formative years one of us made the mistake of getting out of the bathtub and giving him a kitty treat and now and forever he feels compelled to remind us that baths, showers, the flushing of the toilet, the running of the faucet, or a bath towel in our hands must naturally lead to the immediate dispensing of kitty treats.

And he cuddles. Every night. All night. I come to bed and within five minutes, never more and often less, he stands up in his kitty bed, stretches and then ambles up beside me, waiting patiently until I throw back the covers far enough for him to crawl in (I lack all power to say no) and drop against my side like a furry rock. Once settled there and having licked my arm with his sandpaper tongue four licks short of blood shed he rests his chin on my arm and stretching one front arm acroos the bed his paw comes to rest on D. This is how we go to sleep every night.

We did not want this adolescent male cat with black fur. We knew exactly what we wanted and he was not it and yet here we are a couple years later and this guy owns us, heart, soul, and kitty treats. He’s the perfect cat for us. Silly, loving, sweet, affectionate, crazy. He’s our furry little knucklehead of a boy cat.

He was the cat we didn’t want.

What else in my life have I been convinced I didn’t want that ended up being the very thing that brought me the greatest joy? Too many things and moments and events to even count.