Freedom for the trapped, yet alive
Life..to those presumed dead
Water for the thirsty
Healing for the broken
For Rescue,
for rescue.
For Mercy,
for mercy…

Are you here?
I’m asking because I can’t see you, or feel you, or hear you.
Right now, atleast.
I was thinking–instead of trying to imagine what you look like
What if you just showed up
like you did for Moses up on the hill.
Really bright.
So I can be sure.
Or instead of striving to hear your voice in the rushing river,
What if you just said something
Outloud,
Like you did with all those guys in The Beginning.
Or even if you just called my name
Like you called Samuel.
But not in my head.
I mean
Really-out loud.
That would be…
Or how about this.
I am tired of trying to sense your arms around me.
What if you came into this living room right now
And sat next to me
And I just
Laid my head on your chest
Like John?
Hey–are you reading this
Right now?

Somehow, today it happened.
Today was the day.
I dealt with it.
Several months back, I found an old small cooler that had some things inside of it. I don’t know how long they had been there. Whatever was inside the cooler was there long enough to turn black, grow fuzz, and smell rancid.

Upon finding this treasure, I shouted out to my husband: “This cooler is disgusting! Let’s just throw it in the garbage.”
“No”, he says.
“We will deal with it”.
And deal with it, we did not. For another six months.
It sat in the garage. Collecting more stinky black stuff.
In fact, I forgot about it.
For the most part.
Oh, I suppose from time to time I would glance over at the airtight Coleman cooler, shudder, and move on.
I guess in the back of my mind, I always knew it was there. Nagging.
Left, undealt with.
Until today, when necessity cried out for me to “move a few things around” in my garage.
The Little Cooler resurfaced.
I opened the cooler for the first time in six months. I don’t know why I opened it, but I opened it. I scooped out the junk with a plastic shovel, emptying its contents into a plastic bag. Then I rinsed the darn thing out with the hose.
And the Little Cooler, who once held so much power–to cool, to preserve, and to decay–and most of all gross me out–
Lost it’s power. Why?
I cannot say for sure.
Maybe, because I just opened it.
Maybe, it was because I just thought, for the first time in six months, “I can do this.”
Whatever came over me in the form of “just do it” is an enigma, still, today.
And that, my friend is how grace is.
There is no exact formula.
For me, it tends to happen in a moment. One could argue grace works eventually–over time. Maybe it’s both.
I never really know how I get there.
Try as I might (and Lord knows I have) to force grace into my nice little time frame, and it never works.
It comes when the heavens line up with–what? Certainly no striving of my own accord.
It just comes.
I remember the day I decided to forgive the one person I thought I couldn’t.
I had tried and tried to “forgive” for a very long time. Nothing.
Then, one day, it just happened.
One thing I do know:from the moment I am paralyzed by lack of inertia–to the moment I can act or think in a way that super-exceeds my once perceived limitted human capacity–something supernatural occurs.
Grace.
Sometimes, it sidles up real slow and cunning…and sometimes, it comes like a cool burst of air that makes me gasp.
Either way, the moment I realize its gift,
I love to sink into it.
Because it is so totally
and completely
who You are.

It’s not too late.
Today is a new day.
There is still time to ask yourself the question.
To take that one small step toward health; toward life.
To teach your body to do the thing you think it’s too old or tired to do.
To create
From the strange pictures you see;
From the odd phrases you hear
inside your head.
To utter that unthinkable thought
to someone you trust.
To forgive.
To go back home.
It’s not too late.

There is a time to name that which we hold, and there is a time to let go.

As a young therapist in my twenties, I learned the art of naming. Naming your fear. Naming your passion. Naming your offense.
Naming can be one way to acknowledge and bring life to our position or plight. I used to be a pro.
I taught others how to own and validate and be validated by the art of naming.
Yet now, I wonder about the inherent good in naming.
Naming enhances, highlights. Brings life.
What do I wish to give life to?
That which fills me and nurtures others.
Consider the young mother who lies in bed at night and feels an irregular heartbeat. She focuses on the heartbeat, senses and feels the strange rhythms, and begins to sweat. Her thoughts rant and rave and she searches for the meaning of what is happening to her. She wants to give it a name.
“I’m having a heart attack!” Surely, there must be something very, very wrong.
I am going to die
So, assured of her condition, named and set in stone, she wakes her husband who takes her to the ER.
Nothing.
She comes home with a prescription for Paxil.
Oh Great. Now, I have an Anxiety Disorder. What a mess I am…(more naming).
My wisdom teachers of today teach the art of detachment.
They teach the danger of giving something a name that serves no positive end or blessing.
Detachment.
Thoughts come and go. Some thoughts take precendence. Front row. You know the ones.

The positive ones can stay and get a name, if they serve you well…but the negative ones must be let loose.
If the young mother had detached herself from troublesome thought, she would have attended to the moment– and eventually, something different about her body, her environment, or her thoughts would have become apparent. If she had responded mindfully, remaining light and detached, there would be no need for panic, no need for a trip to the ER, no meds, and most importantly, no new diagnosis.

If you notice yourself ruminating on the same negative thought again and again, you probably are ready to ask yourself: Does this deserve a name? Do I really want to give life to this?
You– the new artist of detachment, can now notice how easy it is to practice letting loose the thought that does not serve you.
So the task is simple, really.
The thought comes.
And, as always, it poses the question; the true test.
Do I get a name?
If you answer no, you have begun to create art.