Today I receive the sad news that a dear friend's son has died from cancer. I've followed this journey through her eyes as she wrote every day. This morning, I read the big sister's thoughts on losing her little brother. She calls this entry, "A Time to Dance," and it's so hard to read without crying--not just because she's grieving, but because she's also getting married in two days.
I'm a writing teacher. I talk about writing all day long. All morning, I find myself marveling once again over those brave souls who take a pen to paper (or a finger to a keyboard) and dare to write because they must.
Something happens when we write. It helps heal. It incarnates thought, and I'll never get over the mystery of it.
On the same day I read "A Time to Dance," I read a father's account of his daughter turning nine years old. This wonderful piece articulates something so beautiful that I can't believe I've lived without these words. I wept for an entirely different reason (or maybe it's the same reason).
Death and celebration of life--in words--on the same day. I'm so thankful for brave writers.
______________________________
Has writing helped heal you?
Thursday, February 28, 2013
Wednesday, February 27, 2013
All Kinds of Living
It wasn't exactly an easy journey to school. With a two hour delay, I thought by 10:30 AM, the plows would have cleared the snow.
No. Not at all.
With my daughters bundled in their seats, we barely make it down the street. My tires spin, and I'm fishtailing it up the hill. To make things worse, a construction crew handles traffic via two-way radios and hand-held stop signs to randomly tell drivers--who can hardly stop, much less start again--when to stop and go.
My daughter grips her seat for dear life. It's very quiet in the car as we look at the frozen hill ahead and all the cars around us.
I say, "We'll make it. It's just a different kind of driving today."
I'm really comforting myself. It's true. We will make it. Some days just require a different kind of driving. You take what the day gives, and you manage it. Some days require both hands on the wheel. Some days you have the windows down and you're flying. Some days, you barely make it.
We might spin and fishtail the whole way and go when we're supposed to stop and remain frozen when we're supposed to go, but we will make it. It will take longer, and we'll grab our seats in fear, but we'll make it. Nobody said it would be easy. I want to remember that when life doesn't present the smooth kind of road I'm hoping for.
Praise God I've learned all kinds of ways to drive.
_______________________________
Some days require a different way of living, don't you think?
No. Not at all.
With my daughters bundled in their seats, we barely make it down the street. My tires spin, and I'm fishtailing it up the hill. To make things worse, a construction crew handles traffic via two-way radios and hand-held stop signs to randomly tell drivers--who can hardly stop, much less start again--when to stop and go.
My daughter grips her seat for dear life. It's very quiet in the car as we look at the frozen hill ahead and all the cars around us.
I say, "We'll make it. It's just a different kind of driving today."
I'm really comforting myself. It's true. We will make it. Some days just require a different kind of driving. You take what the day gives, and you manage it. Some days require both hands on the wheel. Some days you have the windows down and you're flying. Some days, you barely make it.
We might spin and fishtail the whole way and go when we're supposed to stop and remain frozen when we're supposed to go, but we will make it. It will take longer, and we'll grab our seats in fear, but we'll make it. Nobody said it would be easy. I want to remember that when life doesn't present the smooth kind of road I'm hoping for.
Praise God I've learned all kinds of ways to drive.
_______________________________
Some days require a different way of living, don't you think?
Tuesday, February 26, 2013
"Believing They'd Already Died"
Today, my students discuss suffering and loss in the context of Japanese haiku. Various writers suggest that we suffer so much because we're so attached to certain outcomes. Releasing these expectations provides a coping mechanism that helps us enjoy life more.
A student raises his hand to tell us about his historical research about soldiers in wartime. He reports that "they went into war believing they'd already died. They were grateful for anything that happened to them that day because they weren't expecting to be alive at all."
They'd already surrendered their lives. They'd already assumed they would die, and that made them endure. They moved ahead without fear.
I think about this conversation all day long. I mull it over in my office and think of those soldiers on the walk across campus to my car. What must it feel like to surrender so deeply that anything that happens is a pure gift from heaven? What does it mean to receive what comes each day as a miracle because you expected nothing but death?
Enduring indeed.
I remember Galatians 2:20: "I have been crucified with Christ, and I no longer live but Christ lives in me. The life I live in the body I live by faith in the son of God who loved me and gave himself for me." I've already died; anything that happens now is a pure gift and a pure miracle.
_______________________________
Did this make any sense at all? I love teaching students who bring up such great ideas!
A student raises his hand to tell us about his historical research about soldiers in wartime. He reports that "they went into war believing they'd already died. They were grateful for anything that happened to them that day because they weren't expecting to be alive at all."
They'd already surrendered their lives. They'd already assumed they would die, and that made them endure. They moved ahead without fear.
I think about this conversation all day long. I mull it over in my office and think of those soldiers on the walk across campus to my car. What must it feel like to surrender so deeply that anything that happens is a pure gift from heaven? What does it mean to receive what comes each day as a miracle because you expected nothing but death?
Enduring indeed.
I remember Galatians 2:20: "I have been crucified with Christ, and I no longer live but Christ lives in me. The life I live in the body I live by faith in the son of God who loved me and gave himself for me." I've already died; anything that happens now is a pure gift and a pure miracle.
_______________________________
Did this make any sense at all? I love teaching students who bring up such great ideas!
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