Archive | gratitude

In which I dive into the water

September 16, 2012

Start small, I told myself. Go easy, start with the small things that make you afraid. We’ll get to the other stuff later, maybe someday.

And then yesterday, months, years, a lifetime, and today, into this new life without fear, I found myself in a room full of women, women I had never met in real life, and I loved them, right to Oklahoma and California and Maryland and between. When I saw them, sitting in an airport bar, real, I just had to stand there, watching them, because, God, women that breathe goodness are just so beautiful. (And they’re funny as hell.) (And they had a table full of empty glassware.) (And we’re loud.)

The ordination of the daily life rhythms together, showers, pajamas, faces scrubbed of make-up. We stayed up too late, woke up too early, ate good food, and I laughed until my face hurt. And we cried, and read Scripture and spoke truth until we were the redeemed, walking on holy roads, and I wanted to take up the lute, sing of how the scorched desert becomes the cool oasis.

I washed a lot of dishes, one after another after a counter-full-other, and listened. I could sit, rabbinical-pupil-style, at the feet of the women of God. How did I get here?

Thank you, Ancient One, for spiders and webs swinging in the breeze. Thank you for the sound of frogs singing, the sight of egrets swooping over lake water. Thank you for hammocks and the gift of time, and the small steps one after another, until I looked up and I could not believe where God had brought me, carried me, danced me, straight to joy.

I moved out to the dock, yesterday, in my bathing suit (it was the black one, the elastic is all shot to hell), contemplating an act of boldness, but I sprawled down, arms flung over my head, feet in the water. I thought about jumping in, I needed to jump in, but the water was dark and unfamiliar and so I sat, for a long time, alone in the quiet, and it was enough for me. A friend came, and we talked, and I went back inside, put my black clothes back on.

Moments later, I started small, all over again, by walking over to the dock. Wine glasses rested on the saturated wood dock, and we laughed, took pictures of the sunset, and I saw Megan looking longingly at the water, pulled towards and holding back, sitting on the edge. So I took off my glasses, surrounded by yet another church, I was braver than I was alone, and this was for us all.

I dove into the water, head first, still in my clothes. I surfaced to screams of delight and “Watch this cannon ball!” and “Here I come!” and then the dark water was full of women flinging themselves off and in, forward, bras and smart phones left on the dock.

I floated, toes up, head back, the sun setting above us, and Amber kept imploring us to remember this, to mark the moment, to look at the salmon pink sky, but dragonflies the size of hub caps kept buzzing into our hair, Joy was a free-spirit mermaid with seaweed coloured hair, we surfaced on the beach, dripping and free and cool, streaming with unfamiliar water, feet of mud and clay.

If someone would have walked into the water, calling out for Jesus, I would have baptised her, myself, right then and there. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit, we went under together, and came out, laughing, in another newness of life. Jesus did not come to make bad people into good people, Kelly told us (her voice is so low and musical), he came to bring the dead to life.

This morning, I sat on the damp dock, again, and a small group of us prayed and prayed and prayed. My coffee grew cold in my cup, there is still more – always more – time ahead, and I smell like lake water. I started small, and always, as always, it was enough for God to work the ordinary, extraordinary, miracle.

Photo by Kelly Sauer

Continue Reading · faith, fearless, friends, gratitude, journey, moments, women · 20

In which I am surprised by friendship

August 26, 2012

I can’t remember ever being away from the tinies for a whole day, but I drove to Idelette‘s house, with local peaches riding shotgun in their cardboard basket; the tomatoes, raspberry ice cream, baguette, and honey in my backseat, between the door and my laptop, a few papers and books stuffed in for good measure. It was a day for friendship, a day I had set aside for writing, for dreaming, for scheming with my heart-friends, on each other’s behalf. Kelley flew in from Burundi via Arizona, just for us, just for this, Tina was there, too.

In true introvert fashion, I was already regretting it. What if it’s awful? I’d rather stay home. Oh, man, they’re going to discover I’m just me, always just plain old weird me. Plus it’s hard to give up a day of your weekend for non-family people, let be real here. But Brian was supportive, shooed me out the door, the tinies gleeful at the prospect of a day with their dad all to themselves.

My friends opened the door, bleary-eyed from the late night of talking previous, and the first thing they did was open a bottle of sparkling apple juice, pour them into fancy champagne glasses and toast my good book fortune, they cheered me on, and we all cried a bit, I think.

(It’s nice to be with people that celebrate with you.)

Idelette’s house is just the right kind of chaos and homecoming, the kid-stuff scattered amongst the stunning artwork, just a glorious mish-mash of everything that makes her so true, it’s the house of passionate creativity and real-life family. There were pictures of women, every tribe, every tongue, on every wall, and so it felt like everyone here in the world was there with us, somehow, and a gigantic canvas on the stairs said: There is no such thing as small change, and the famous red couch at Idelette’s was worn out and comfortable, especially with Kelley sprawled on it, twisting her hair unconcernedly when she really got talking about the theology of adoption and Lord, yes, that woman can preach and teach in a living room beside a piano better than some preachers I’ve seen in thousand-dollar suits on a television show. Tina snapped a few pictures, and let me tell you, she’s probably the most beautiful person I’ve ever met in real life, ever, and we jumped from weddings to babies to travelling to inappropriate theology to publishing to prayer, and back again.

(It’s nice to be with people that are all over the same map with you.)

So we made coffee, and we talked about book writing, about stories that yearn to be told. We spoke a lot of truth to each other: here is what I see in you, I think this is the story underneath the story you’re talking about, have you ever considered doing it differently? And we cried a bit, we marvelled at the wisdom, we laughed and laughed and laughed, and it was revealed at long-last that I have a potty-mouth.

(It’s nice to be with people that don’t make you censor yourself.)

We ate leftovers for lunch, leftovers from Tina’s mother’s immigrant kitchen, and I may have groaned out loud, it was so good. We ate the raspberry ice cream in cunning blue bowls, and we talked about SheLoves Magazine, about community development and the big, audacious dreams. We laughed at our own ridiculousness, but it couldn’t be denied, we all want to love the world. I heard more of their intersecting stories, and when Idelette was done talking about her book, about her passions, I wanted to see her on every stage of every slick Christian conference, to bring some mama-truth, to preach the Gospel of Being With Each Other, but then I kind of had to shrug because part of Idelette’s power is that she’s outside of that system, outside of that church-marketing world, too busy living the truth of it to package it. We sat in that living room for nearly 7 hours straight, and it passed as quickly as an hour at a playground for a five year old.

(It’s nice to be with schemers and dreamers outside the fence lines. It’s nice to be with people of freedom and truth and love.)

I drove home, and I nursed the baby, kissed the tinies, put on my blue dress and my high heels. I waited on a bench outside of a bookstore, and I remembered being so lonely for friends, I couldn’t see straight. I remembered the seasons of my life when I felt completely crazy, like no one was caring about the things that moved me, like no one was questioning what I was questioning, like no one wanted a friendship that went deeper than “Oh, my God! Your hair is so cute! Let’s talk about potty training techniques!” So I was distrustful of women, suspect of motives, an island of hurt feelings and isolation. I kind of grinned at the sneaky goodness of God, the kind that tiptoes up behind you, because without a lot of fanfare, because in a rather haphazard and organic way, I have found my tribe. I’ve found my people without the striving and organizing, without the Official Sanctioned Church Programs, nope, we just all came into each other’s lives, right at the time when we were meant to be there, we stayed open to finding each other, a part of me was always watching for the hints of my people, and so when I found them, I recognised them, I did. It still happens, kindred spirits aren’t as rare as I used to think.

(It’s nice to be with people that feel like old friends from the very start.)

We went to a little bistro next to the river, sat outside drinking girly bevvies, and talked quiet about all of the other stuff, the stuff of sitting under the stars and secrets. I could listen to Kelley, and Idelette, and Tina talk all day. They have fascinating stories, the stories that leave me breathless with awe at my God, awe at the goodness of life in The Way, I needed to catch my breath a time or two, it was real. Pinch, pinch, pinch, Kelley, don’t mind me, I just want to make sure you’re real, maybe I can be more like you.

(It’s nice to be with people that challenge you, people that call out to a deeper and truer life in you, in complete humility and wisdom.)

And then there was that moment that rose up, I call them my Invitation Moments, the moments when you can sense an invitation from each other to go just a bit deeper, a bit more real, a bit more honest, and you can decide to stay where you are (and that’s fine) or you can take the risk of secrets-in-the-open, the risk of mask-removal. And, we all took it, one after another, mask after nice Christian lady mask, and I told my secrets, too.

Then there was that Between Moment. You know, that moment, a sacred moment in friendship, the pause between. It’s the time between the heart-cracking-open, the time between the secret-now-told, and the reaction. It’s the time when what you said is sitting out there, above all of you, floating there, and you wait for someone to say something, what are we all going to do with this truth? you wonder.

Sometimes that time is terrifying, other times it’s reassuring, it is always sacred.

(It’s nice to be with people that sit in that space with you.)

And here is the moment when friendship is sealed: they reach out for those words, those secrets, and treat it with such tender care, with such beauty and welcome and kindness, that you exhale a breath you’ve held for decades, and think, yeah, yeah, I did it, and you feel knit together, woven and spun. It’s in that moment that you move from friends to sister-friends.

(It’s nice to be with people that weep with you, rejoice with you, and show up in the big holy ways for the Between Moments.)

I drove home on the backroads, savouring it all. It’s not too often that this introvert comes home from full day of talking, scheming, laughter, and friendship feeling energized. (I’ll be honest, I usually go into a mild coma, and self-medicate with comfort reading or Pinterest, after even just an afternoon of this kind of thing.) But instead I felt heart-full, energized.

Alone in my minivan, out in the darkness, driving along the river, but it didn’t bother me.

I had left goodness behind me, but there was goodness ahead, you can navigate the darkness for a while if you know there’s a home, waiting, at the end of the road.

Instagram photo of Kelley and Tina on the couch was by Idelette

Photo of Kelley & Idelette from earlier this year in Burundi together was taken by Tina Francis.

Continue Reading · abundant life, community, faith, fearless, friends, gratitude, journey, moments, SheLoves, women · 51

In which I tell you about my two (yes, two) book deal

August 15, 2012

I spent the morning working, like every Tuesday. In the afternoon, the house was full of children. My friend had a few errands to run, so I offered to watch her three little ones, my three were thrilled by their addition to the mix here. The six-under-seven all played while I cut up apples for a snack, poured water into plastic cups, made sure that every one was being included in hide and seek. I quickly checked my email in the kitchen, and there it was: the long awaited official book contract from the big city lawyers, sent out to the Canadian west, on a regular Tuesday afternoon in August, while tinies shrieked and ran about the house. “You forgot 14!”

I didn’t have time to read through it, so I emailed it to Brian, he printed it off, brought it home. I sat at the kitchen table, it’s a cheap white Ikea table, covered in gouges, stained with paint from art sessions, and the chairs are a little filthier than I would like them to be. After I had cleaned up the supper dishes, we read through it carefully, Anne standing waiting in her soccer uniform for a ride, there was rice stuck to the floor.

I touched the thick white paper with my finger tips, let my eyes rest on the first page for a long while, the address in New York, the Big 6 name, the whole thing. This is as good as it gets, my wonderful agent tells me, and she’s right, so I savoured.

There weren’t words for this moment, I sat in silence, my husband was watching me carefully, no doubt gauging his reaction to mine. I whispered something about how I couldn’t imagine how this had happened, how I wasn’t really worthy of this, how this all feels so much bigger than me, and, like, whoa, and I felt the weight of responsibility, the weight of my humanity and mistakes and my own flawed voice, I felt the weight of glory, too.

Back when I signed the agreement with Rachelle for her representation, I laughed with joy, and pounded steering wheels, and danced. But this?

No jumping up and down or shrieking. I felt hushed, thankful for my bare feet, every centimetre of my skin. I turned through the pages, reading legal clauses and addendum, I sat for a while, just looking at my name, Sarah Bessey, it said, Author.

Then I signed the contract for a two-book deal with Simon & Schuster’s Howard Books.

Jesus Feminist: Life on the Other Side of our Church’s Gender Debates will be published by Howard Books, an imprint of Simon & Schuster, in 2013. I’m so thrilled to be working with this team, I feel like this is a God-connection somehow, and I’m right where I was meant to be, this work is right where it is meant to be, and we’re in it together.

Here’s the little intro video that I made for it, back in April.

And then, you’ll have to hold my hand, I’ll be writing the tentatively titled, Recovering Know-It-All: How a Cynical Follower of Jesus Fell Back in Love with the Church. I’ve quietly worked out this second book, based on my own experiences over the past ten years of my struggle and restoration with the beautiful Bride, and I am so excited about it, so hopeful, I can hardly stand.

So there’s my news.

This morning, I stood at the post office, filling out paperwork, surrounded by my little family. The postal worker was so excited for me when she saw the contracts, we took pictures, my hand shook writing out the addresses, Brian was adamant for Priority Post with tracking numbers and then, away it went.

Here we go.

(fearless…deep breath….fearless…deep breath)

I would appreciate your prayers, if you would come alongside of me, friends? This will be quite a journey, and I feel it swirling. My friend Amber said that it will be a whirlwind, and I believe her.

And thank you, again, always, for doing life with me.

Continue Reading · abundant life, art, books, church, enough, faith, fearless, gratitude, Jesus Feminist, journey, women, work, writing · 127

In which I simply get to work

August 6, 2012

There isn’t anything striking or clanging about the arrival, never an announcement or a grand entrance, it’s always more of a day-after-day-after-day insipid stupidity that takes over, thick oatmeal quicksand instead of a wallop of despair, acedia is a bit slower, a creep of a thing. And I’m feeling it, the acedia, the desert fathers and mothers called it the noonday-demon. Different than sloth, it’s more of a spiritual ennui or boredom, an exhaustion of why-bother-nothing-matters.

I used to call it depression, but it’s not. That is a real things, a clinical thing, and this is just me, feeling bored, stupid, tired out, listless, sad, burned out, day after day after endless-never-ending-day.

I blame a lot of things: poor food choices, late nights reading, hot weather, summertime, too much time online, wrong focus, temperament. But it’s none of those things at the root, not really. It might be sin eventually, but at the beginning, it’s simply a season of my soul, a sign post for my spirit, when I recognise it, a sign that I am worn out, and to continue like this is to continue to despair.

But I don’t really tackle this with the traditional work associated with my spirituality: fasting, prayer, singing, church, bible studies, go and do, memorize Scripture, and write a few more entries on my list of 1000 gifts.

No, I simply get to work.

It’s probably the prairie kid thing, combined with the evangelical-mutt thing, but when acedia slinks into my soul, spreading into every corner of my life with an ooze, when my mind is fuzzy and apathetic, when I’m listless and worn out, burned out, on religion and parenting and marriage and family and everything about my life, I get to the daily, methodical, healing goodness of real work.

I cook. I bake. I do laundry. I clean my washrooms. I vacuum. I organise our closets. I knit. I stop reading late at night. I take morning walks in my favourite places. I stop checking the Internet. I even stop writing. I stop anything that requires me to think or feel too-too much.

Nope, it’s the good, hard, real work of life, the repetitive work, the work that lets me rock back onto my heels with a satisfied feeling, a look-what-I-have-accomplished sense, that saves me in these seasons.

I bring order to my soul with the ordinary work, the ordinary love, the ordinary beauty of the every day life, and funny as it may be, it’s where I find that space of pause, the shut off switch for my never-ending-inner-monologue that so irritates me, my first-world problems and my over-analysing, my evangelical hero complex.

The work of my hands and my body pauses any existential crisis, the daily work of living redeems, and I feel the acedia fading with each day of right choices, one after another, each step of pushing back the darkness with fabric softener, veggies, backyard camping, laughter seeking, and newly-white bookcases in the fading sun.

I do the things I don’t have the natural inclination or desire to do, out of sheer stubborness: shower, put on make-up, get up early for a walk, make meals for my family, clean, fold underwear. I turn on the Olympics, and I scrub my floor, I bath them all and clip 60 nails of little hands, I make sure every one is drinking their water. It helps move me along, move me through the valley, somehow.

And God is there, in the daily quotidian rhythms of my day, without straining and earnest seeking, simply there, always there, always present, and when I go to bed at a decent time yet again, some part of me begins to find joy, contentment, peace, and I receive the gift of hope, all over again.

Yes, Kathleen Norris is another patron saint. Her slim book “The Quotidian Mysteries: Laundry, Liturgy, and Womens’ Work” and New York Times Bestseller “Acedia & Me: A Marriage, Monks, and a Writer’s Life” saved my life a time or two.