i need help.

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I wanted this post to be published this past weekend and I wanted it to be about something else entirely. I don’t know exactly what it would have been about; maybe about what it’s been like to be single for the last two-and-a-half years or about why we feel that spark with this someone and not that someone or how every day should be Valentine’s Day with yourself. I didn’t have it written or planned because I had arranged my week so I could plan and write it then.

sickessentials

But sometimes the arrangements we make in our new, mostly blank paper planners aren’t what actually happens in life. Last Tuesday night, I came down with The Plague. (Think of every symptom of the flu there is and multiply it by five and I’ve had it for the last seven days.) I’ve spent my last days in hibernation. Without much energy or focus or the ability to be fully present with anything, I’ve done a lot of napping, binge watching ‘Friends,’ and cuddling the cute pup I’m sitting for all week. I haven’t been eating, reading, working, or — as I wanted to — writing a blog post related to Valentine’s Day. I had to miss tea dates with friends, important Leaven meetings, and a huge event at work that I was supposed to supervise. The Plague put my life on hold.

But even though I wasn't able to follow through on my responsibilities (or move far from the couch), things still needed to get done. I needed to put some calories in my body. I needed to take this 6-month-old, energetic dog for a walk every day. I needed 40 college students to be supervised as they sold cotton candy around campus all weekend. The rest of the world—even my world—wasn’t stopping just because I was. I needed things to get done without actually being the one to do them.

I needed to ask for help.

Even writing that sentence makes me cringe. I needed to ask for help. I hate that phrase, and specifically that word—“help”—more than most. I have always equated “needing help” with being incapable, incompetent, or inferior. I have nailed the cycle of agreeing to do something I know I actually shouldn’t agree to do, doing it without asking for help from anyone, and repeating this cycle with high frequency even though at the end of each one I tell myself, “Never again.” But then there’s the part of me that feels weirdly proud when I’ve gone “above and beyond” (although, behind the scenes, I’ve worked on a Sunday night, stayed up until 2:00 am, or sacrificed time to practice a little self-care and Sabbath); I feel like I’ve won a contest that I shouldn’t have signed up to compete in at all. I’ve always prided myself on being able to do it on my own, to take on that extra task, to put in the extra effort—and to do it all without any complaints. By not asking for help, I prove to the world that I am a capable, competent, and superior being. That I am, in fact, SuperHuman. That I can, and will, do it all, thank you very much.

But with my nose running and my head throbbing and my body shaking, I let go of that high-pitched, self-assured voice that lives in my brain and says, “I can, and will, do it all, thank you very much.” I knew that I couldn’t, at least not this week. If I had tried, I would have half-assed everything, including my recovery, which would have probably restarted the cycle of The Plague and left me utterly hopeless in all parts of life for an additional week. Anne Lamott, my spiritual director from afar, writes all about this in her book Help Thanks Wow. She says:

“When we think we can do it all ourselves—fix, save, buy, or date a nice solution—it’s hopeless. We're going to screw things up. We're going to get our tentacles wrapped around things and squirt our squiddy ink all over, so that there is even less visibility, and then we're going to squeeze the very life out of everything.” 

I didn’t want that. Even in my stubbornness of not wanting to ask for help, I still wanted things to be done—and done well. So instead of trying to half-ass my life for the week, I gave up and delegated parts of it. I asked for help.

Can you bring me over a Jimmy John’s sub sandwich, because it’s the only food that sounds appetizing to me right now? I can’t go get it myself, and I need help.

Can you stop over and take the dog for a walk and feed her lunch so I can go to the walk-in clinic? I can’t do it, and need help.

Can you supervise a huge, three-day work event in my absence? I can’t be there, and I need help.

Those were hard texts to send. But after pressing send, after seeing they were delivered, after waiting for those three little dots to stop typing, each text was met with the warmest, kindest, grace-iest response:

Yes.

Yes, I will bring you over a sandwich. And I will get your sandwich order correct without even asking you what it is and I will bring you two drinks to choose from and also a chocolate chip cookie for dessert or for breakfast tomorrow. Yes, I can help you.

Yes, I will take care of the dog. And I will bring you some pretty flowers, some delicious tea, and some kind words to help you heal. And I can come back tomorrow, too. Yes, I can help you.

Yes, I can make sure that tables are set and volunteers are there and money is counted in your absence and I can even let you know how it’s going if you’d like that. Yes, I can help you.

There it was. The words I was the most scared of sharing because I was worried that people wouldn’t want to help, that people would think less of me for needing help—those were the same words that elicited responses and actions and words of love. They were Jimmy John’s subs and vases of pink flowers and successful fundraisers. They were encouragement and support I didn’t know I needed until I asked, and they were encouragement and support I wouldn’t have received unless I asked.

There were plenty of other things that I could have, and probably should have, asked for help with this week. I’m learning the balance of what I can do alone, what I should do alone, and what I don’t have to do alone even though I can. 

So while this isn’t a Valentine’s Day post, it kind of is. Asking for help can be vulnerable and hard and downright scary when we live in a world that says that doing so makes us weak, inferior, and second-rate. But asking for help can lift us up; when we ask those we love, and who love us, to carry some of our weight when we cannot, we enter into a relationship that allows both parties to feel a sort of trusting, quiet love. A long-lasting, sturdy love. A I’ll-scratch-your-back-if-you-scratch-mine-too kind of love.

And is there a better kind of love than that?

fargo.

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“Where are you from?”
“Where’s home for you?”
“Where did you grow up?”

A month ago, I hopped on a red-eye flight to my answer for the first time in a year. The last time I was in Fargo, I had been in Portland for a measly four months and was still very much in the honeymoon phase of my new life there (I can bike everywhere, even in December! I live within walking distance of a Whole Foods and a Target! I actually made friends!). I loved that visit to Fargo, but I was still trying to make Portland feel like home. I was eager to return to my half-built life on the West Coast; I didn’t want the honeymoon luster to wear off while I was away. I was worried that if I let myself rebuild things too much—that if I picked up right where I had left off in August—that it’d steal from what I had started to build in Portland. 

Basically, I didn’t believe I could have Portland and Fargo as home; it had to be one or the other.

So Fargo became my hometown, not my home. It became the life I once lived but wasn’t living anymore. I told people in Portland who asked the “Where are you from?” and “Where’s home for you?” questions that while I was from the Midwest, I lived in Portland now; this was home. I reasoned that home couldn’t be a place where I only visited at the holidays. Home was where the real, messy growth happened every day. Home was where I showed up and tried my best or, sometimes, gave up. It was where I walked in the rain and caught the 17 line. It was where I sent hundreds of emails and sat on committees. It was where I met friends for tea and happy hour, where I scrubbed floors and ate standing up at the kitchen counter way more often than sitting down, and where I grappled with questions of faith and vocation and injustice. It was where I felt joyful and peaceful and determined, and also where I felt lonely and confused and stuck. It was where I pictured myself living in a week, a month, a year.

I also wanted to claim Portland as home. I wanted it to be known as the city where I’d be in a week, a month, and a year. I wanted to prove that I had done it, that I had found a place and made it mine, a place that was just as special to me as the place where I had spent the first 22 years of my life. A place that wasn’t just part of the "I-just-graduated-college-and-need-a-wild-adventure-so-I'll-just-move-across-the-country" phase. A place that wasn’t just the next stop in a long line of them. Portland was more than that to me, so I crafted it into a home.

So when I hopped on that red-eye flight a month ago, I wasn’t sure what to expect from my visit. I wasn’t sure how to exist in Fargo while still being true to the home I left out West, the only home where I believed the real, messy growth could happen for me now. But as I got off the plane and slowly immersed myself back into my Fargo life, I started doing what I did in Portland. I put one foot in front of the other each day, opened my eyes each morning, and existed in the world the same way. (Or, at least mostly the same way. I had to drive a lot more because of the, you know,  -35 degree weather and wore more scarves than normal for that same reason.) But just like I did in Portland, I showed up, tried my best, and asked a lot of questions. I let the real, messy growth happen.

I was only in Fargo for two weeks, but I made it home. I allowed myself to find home there. I tossed out this silly idea that I could only have one home, and instead let myself believe that there was enough love and comfort and homeyness to go around in places that are 1500 miles apart. I did more than just show up in Fargo; I grabbed the microphone and took the stage and belted as loud as I could.

I chatted with my 8th grade boyfriend, my junior year fling, and the man I kissed before moving to Portland. In the same night. At the same bar. I was the least helpful member of a trivia team, but was still invited back to play the next week. I disrupted an entire restaurant during dinner because who can contain laughter when talking about high school love?

I sat across from college-year mentors—professors and bosses and advisors, sharing tea or hot chocolate or a meal—who are still mentors, but now, are also friends. I baked sugar cookies from the same recipe, in the same mixing bowl, and with the same kind of sprinkles that my family has used for as many years as I am old. I navigated from one end of town to the other without checking Google Maps, accurately guessed how long it would take get there, and never needed to parallel park. Ever. 

I connected with someone I’ve known from a distance, ate at restaurants that didn’t exist a year ago, and stayed in a new house with a new dog and a new family member. Fargo reminded me of the life I wasn't living full-time anymore, but that didn't mean I had to hold back from life there. Fargo was full of life. Old and new, fun and serious, good and bad. And home is where there is life.

Home is Fargo. And home is Portland. Home is wherever you find it, wherever you are or allow yourself to be in a given moment. Wherever you find yourself surrounded by—or sometimes looking for—love and people and life. Or wherever you find yourself surrounded by—or sometimes running from—challenges and questions and the hard realities of life. Sometimes, home is the place you can’t wait to return to after a vacation, and sometimes it’s the place you can’t wait to leave after a rough patch of life. Home is where you’re from, where you are, and where you’ll be.

Home is Fargo. Home is Portland. Home is where you make it yours.

there will be a light.

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1 In the beginning when God created the heavens and the earth, 2 the earth was a formless void and darkness covered the face of the deep, while a wind from God swept over the face of the waters. 3 Then God said, “Let there be light”; and there was light. 4 And God saw that the light was good; and God separated the light from the darkness. 5 God called the light Day, and the darkness he called Night. And there was evening and there was morning, the first day.
Genesis 1: 1-5

4 John the baptizer appeared in the wilderness, proclaiming a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins. 5 And people from the whole Judean countryside and all the people of Jerusalem were going out to him, and were baptized by him in the river Jordan, confessing their sins. 6 Now John was clothed with camel’s hair, with a leather belt around his waist, and he ate locusts and wild honey. 7 He proclaimed, “The one who is more powerful than I is coming after me; I am not worthy to stoop down and untie the thong of his sandals. 8 I have baptized you with water; but he will baptize you with the Holy Spirit.”

9 In those days Jesus came from Nazareth of Galilee and was baptized by John in the Jordan. 10 And just as he was coming up out of the water, he saw the heavens torn apart and the Spirit descending like a dove on him. 11 And a voice came from heaven, “You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.”
Mark 1: 4-11

I’ve never spent much time in darkness.

Growing up, a night light constantly burned in the corner of my room. It was hidden between a dresser and an end table, the smallest sliver of space that let out the same-sized sliver of light. It wasn’t bright enough for me to read in bed, but it was enough to assure me that there weren’t monsters or ghosts or bad guys in my room with me. That light, even the smallest sliver of it, brought comfort and security.

Even for most of my adult life, I’ve been pretty good at avoiding the dark. The world we live in makes it easy to do so. I rarely rise out of bed in the mornings when the quiet darkness still hovers over the streets and buildings and all of life. I am frequently out in this city at night, doing errands or meeting friends, but the headlights and streetlights and porch lights take away encounters with real darkness. And, while I don’t have a night light in my room anymore, my phone screen or its flashlight feature or my headlamp stay awake with me until I close my eyes. Those lights, even the smallest slivers of them, are deeply entwined in my routine, bringing comfort and security.

But there is another darkness—a deeper, harsher, grief-laden darkness—that’s more than what happens when you flip off a light switch or walk outside in the middle of nowhere, away from person-made light. This darkness is harder to avoid. It is darkness that exists in broad daylight. Darkness that sneaks up on us, or, rather, slowly grows, right in front of us, right in the light, right when we believe that darkness can’t or won’t catch up with us. Darkness that pierces us.

Not even a week into this new year—a time that signals renewal and newness and light for so many people—and darkness continued to pierce me, to pierce us, in our chests and our hearts.

On January 7th, a bomb was detonated outside of an NAACP office in Colorado.
On January 7th, guns went off inside the offices of an alternative newspaper in Paris.
On January 7th, a beloved member of this community, Anthony Gilmore, left our presence.

One day. One 24-hour cycle. Day and Night. A day that doesn’t even account for the darkness that occurred on January 6th or January 8th, or the darkness that occurred before I started writing or that’s occurring while I’m writing or what will occur when I stop writing.

This darkness fills God’s world, God’s community, God’s heart. 
This darkness fills our world, our community, our hearts.
We ask, “Where is God in this? Where are the promises of Jesus? Where is our light?”

“In the beginning when God created the heavens and the earth, the earth was a formless void and darkness covered the face of the deep, while a wind of God swept over the face of the waters.”

This darkness, this Deep and Dark with capital D’s, was all that there was. This is where our story begins. In a formless void. In the deep, dark waters of the earth—that were perhaps desolate, perhaps chaotic, perhaps wild. And so that was where God was—in those places. 

From the beginning, God has held the darkness. 
God still meets us in our darkness.

And then, in today’s Gospel, we meet Jesus. 

“In those days Jesus came from Nazareth of Galilee and was baptized by John in the Jordan. And just as he was coming up out of the water, he saw the heavens torn apart and the Spirit descending like a dove on him.” 

But before Jesus could come up out of the water, before he heard a voice from heaven, before the Spirit descended, he had to go down. I envision Jesus going deep into the Jordan—the “close-your-eyes, take-a-deep-breath-and-plug-your-nose-before-you-go-down” deep. Jesus was submerged in the waters—waters that were deep and dark—before he came back up and saw the light, heard the voice, felt the spirit. 

God met Jesus in that darkness.
God still meets us in our darkness.

Just as God held the earth in its darkness, just as John the Baptist held Jesus in the waters, God holds us in love. God holds us—holds on tight—during the darkest nights. And darkest days. And darkest moments. God sits with us, breathes with us—breathes into us and, sometimes, if we need it, for us—and stays with us through the darkness. God is with us in evening, and in morning. God is with us in mourning. God was with us on January 7th, and the 6th and the 8th, and right now.

God stays with us, but that does not mean we stay in darkness forever. Because of God’s presence, we can go somewhere new. “Somewhere new” might not always be out of the darkness, maybe not right away. But to a new place where we can begin to glimpse the light. Where we can see that tiny sliver of a night light, piercing through to remind us that there will be a light.

God said, “Let there be light!” not, “Let there only be light!”—the darkness stayed. The darkness had, and still has, a place in our lives. It has a place in our days, as we go through each cycle of sunrise and sunset, although now we spend less time in darkness as our days get longer. It still has a place in our hearts, as we grieve the death of Anthony Gilmore, although we take comfort in knowing he is Home.

Living in the darkness sometimes, learning to walk in it, might not get easier. I don’t know for sure; I’m just learning about what darkness looks and feels like myself. But I know that leaning into the truth that God meets us there, and stays with us, and holds us, allows me to look at dark nights a little differently. I still seek the night light, the comfort and security of God’s love, but I also feel like I can “close-my-eyes, take-a-deep-breath-and-plug-my-nose-before-I-go-down” into darkness, knowing God rests there too.

But Just as God called forth light — “Let there be light!” — from the darkness; just as God called forth love — “You are my Son, the Beloved!” — to Jesus; God calls us into light, love, and life each day. God promises to stay with us through all of it, so we may live.

God promises that there will be a light.
So, let there be light.

The title of this sermony thing was inspired by Ben Harper's song There Will Be a Light. Salt & Light Lutheran Church, which is part of the larger Leaven community, frequently sings its refrain during worship as we remember that God is light, and there will be light.

where i'm from.

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I am from the days of big glasses, pixie haircuts, plaid dresses; the nights of bigger curlers, bright lipstick, black leggings; the quiet moments of even bigger dots over I’s, loopy L’s, a signature that has hardly changed in 50-some years but has finalized every big change in her life.

I am from post-it notes that covered bare counters, bare dresser tops, bare refrigerators. Notes that exclaimed: “Vitamins!” and “Don’t forget to dust!” and “Give Trixie two scoops!” but always ended with a heart and her signature.

I am from every swing set, monkey bar, slide. I am from every wood chip, grain of sand, ground-up tire that carried our footsteps as we spun, ran, danced with, around, into each other’s bodies. Hers always careful, protective of mine.

I am from matching watermelon shirts, matching high-waisted shorts, matching denim jackets. I am from matching eyes, curvy fingernails, smile. I am from sometimes matching hair color, sometimes matching favorite TV shows, sometimes matching one-liners, all inspired by her.

I am from apartments, town houses, houses that became home as soon as we walked in the door and set down the box. I am from the packing and unpacking and rearranging that will inspire a book one day, “Journeys with my Mother,” dedicated to and titled by her.

I am from unapologetic independence, unmatched organization, unbelievable tidiness. I am from cautious trust, bright hope, and the biggest damn love I've ever known or ever will know and could ever hope to know during this tiny, beautiful life from her.

I am from a vibrant woman who looks like a sister I never had, a disciplined woman who played the role of a father I never had, a joy-filled woman who acts as a best friend I always wanted. I am from a human who is—deep down in her mothering gut, always has been—my mother.

(This writing was inspired by a poem with the same title by George Ella Lyon. A dear friend and former professor shared this idea with me, and I couldn't help but write some of my own words about where and who I am from.)

doing justice.

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“Whatever happens to you belongs to you. Make it yours. Feed it to yourself even if it feels impossible to swallow. Let it nurture you, because it will.”
-Cheryl Strayed

indianelephant

I sat in the dark on the hardwood floor. I stared at my bright computer screen, at the blank page, at the blinking cursor, willing something—anything—to come out of me. Willing the words to reveal themselves—finally. I had so many thoughts. So many jumbled and confusing and clear and real thoughts about what four months had done to my soul, my present, and my future. I sat for a long time. Long enough for the tea to get cold. Long enough for the heater to turn off for the night. Long enough to know that no matter how long I sat and stared, nothing would come. 

That was a year ago.

I made it my mission to write something on the two-year anniversary of leaving India. I reasoned that if I wasn't going to get something out now, I probably never would. I told multiple people about this goal, often unprompted, as a way to keep myself accountable. I’d offhandedly tell someone and they’d reply, “Wow! That’s great!” or “I look forward to reading that!” or “I’m sure you have a lot to say about that experience.” I talked about my unwritten prose like I already had a story outlined in my head with a beginning and end and a meaningful take-home message. Like I knew exactly the words that needed to be released into the world. Like I knew that those words would resonate with every person who had ever traveled abroad. 

It was pretty ambitious. And it was also a big, fat lie.

Because I’ve spent the last two years having no idea what to say about India. People ask—with a little less frequency now—about my time there and I still come up blank. How do I describe an experience that was simultaneously life-giving and shitty? How do I explain to someone that the entire four months was a series of uncomfortable situations—being stared at by everyone I encountered, adjusting my digestive tract to new foods, getting lost in autorickshaws, walking through and bumping into people on crowded streets, experiencing privilege every single moment I was in public, contracting MRSA from a spider bite, coming to terms with my role in an imperialistic society—but that I also felt so comfortable and at home there? How do I respond to, “How was India?” in a way that doesn’t make people squirm because I want to talk about the time hundreds of ants invaded my dorm room, or doesn’t make people glance at their phones because I want to walk them through what it was like to walk through a wig factory, or doesn’t make them defensive as I speak the hard truths that I discovered about yourself and the United States and the world. So, instead, I just mumble, “It was awesome,” and change the subject. 

I would rather not talk about India at all than to talk about it imperfectly. And I would rather not write about India at all than to write about it imperfectly.

I’ve waited for the right words to say—the words that would do justice to my experience. I wanted to craft something beautiful and inspiring and reflective. I wanted to write the truest truth I could pull from those months and lace them with imagery of the buildings and people and landscape and feelings and triumphs and battles. I wanted to create a piece where everyone would deem that my words about India had value and, therefore, that my time in India had value. I wanted the jumbled and confusing and clear and real thoughts to transform themselves into a nice, 1,000-word-maximum box that I could keep with me and unpack whenever “How was India?” came up in conversation.

But that is not what this writing is, and it is not what my future answers to that question will be, because that is not what India was or is to me. It wasn't neat and tidy and well-worded. I spent two years trying to put it in that constricting box, and it wouldn’t fit. It never will fit, because India was messy. Messy as in one weekend I spent almost fourteen hours picking lice out of another classmate’s hair. Messy as in when I visited the abandoned Union Carbide factory in Bhopal and realized how easy it is for the world to forget about a corner of itself and its people that continue to be devastated by a disaster that occurred so many years ago. India was full of questions. Questions like “How is it possible that I just got tangled up in and ripped my mosquito net as I noisily fell out of my almost-on-the-ground bed in the middle of the night?” and “Why do I care about environmental/racial/gender/social/economic justice?” But most of all, India was real. Sometimes that looked like escaping to a Westernized coffee shop to write a paper because I needed some familiarity, even in the form of my American consumerism. Sometimes that looked like teaching a group of eight-year-old girls games like “Double Double This This, Double Double That That” and playing them over and over and over because I couldn’t tear myself away from the giggles they released each time. 

India is the heart-filling and heart-wrenching, the big and little, the good and bad life-y moments that filled each day I spent there. And not one of those stories will fit into a box.

I will never find the right phrases or adjectives or imagery or box to make people see what I saw or feel what I felt or hear what I heard (or what I didn't hear) in a way that makes sense to them. These words—or any future words—on this page or any future pages will never do my India justice. They’ll never quite cut it or live up to my expectations for how I want to share it with the world. I’ll probably look back on this piece and wish I had added a sentence about visiting the Buddhist temple or throwing up on an overnight train or having late-into-the-night conversations with my mentor, Roshen. But that is the fear I have to get over.

I went to see the premiere of Wild this week, the movie based off of Cheryl Strayed’s memoir of the same title. The story outlines Cheryl’s twenty-something self leaving her Midwestern life behind to hike the Pacific Crest Trail by herself. If you haven’t read it, you should. It’s incredible writing that shines a light on such deep and raw emotions that resonate with humans of any age. But, if you don’t want to read it, the movie actually does the book justice. And that realization—that even though I worshipped and underlined and would always choose the book, I actually liked the movie remake just as much—moved something in me. 

When Cheryl watched her movie for the first time, she could have focused on everything that wasn’t included; the parts of her book and experience that are so tied to her as a human, but just weren’t there because they couldn’t squeeze everything from a three-month-long hike into a two-hour-long movie. And maybe she would have put a stop to the movie because it didn’t live up to her expectations. Heck, I’m sure when Cheryl finished writing Wild, she could have mourned the parts of her story that she couldn’t fit in, because even she couldn’t squeeze a three-month-long hike into a 315-page book. And maybe she wouldn’t have written the book because it didn’t do her experience justice.

But she did. (Thank goodness.) The movie was produced and the book was written and maybe it was imperfect, but I’ll never know it. I read and watched and was honored to be let into even just that small fraction of her experience on the Pacific Crest Trail. It was beautiful and inspiring and reflective. And it was truth. Her truth. And that made me want to write my truth about India, and write something—anything—about being there, and now not being there. And it made me realize that if I am writing truth, without worrying about writing the right thing or cramming my thoughts into that box again, that it will be enough. I will do India justice.

So I sat down again, a year later, on the eve of my two-year anniversary of leaving India, and stared at my bright computer screen, at the blank page, at the blinking cursor. I didn’t stay still for long. Because I can either write about India imperfectly, or not write about it at all. I can either talk about India imperfectly, or not talk about it at all. I will always leave something out, always forget an important detail, and always worry about what I don’t get the chance to say. But I can say something. I can write something. I can share mostly unedited, stream-of-consciousness thoughts about an experience that shaped my soul and gives a behind-the-scenes peek into who I am as a human. It won’t be neat or tidy or well-worded, but it will be mine. It will be my truth. And that is a truth that I can no longer keep inside me for fear of it being imperfect.

That is doing India justice.

indiafriends