Trusting Rest

It’s Sunday morning and I’m working, in order to rest tomorrow during a much needed retreat.  The gal across the coffee shop is working, too, and by the spread of her papers and seriousness of her face, she’s been at it for awhile.  I remember a similar context last Sunday, when I returned from an early morning walk and found my retired, single neighbor heavily entrusted in yard work.  

“Wow, you don’t waste any time do ya, Paul?”

“Well, you know, there’s really nothing else to do, so I figured why not start working.”  Busyness has always seemed an obvious deterrent from rest, but this made me remember that boredom is, too.  

I’m spending today in sort-of “planning mode,” looking over my semester and trying to get a handle on these next five months.  Then tomorrow I’ll head on a 48-hour solitude retreat, where I’ll have a Bible, blank pages and probably a lot of wishes that boredom and busyness could find escapes.  Thank God my program requires these 48-hours each semester, or else I’d surely find every excuse against it.  Why is it that the ideas of resting/sabbath/retreat are some of the most overlooked and undervalued vitalities in attempting to follow the Trinity?  Furthermore, how is it that the pathway to God’s Spirit gets so quickly squelched by our own pathways?  Too bad when I try to find a Biblical rationale on this note, I lose.  If I had to represent it, I guess I’d say, “Something of me, or God, or our relationship, has become so solid that I no longer need His (command/gift of) rest.  I’m beyond it, if you will.” 

Somehow my view of God got tainted into this slave-driver of sorts, who only wants me to work until I pass-out, or die (“for His glory,” of course).  Unfortunately, again, however, I’ve not found His Scriptures (or self) to affirm me here.  As a wise spiritual director once said, “Abbie, there’s only room for one person on the Cross.”  Living and dying for God’s sake is an understandable (and often commendable) pursuit, but it can also too quickly become a dangerous one.  What would it look like for us to transfer our relentless passion to reach and reflect and refer others to the glory of God, to actually rest in the glory of God, ourselves?  Or to trust in the glory of the God, because we rest—to rest in the glory of God, because we trust?  I wonder what it would look like to choose a mindset of Sabbath this day?  Or block-out a set of retreat-esque hours this week—where it can just be about you and God—learning to love yourself, as much as you’ve learned to love your neighbor.  For some of us the thought of just being with God is too overwhelming.  It’s easier to usher someone else toward Him, or find a way to serve Him.  Or for some of us, we’re scared that if we choose to retreat, God won’t show-up, or will, and that scares the hell out of us.  What I’m slowly learning though, is that retreating and resting is about being present.  It’s about showing-up.  That’s all.  And that’s everything. 

The sabbath is a gift—we don’t have to take it, but we can.  

Maybe some of you have avoided a Sabbath (or twenty) because there’s too much to be done.  And here again, I wonder what it might look like to explore with God His preference for you, versus what you produce.  At the start of a new semester, I think it would do us all well to ask these tough questions and ask the courage to hear their answers. 

What might it look like for us to allow ourselves rest, because we trust…and allow ourselves to trust, because our soul is at rest?

*Sidenote: The idea of Sabbath, or retreat, is often assumed as a mountaintop space of bliss where life is carefree and easy. That idea isn’t reality.  Intentional “resting” is rarely easy and seldom fun.  The contemplative “high,” or entrance into peace, is a gift of grace that happens on occasion, often after a series of hours, or days in strife.  Resting is a “discipline,” meaning it should expect a process of training pains and weakness, before it feels confident in its practice.  I remember the first 48-hour retreat I took—after like 45 minutes of journaling, I freaked-out because now I had 47 hours and 15 untold minutes left.  It didn’t take long to realize how tired I was, meaning a good 24 of them were spent sleeping, and the rest somehow happened, even amidst my silence.  Anyway, email me here if you want further thought, or more specific suggestions.  

*Sidenote #2: There are a number of healthy resources on this topic, but one that I’ve found extremely helpful and practical is “The Rest of God,” by Mark Buchanan.  

I’m usually the brat on plane-rides who gives-off the demeanor of being deaf and mute so you won’t talk to me.  Part of this is because I get scared and feel like if I “stay focused” the plane might not crash or face turbulence (I know—killer logic).  But the larger part is that is that I’m just stingy with down time and love that flying forces space for that.  Plus, isn’t it pointless to strike-up a couple houred friendship, when our descent is within  hours and you’ll never see me again.  Anyway, I didn’t realize I had such a cauldron of flying philosophy, but lest I make you think I’m a complete (expletive), I’ll digress.

With the above paragraph in mind, however, you can imagine my five-hour redeye this week wasn’t about to entertain convos with sidekicks in Row 17.  I wanted to sleep.  So when Seat C asked me a start-up question on the runway, I got squeamish.  Very quickly though, he squelched my anxieties and in fact, became quickly intriguing.

His skin showed a tanned hue of eastern ethnicity and his vocabulary quickly revealed a healthy education.  He looked about his 21 years and yet rattled off his unpretentious, “I’m a pre-med junior at James Madison” like he’d experienced 40.  Seat C quickly unloaded his current state, as if he’d been waiting to dump for about two years.  I was a captive audience at this point, and by the time we hit take-off (we sat on the runway for awhile), he’d already divulged pendulums swinging from cocaine and the givens of frat-house porn, to coastal differences and his girlfriend’s “lack of physicality” (which eventually spoke more specifically as: “I don’t understand the big deal about sex after dating seven months?”).  I was really enjoying Seat C at this point, and certainly the candid window into a college student’s world.

And then we met Seat A.

I don’t remember how he tilted his way into the conversation, but I do remember that one of his first topics covered shared the following. 

“I’m getting married in 3 months.” 
“Wow,” Seat C and I concurred, “you don’t look that old.” 
“I’m 15,” he responded in his deep North Carolina drawl, and then went on to share about his experiences with sex, drugs and drag-racing in the backwoods.  

Suffice it to say, two hours of upper class banter to that point were sidetracked.  A tobacco-chewing lad had quickly turned our attention to his window seat.  Seat C and him quickly saw eye-to-eye.  They shared levels of testosterone untethered to any sort of faith cuffing.  (Seat C comes from a Muslim family, but has never chosen to practice, and Seat A comes from the southern culture of most going to church, but few knowing God).  I ended-up representing the token gal in the Mars versus Venus conundrum.

At this point they still assumed I was about 21 (do I really look that young!? :)) and certainly had little idea of my faith association.  They learned quickly, however, that I camped with the chaste crowd and “studied philosophies of religion as an undergrad and now graduate student.”  But what they never learned (until facebooking me after we landed) were the extremes of my camps.  And I’m honestly really glad.  Had I stated upfront that I was a seminary student who writes books about Jesus, I highly doubt Seats C or A would’ve talked to me, let alone talked so freely with adjectives starting with “f,” or assertions of unfiltered reasoning.  I’m not saying our stance as Christians should always pull the silent card, but I am saying that, in this case, “evangelism” spoke a lot more loudly, and clearly, through a quieted existence, versus one that felt obliged to talk.  Parts of me still landed at LAX wondering the point of five and a half hours that never laid-out my full story.  But part of me also landed with a sense of wonder at the profound mysteries in just plain listening.

I’ve lived in LA for a couple years now and had yet to experience an earthquake.  Until last week.  I’ll own to the morbidity here, but I’d honestly been looking forward to it.  Thought it would be like riding a metro and trying to balance when the train comes to a hault—sans guard-rails of course.  It really wasn’t though.  More like slow-motion body surfing in the dark, or amatuer skateboarding with your eyes closed.  No…even those aren’t cutting it.  Bottom line, earthquakes are scarier than I’d imagined.  And this one wasn’t even that big.

It’s been a hard week in my family.  Courtney and Ian had little Avery last Thursday, and the road since has been less than smooth.  Avery’s heart rate has been sketchy since the start.  Doctors discovered a hole between her valves, requiring her 5lb frame to undergo surgery asap.  This situation has clearly brought-up a lot in me, but much of it has revolved around longing for my family to know Jesus.  I don’t say that as a  Christianese, evangelical, crowd-pleaser, but more so because it breaks my heart to see my sister fighting so hard against a tide that is beyond her.  She asked me yesterday, between sobs, if I thought her ½ glass of wine prior to even knowing she was pregnant caused all this?  I sadly said, “No, Courtney.  Avery is sick and it’s not your fault.”   

A similar, but less tragic scenario, regards my Christian landlord. Florica is in her late 60’s and spends much of her Romanian Orthodox days trying to please God.  I admire this much of the time, but tonight her tenacity made me sad.  She was exhausted from trying and still convinced she’d not tried enough.  The short of the long is, Florica loves her daughter.  And her daughter doesn’t seem to love her, or God.  And Florica wants her to.  So she’s trying to pray and weep and fast her daughter into eternity.  “But it’s not working,” said complains, in her thick accent (which reminds me of other times she’s told me I’m single because I’m not praying enough). Though a sincere lover of God, it’s as though the shackles of the Law have put Florica in a similar predicament to my unbelieving sister.

There’s something to be said for the link between tenacity and the Kingdom.  I’m reading through the journals of Mother Teresa (Come Be My Light), and good god, that woman had fight.  But it seems there’s something equally if not more important that we can’t miss.  Before we were called God’s servants, we were called His children.  Thus, before we are called to minister toward broken souls, we are called to our own—to the humble task of giving our brokenness back to Him—back to the Cross.  I had a spiritual director call me out on this misunderstood predicament once.  He said, “Abbie, keep remembering only one person who had to be crucified.”

Doing is easier than not doing.  It feels more spiritual to produce, than wade in what looks like nothing.  Furthermore, tenacity is great, but not when it’s trumped by fatigue, effort and guilt on its road to Calvary.  Such “signs,” I think, reveal wrong tethering.  When you becomes the reason he, she, or it isn’t changing, you’re teetering in shackles of religious Law.

Call it coincidence, but for some reason I’ve been seeing a lot of transsexuals lately.  Granted, I live in LA, but still—even here, they’re not the norm.  The one I’m touched by this hour is sharing a coffee shop and sitting across the room.  He’s dressed in cowboy boots and I guess what you’d call a midriff showing tube-top,” alongside a thong accented backside, wrapped in a mini-skirt.  Suffice it to say, he stands out a bit.  Minding his own business and reading a wedding magazine, of all things, but his demeanor is as gentle and unbothersome as they come.  And yet most who’ve crossed into our vicinity the past twenty minutes or so, have been visibly bothered.  How can a man so quiet open a story so loud?

Last night I watched Amistad.  (Yeah, I know.  A decade late.  So it goes in my life.  I still don’t have a digital camera.)  Actor Anthony Hopkins played what I’d consider a brilliant role of Former President John Quincy Adams.  In a most telling scene, he taught of stories and that in the end, regardless of the journey, it’s the better man’s story who’ll win the race.  (I actually found the film to speak a quiet obvious message of Jesus’ story being that which wins, but maybe I’m biased.)  

“Story” isn’t a word or concept foreign to us as go’ers of this generation, but at the same time, I find its territories of insight ceaseless in a constant readiness to tell anew.  I guess part of that follows the idea of a larger Story being eternally in motion, so that no story we know ever holds the full, or final chapter.  God is always at work, and always at work on a larger Story than we could know.

My first niece was born last night at 12:01am.  Avery Elizabeth.  I’m ecstatic, and have already been the possessive aunt who calls every five minutes for the update (sadly, Rhode Island isn’t close to California).  I want every chapter.  Every page.  Every new twist of this new life’s story.  And right now, I have similar emotions to the man across the room.  I curious what his story is?  I wonder what he’s wanting to say, or wishing he’d said, or wishing someone had said to him at this point in his story?  I wonder what he wants?  And I wonder if what he wants seemed so beyond words that drastically changing his identity seemed a helpful end, and beginning, to telling his story?

I think one of the greatest mysteries we've been invited into is hearing another’s story.  But the temptation seems to be already knowing it—we think we know what to expect and what such outfits usually unfold.  But I wonder what it would look like see every story and every hour as a new Avery?  As a new page of content.  As a new life.  A new chapter ushering us into new ways of Love.

I was driving on the 110W this morning and saw that there were two H.O.V. lanes.

I don't usually stay-up this late, and definitely don't usually have anything sensible to write this late, but tonight I'm filled with the fullness of a rich evening, so wide awake.  Shared an outdoor dinner with dear friends, Bob and Sandra (who housed me for my first six-weeks in LA, beginning exactly 2 years ago, to the day!), along with their son, Steven, another friend, Erin, and two folks from Pretoria, South Africa.  The night nibbled and rambled and sipped toward the stroke of midnight, and yet it was one of those eves where time's presence felt absent.  This crew does life in such a unique and peculiar and passionate way that they can't help but leave one inspired.  So yeah, anyway, just grateful this evening and stuck with a spirit too alivened to sleep. 

I couldn't sleep so decided to get across town before traffic.  Not much open at 5am but coffee shops.  And I like coffee shops, and the 5am silence when I'm up to hear it.

Figured I'd crank out some good reading and writing.

But apparentely Richard couldn't sleep either.  He wreaks of homeless and talks of business.  Seems to know every face that passes and likes to talk about every face that doesn't.  Says he's had cancer for twelve years and was in prison for six.  He details cars for a living and knows uncanny details that would leave Jepordy champs speechless.  "Shares peace with pot."  Loves Jesus, but won't call himself a Christian.  "Spiritual," he says, "but right when you claim a damn religion, people the Truth."

Richard hasn't stopped talking for close to an hour.  In fact there's no way I could've grabbed ten minutes to write this had some seemingly well-known woman with a dog shown-up. 

His phrases make a lot of sense, but when you try to string 'em together, they're absolute garble.  Every sentence seems to summarize a point of his sixty or so years.  I guess in some ways this makes him seem holisic, able to integrate his span of living throughout his present.  But in other ways, it makes him seem really isolated, unable to hold enough awareness of his present, to have any holistic semblance of his past.

 



 

Um, yeah, so apparently Californians are into Independence Day.

My landlord told me he was leaving town for the weekend.  And they never leave town.  "Too many loud pops," he said, throwing his hands in the air.  I thought this was his Romanian way of saying Americans get a little giddy about their freedom day and go watch fireworks.  And well, this is what he meant, but by fireworks, I don't just mean the grand show at the local park, or the downtown celebration following the parade.  I mean like whole neighbhoods (namely mine) with whole driveways stuffed with grandma, grandpa and cousin Juanita, seated in lounge chairs, lap chairs and those long inflatable bench chairs...all for the fourth of July!?  I've never been in a war scene, but if I were, I think this is what it would sound like.  Loud, really loud, bursting flames of light scattering the sky.  I feel like I should hover against a wall like we did for tornado drills in middle school.  The moon is really rad tonight, but it's hard to find its crescent, given the thousands of brighter moons distracting its view.  Oh shoot, and now Dirty Dancing music is being sung by some far off stereo system.  This is crazy.  The people across the street just brought out their whole dining room table and are now salsa dancing in their grass.  Where am I!?  There are literally like hundreds of people lighting the air on fire in my vicinity.  Loud, hundreds of people.  Illegally loud hundreds of people.

Suffice it to say, Californians win the patroitism prize. 

As of tonight, I hope my house doesn't burn down.  And I'm proud to be an American (even though it's my Mexican neighborhood making all the loud pops).