Big Feelings

When I was in preschool, I once got in trouble for calling a boy a “dumbbell.”

In my defense, this was a boy who regularly picked his nose and stuck his boogers on me.

He was also my best friend.  Go figure.

He and I experienced what a lot of young children experience—something called “big feelings.”  And the hardest thing for young children to learn is how to deal with these big feelings.  Some of us never learn to deal with big feelings.  Just turn on the news.  There appear to be a lot of big feelings in Congress, on the roadways, online on social media—there are a lot of people who are still verbally and physically dealing with big feelings as if they were four years old and not grown adults.

There are also a lot of people making a lot of money writing books, doing podcasts, giving TED talks about how to deal with these feelings.

In an episode of Bob’s Burgers, Linda asks her sister Gayle where she keeps her wine.  “I don’t have any,” Gayle responds.

“Beer?” Linda asks.

“No,” Gayle answers.

“How do you relax?” a now incredulous and flummoxed Linda asks.

And Gayle responds simply, “I don’t.”

Every single one of us experiences big feelings.  It’s normal.  It’s how we deal with those feelings that’s the important thing.  Do we deal with them in healthy ways or in destructive or self-destructive ways?  Do we become poster children for passive-aggressive behavior?

Over the past few weeks, we have been reading about the Israelites’ escape from Egypt.  I think it’s safe to say that the Israelites as a group have a hard time dealing with their big feelings.

And they are led by a man, Moses, who definitely has problems managing his emotions.  His first flight from Egypt came about after he killed a man in anger.

In today’s reading from Exodus 33:1-23, we see that the Israelites have gotten on God’s last nerve.  They have pushed God too far.  And the Israelites know this.  It’s like when you were little and you pushed pushed pushed your parents until you pushed them too far and you knew it.  You absolutely knew it and were most likely justifiably terrified.

The Israelites have reached this point with God.  He tells Moses that He will send the Israelites to the land of Milk and Honey but He, God, will not be going with them because He is so frustrated with them, He may kill them.

God’s last nerve.

God also has big feelings.

What happens next is that Moses confides in God his own worries and fears.  God promises Moses that He will be with him, but Moses wants more.  He’s afraid and he’s weary.  He needs God and so he asks to see God.  And so we get this fantastic scene of God passing by Moses who is behind a rock and given him the opportunity to see God’s back.  Not God’s face, for that would surely kill Moses, but God’s back. 

It is a scene I sometimes compare to the disciple Thomas not believing in the resurrection until he touches Jesus, not just sees Jesus, but touches Him.  Thomas also had big feelings.

But what I love is that in these moments, we learn a very important lesson about dealing with trauma and hardship and all the little things that drive us crazy throughout the day.  The way Moses and Thomas deal with those things is by turning to God.

Moses says, “I need to see You.”

Thomas says, “I need to feel You.”

We need God.  And not some ethereal idea of God, but the actual God.  The real deal, whether He’s the one that shines so bright, we spontaneously combust in His presence, or the one who is flesh and blood who let’s us in, the God whose heart we feel beating.

It’s why the most important question we can ask when we have big feelings is this—where did I see God today?

Because actively searching for God is the only way to keep from getting lost.

And we live in a world these days where it is so easy to get lost.

I love that when I asked God to help me find a house, He sent me to a place where I can’t look out the front window and not see Him, almost literally, not figuratively.  I look out my front window and see a church and a sign above the front doors that reads, “House of God.”

It has been a busy week for the House of God.  The past few days, the parishioners of this church have pulled up in front of my house, parked and stepped out in their Sunday best, not just on Sunday, but on Monday and Tuesday too.

Soon the music will start, God’s bass, His beating heart will start pumping.  I can’t hear the words of the song, but I can surely feel them.

There is a church on virtually every block near my house and if it isn’t the House of God, it’s the Catholic church around the corner, its bell ringing to mark the hour.

And if it isn’t a brick and mortar church, it’s the original church, it’s the church of creation, it’s the birds singing and the wind kissing the newly formed spring leaves.  It’s those same birds baptizing themselves in the remnants of last night’s rainstorm.  It’s the rabbits and the flying squirrels that know every tree is a big top circus.  It’s the humming bees and the ever-hungry ants.  It’s everything that lives.

God is there.

And the moment I see Him, the moment I feel Him, that is a big feeling that trumps all other big feelings.

Amen. 

His Eye Is on the Sparrow

When I was seventeen and eighteen years old, I spent those two summers in Florida with my grandparents.  Because most of my prior trips to Florida had been at Christmas, spending all this time in Florida seemed like the ultimate gift.  My grandparents were several blocks from the beach, but close enough for the wind to bring in that salt-spray ocean smell right up to the front door, close enough for the soft white noise of the waves crashing to become a permanent background song to everything done outdoors.

My grandparents gave me my grandmother’s scrapbooking/craft room, what used to be my dad’s bedroom.  It was small and tiny with terrazzo floors.  There was absolutely nothing that said my dad had ever lived there, except for the scrapbooks.  I sometimes spent hours looking through my grandmother’s scrapbooks, the ones that told a story, a picture book story of her life, and the lives of her children and grandchildren. 

I can still smell the plastic of the three ring binders she used.  I can still hear each plastic sleeve as I turned from page to page.  I can feel the pages.  Florida is so humid that things like plastic sometimes feel wet or that kind of cool that sometimes makes you think it’s wet even if it’s not.

Every morning, I woke up—not to an alarm—but to the sound of Mourning Doves cooing outside my bedroom window.

Our senses, not just sight, but more so smell and sound are key to memory.

I’m reading a book right now where the detective, as he walks the crime scene, takes a sniff from a jar of lye to help him imprint what he has witnessed to his memory.

The more sensory the scene, the more we focus on things other than just sight, the richer the memory, the more imbedded it becomes.

It’s why I spent so much time as a teacher, teaching my students to write with sensory details.

This scene of Jesus being baptized by John is rich with sensory details in just a few lines.  We recognize the touch of water.  But more than that, I have questions.  Was the shoreline rocky?  Did Jesus’ feet slip across the moss?  Or was the ground silty?  Did Jesus curl His toes in the sand?  I wonder if the water was cold that day or warm like bathwater, clear or cloudy or muddy.  Could Jesus see His reflection in it, the reflection of the sky, of the clouds?  Did He get a sneak peek of the Holy Spirit as it descended on Jesus like a dove.

Like a dove.  Dove-like.

I wonder, did it coo, did it warble, did it sing as it alighted on Jesus?

But perhaps it doesn’t matter, because a moment later, we get our sound detail, when God Himself speaks.

Why are all these details important?

Because they make the story real to us.

They put us there in the moment.

And what a special moment Jesus’ baptism was.

And suddenly all these words on the page become one word.

The Word.

And the Word breathes and is living and dwells within us.

These words give us practice in recognizing the presence of God everywhere.

Yesterday, I felt restless and I stepped outside in the too-hot-for-April weather and breathed in the dampness and let the sun just hold me for a moment.

At the end of my driveway was a muddy puddle, and in that puddle a sparrow was bathing.  This small fluffball of feathers, dunking his head and then shaking all over, showering himself with water.  He was joined a moment later by a robin, who also began to bathe and then a second later, a crow joined the party, standing slightly off to the side, just watching.

And all three birds were kind enough to stay there and not fly away while I ran inside to get my camera.

Because here was a baptism.  All it was missing was a dove.

But here were birds, cleaning themselves in the water, under the watchful eye of the sun.

God was most definitely there.

And because I can see Him there with the sparrow, I can see Him everywhere.

Remember the song, “His eye is on the sparrow and I know He watches me.” *

Amen.

 

*Matthew 10:31, “So do not be afraid; you are of more value than many sparrows.”

Did You See It?

“Did you see it? the little boy asked as he rode past me on his bike.

He was probably wondering what I was doing, staring at a muddy puddle on the pavement.  For the record, I was trying to line my eclipse glasses with my phone and take a picture of the eclipse reflected in the puddle.

It was complicated and I didn’t have enough hands, and the boy was probably wondering why I was staring at the ground when clearly the action was in the sky.

I’m sure he had tales to tell about the crazy lady who had just moved in to the new house.

There are a number of kids in my neighborhood, the most I have ever seen anywhere I have lived in my adult life. 

Over the last week, twice kids have run up to my front door, banged on it loudly and then run away.

And yes, it’s startling, scary and annoying but at the same time I can’t help but smile—I feel like I’ve been officially welcomed to the neighborhood.  I also have a feeling I might have to provide full bars on Halloween or risk being pranked the rest of my life here.

I absolutely love the small town feeling of the neighborhood.  There is the corner store about a block and a half away and I see people walking to and from that store, carrying their bags of goodies, all day throughout the day.

It makes me remember the cigar store in the town I grew up in.  I used to go there all the time as a kid—not for the cigars, but for the candy and comic books.  I love how my new neighborhood stirs up such happy memories from my childhood.

The thing that I love most about my new house, though, might surprise people who know me.

I love my kitchen island.

Which might sound strange given that except for frying up or scrambling eggs, I don’t cook.

And I don’t sit at the island to eat.

So what makes it so special to me?

I love it as a worktable.  I have put bookcases together up there and barstools.  I love that I can spread stuff out on it.

I love that I can create.

Yesterday, I finished working on this small sideboard, cabinet for the kitchen/dining room.  I had bought it from an antique store back in September for fairly cheap—it was no antique.  At the time, the orangish tint to the laminate matched the kitchen cabinets in my apartment, but in my new kitchen, that same orangish tint was garish and clashed with the gray-white hues.

So on Monday, during the eclipse, I took the sideboard outside and spraypainted it with a gray chalk paint.  And yesterday, I set the drawers to the sideboard up on my kitchen island and set to fixing them up with a gray and white peel and stick wallpaper. 

How did it turn out?

Well, it was my first time trying something like this, so it definitely looks a bit rough, but it looks worlds better than it did and, most importantly, I had fun doing it. 

I love creating.

Most of the time, my creating takes the form of poetry and essays and novels.  I create when I take pictures and photography is something that fills me.  But I also occasionally create in other ways like with painting.

There are so many ways to be creative and I think we’re all drawn to creating because it’s one way that brings us closer to God.

God, being the Creator, the original Creative.

Whether we’re in the garden or baking cakes—I have a friend who makes door wreathes as a hobby—whatever it is, when we are being creative, we are emulating God in the best possible way.

This past Monday, during the eclipse, we got to see God, the Creator, in all His mouth-dropping, soul-stirring, tear-inducing, heart-stopping glory. 

I honestly didn’t expect to get so emotional as the world got darker.

I began—what I call—dry-sobbing.  No tears, but a deep catch in my lungs every time I took a breath, a sort of spiritual hiccup. 

There were kids laughing and shouting in the background.  The birds were hopping from tree to tree, chattering and singing to each other.  I imagine even the flowers paused for a moment and said, “Wait, which way should we be looking for the sun?”

The lights came on at the church across the street.

I texted with friends.

I hopped on Social Media.

Later I turned on the news.

In that time of the eclipse, all of us, all around the country, engaged in a moment of creation.

We were, all of us, creating a moment, creating a memory and then doing what you’re supposed to do when you create—sharing it with others.

And it was glorious and hope-filled. 

That little boy on the bike that asked me if I had seen the eclipse shared another wise observation.

“The sun is setting,” he said to me.

It was how he made this strange thing of the sun going dark in the middle of the day make sense in his head.

The sun is setting.

For roughly three minutes during totality, day and night coexisted.  They shared the same space together.

Three minutes.

The sky was dark.

Three minutes.

Three days.

The world was figuratively in the darkest night between crucifixion and resurrection.

The sun had set.

The Son, Jesus Christ, had died.

And on the third day, that stone moon rolled away from the tomb, and let the light of the risen Son, shine upon us.

Isn’t God amazing?

Isn’t He just brilliant?

And it will get even more amazing in the coming weeks.

Pentecost is coming.

Amen.

Waiting For Something Amazing

Some years ago, a mated pair of swans built a nest on a small island in the middle of a retention pond in the development next to mine in Florida.

People would stop and pull over on the side of the road to get a look at the nesting swan.

And everyone held their breath and waited.

And sure enough, one day, I noticed a large group of people gathered on the sidewalk.  I took my camera and joined them in seeing that yes the baby swans had hatched.  They’re called cygnets, baby swans, which for some reason is a word that always reminds me of royalty and royalty is exactly what you had with these swans because the crowds grew each day and a news truck even appeared.

These swans had their very own paparazzi. 

I have seen so many nesting birds over the years, not just swans, but also Sandhill Cranes, Great Blue Herons, Great Egrets, Anhinga, Black-crown Night Herons, Limpkins, Hawks, Osprey, Black-bellied Whistling Ducks and even Bald Eagles who maintained a massive nest near I-95, about a half mile from where I lived in Florida.

Sandhill Crane babies are probably the cutest and inspire almost swan-like devotion from people who pass by the nest.

Great Blue Heron babies look like puppets—extras from the old show Fraggle Rock.  They are awkward and—dare I say—kinda ugly. 

One year, a woman from my church invited me over to house to see a nest full of wrens that had made a home in a potted plant by her front door.

Another year, another friend invited me over to check out the Screech owl babies that had emerged from the owl box they had installed high in a tree in the yard.

And I thought, oh they are so lucky.  I lived in a condo at the time and didn’t have my own land to cultivate birds.  The closest I came was the woodpecker who occasionally made its way into my dryer vent and started pecking the sheet metal in what would turn into an echoing symphony of hammering.

So I was very happy, a few days ago—Easter Sunday in fact, when I noticed a small, grayish brown bird, what is probably a House Finch, building a nest on top of the porch post outside my living room window.

Sunday and Monday, the poor bird was having the worst of luck with her nest.  She kept trying to incorporate sticks that were just too big.  At one point, I think she even had the remnants of the cable wire the garbage truck had torn off my house the other day.  Over and over, the wind knocked down her nest.  Over and over, she flew down to my porch, picked up the pieces and started again.

Monday, I was very worried, because I knew that Tuesday was forecasted to bring strong storms.  I kept thinking that poor bird would never have a strong enough nest built by then.

Sure enough, I woke up Tuesday morning to rain and wind.  The bird’s nest completely gone.

But then something strange happened, the bird reappeared in the storm.  Wind and rain, thunder and lightning, and here was this little bird, back to building her nest.

And here is the ironic thing … she had an easier time building the nest in the storm than she had in the days prior when there was sun.

Why?

Because the sticks and twigs, grass and other odds and ends, tree-ephemera, were wet and muddy and perfect for molding a nest.

Over the day, the nest grew and grew, looking more and more like a fort, a strong home—one that would provide protection, a perfect place for life to grow.

And I love that I get to watch it all unfold from my living room window.

This past Sunday was Easter.  Mary Magdalene returns to the tomb and finds it empty.  Suddenly she is greeted by a man she assumes is the gardener.  He is, of course, Jesus and Mary is overcome, overwhelmed with joy.

Of course she is happy.

Of course.

But as I watched this bird build its nest the last few days and as I think back to the crowds that nesting birds invite, as we wait for life to emerge from the dark tomb of an egg, I cannot help but wonder something about Mary Magdalene.

On the one hand it makes sense that a grieving person would sit by the tomb or tombstone where a loved one is buried.  My grandfather, my mom’s father, used to do that almost daily after my grandmother died. 

So we can relate to Mary Magdalene going back to the tomb.

But here’s what I wonder.

We know that Jesus’ followers and family were not expecting a resurrection.

But what if Mary was?

What if Mary Magdalene knew something was going to happen?  Maybe she didn’t guess resurrection, but Mary had been a follower, if she had not herself seen every miracle that Jesus performed, we have to assume she at least had heard of them or was aware of them.

What if she believed in her heart that Jesus’ story wasn’t quite over? 

There is a scene in the movie The Incredibles where Mr. Incredible returns home, gets out of the car and in a fit of anger, he accidentally damages the car with his super-strength.  Now truly angry, he lifts the car up over his head and that’s when he sees a little boy sitting on his tricycle watching him.

Times passes, Mr. Incredible comes home from work again, gets out his still-damaged car and sees the little boy once again watching him.  “What are you waiting for?” he asks the boy.

“I don’t know,” the boy says, “something amazing I guess.”

I wonder if that was Mary Magdalene at the tomb.  Was she waiting, perhaps, for something amazing?

I am waiting and I am watching that bird nest outside my living room window.

Waiting for the emergence of life.  Marveling at the wonders of nature.  How good and beautiful things can emerge from destruction.

How love always wins.

How something amazing is always happening.

Amen.