This I Believe

There’s this series on NPR that I love called “This I Believe.” In it, everyday people become eloquent poets of their experiences, detailing the deepest beliefs of their hearts.

These people open their veins and share their pains, their struggles, their hopes. To say that it moves me would be an understatement. (En route to the Lyric I’ve caught myself crying to the words of a woman struggling to help her daughter overcome addiction – she now believes in the power of support.)

Beautiful stories aside, the series always reminds me that we are all human.

I shared some impassioned words with a friend today. She is a woman who I love and cherish and respect. She is a force - a woman who is dealing with uncertainty and frustration head-on. Things pummel her every day that she cannot control.

Despite all of our communities’ hopes and prayers, God just hasn’t let up yet. I really don’t know why He hasn’t. (Though I believe that He will.)

So I got to thinking about what I do know. I know that I am with her.

If I could call down fire from heaven to wash her clean, I would do it. If I could take on her pain, I would do it. In that aching passion, I am struck that this is my belief:

I believe in the self-renewing abundance of faith.

We will always have enough faith to give a little away to people who need it.

In full disclosure, I’m still in the process of understanding why this is. I may never know, other than to give full, majestic, divine credit to God for it.

I simply know from my own experience that I will not give up my faith for the people I love, nor will I cease to hope and pray on their behalf.

This faith has become self-renewing. Believing in right and good things for others makes me less selfish. I can see their prayers delivered. I can believe again that God is in the business of deliverance. I can know again that He does it for me as well.

As I re-realized today, I know that when we ache and weep and ask for the blessings of the ones we love, well, God just hears those things. And I believe in the aftermath of our wailing, we find faith. We find moments of healing and restoration. For ourselves. For others.

“Then you will look and be radiant,
your heart will throb and swell with joy;
the wealth on the seas will be brought to you,
to you the riches of the nations will come.”
Isaiah 60:5

Dress-up

This Easter, I'm reminded of the importance of family.

Because of all the stuff with my Aunt, my Mom and Grandma have been down in Florida taking care of all the business and won't be back in time for Easter.

Usually parts of the Donaldson clan trek over to Lincoln for Easter mass and brunch somewhere. We're only there for part of the day, but it's an exceptionally good day. The new (great) Grandchildren would be running around after eggs, wearing frilly white socks with their shoes, giggling when the "Easter Bunny" stops by our table.

When I was a child, an especially magical part of this time involved pretty new Easter dresses. Sometime the week before, I'd go to the mall with Mom and search for something lovely, but somewhat warm (it was a little too early for sundresses in March). I spent many an Easter shivering, or (gasp) taking in the "dreaded white sweater."

Blech. I hated when she made me do that.

During my first year down in Kansas City, it was odd think that the new dress tradition might end. I was really broke, so Mom came to the rescue, letting me get a new yellow dress that I wore to my first Easter as an "independent, workin' woman."

It felt good to be between two worlds - still taken care of, at the same time making my own way in my own city.

I'll remember that feeling this Sunday.

I'll go to my first Easter service at my own church. In my own world. Surrounded by my own people. But I'll be wearing that yellow dress. And I'll be missing you, Mom.

And we are free.

There are so many themes that can relate to Holy Week: redemption, thankfulness, forgiveness, darkness.

At my church, the community has done a remarkable job of tackling the subject of slavery (both in theory and in reality). My crew and I are in the process of wrapping our arms around a particularly butt-kicking Sunday sermon (which I expect to post about more concretely in a bit).

But in my own life’s circumstances, I’ve been captivated by liberation.

This week, an amazing liberation is taking root in the life of my aunt. She’s already failed a few times, but I’ve remained hopeful and prayed a lot.

So my heart just melted yesterday when I got the news that she's agreed to go into rehab.

I’m so unbelievably proud of her. To face your inner demons, all the while knowing the consequences will separate you from your children - that’s no small feat.

I’m also sort of knocked on my ass about this. I’ve been praying for this redemption for awhile, and God delivered. He came through. Though I’ve seen some miraculous things in my life, it never ceases to amaze me when that happens. But that’s the beautiful part about God’s liberation. He doesn’t give up on us.

“With your hand you drove out the nations,
and planted our fathers;
you crushed the peoples
and made our fathers flourish.
It was not by their own sword that they won the land,
nor did their arm bring them victory;
It was your right hand, your arm,
and the light of your face, for you loved them.”

Psalm 44:2-3

So, my friends...I see again what true, flourishing, life-giving liberation can be like. Please join the chorus in prayer and thanksgiving, because this Holy Week, my heart is singing, loud and off-key and in inappropriate places:

"You are so good to me,
You heal my broken heart,
You are my father in heaven...
You are beautiful, my sweet, sweet song."

You Are So Good To Me - 100 Portraits & Waterdeep Album: Enter the Worship Circle

Food and fellowship

Meals have always had an unspoken sacredness to me.

By that, I don’t mean that my family approached them with a sort of “saintly” reverence. I mean, The Simpsons were frequently fighting in the background (much to the dismay of my Mom). Food was sampled off of other plates. We’d get up to answer the phone.

I’m sure much of my appreciation has to do with the fact I practically grew up in restaurants. My Mom comes from a restaurant family (my Grandpa started the Midwest franchise of Village Inn). All of my cousins, aunts & uncles have navigated serving platters through a packed restaurant during a rush. I dropped more than a few cups of ranch dressing on a customer once. After he’d finished eating and was on his way back to work. I wrote a note to his supervisor that apologized for his impending tardiness (due to a salad-dressing soaked uniform).

Outside of our professional travails (which is some ways makes you hate people who can’t appreciate all the effort put into a meal), there’s the unspoken marriage between big family meals and my Catholic upbringing. So many of these sacramental celebrations (communion, confirmation, weddings etc.) are treated with equal parts spiritual respect and familial reverie. We’d drive over to Lincoln (3 hours from Des Moines) basically to sit in church and then…eat. It was more or less accepted that any good meal took a few hours to prepare, so chip and veggie trays were in abundance. Grazing was key.

After years of attending these sacred feasts, I’m faced with an interesting scenario: How do I create them on my own without that family with who’s presence they are synonymous?

Now, my parents are 5 hours away. My brother is in the same town, but our schedules are opposite. My cousins and grandparents can’t “just get together” for birthdays when we’re separated by state lines. Although there is a new generation of great-grandchildren in the wings they are not ready for sacramental gatherings yet.

But community can be passed through blood lines or forged through who we choose to bleed with.

I find myself blessed with a new community to break bread with.

When I think about it too much, I’m flabbergasted by how perfect our imperfect allegiance has become.

We are family. Our laughter bubbles up out of joy. When a friend got a new job she so desperately needed and deserved, we confirmed her over dinner. We created a new sacrament to celebrate.

We know how to properly celebrate a birthday. We go to great places for dinner. (You know, those places where it’s better to not think about how much you’re gonna spend.) When we’re out we sit like hooligans at a country club. It reminds me of the Langston Hughes poem “We Real Cool.” I thought about that at Tasso’s a few weeks ago, “We real cool, we skip school, we lurk late…”

Sometimes when we go out like that, I feel like a 9 year old girl playing dress up – not quite out of place, but dreamy and content as time stands still around us.

These feasts are even more beautiful when they’re impromptu home gatherings.

Some of my happiest moments are when I get the urge to host a few friends for dinner. It becomes this beautiful ritual that blossoms out of a seemingly normal day: I’ll get up and grab coffee and steal off to the farmers market. Walking the rows of tomatoes, corn, strawberries and apples, my heart stirs. In my mind, I imagine the chopping, rinsing and organizing to come. Before I know it, I have five people crammed around my coffee table, on the floor and loveseat, breaking bread and having church.

It is a new season of sacredness. A new type of banquet.