I rallied in time to throw some things in a suitcase, pack up the car with far too many baby-necessities, and head west until we hit water.

Of course, the first night Lane barfed in her pack n play at 3am and all the commotion finally woke Luke up. Lane settled back down, but Luke never did go back to bed. Not the most amazing way to start off a vacation.

The next day, after naps, we headed down to the water. I was tired, worn out, cranky, and generally overwhelmed. But the glittering afternoon waves began wooing me, and I grabbed Lane and headed into the water.

It was ice cold at first (as the Pacific often is), but I swirled my feet around long enough that my skin finally got used to the chill, and it suddenly felt refreshing instead of hypothermic.

I inched out, a tiny bit at a time, so that my skin would adjust. And when I got about knee deep, Lane wrapped her arms around my neck and put her head down on my shoulder, and put her belly right up against my chest. At first I thought she might be scared, but she wasn’t holding on in that nervous, don’t-drop-me sort of way. She was just draped across me, like a scarf, like she was part of me. I kept walking out until I was up to my waist, singing in her ear, letting the current sway us both.

I love that line from cummings, “i who have died am alive again today.” How perfectly it describes that moment for me.

The dying of food poisoning and packing and pushing pushing pushing to get ourselves out the door and on vacation. The dying of relocating two toddlers. The temptation to begrudge it all, to wish it all away.

And then to walk out into the water with my baby girl pressed right up against me as though we were dancing together, as though we were one . . . “i who have died am alive again today, and this is the sun’s birthday . . .”

Ahhhh, the rebirthing of the water and the waves and the sun and the sand. And my little Lane kicking her dangling toes in the salt water as I sang in her ear.

Holy, holy, holy.

Not only is her voice incredibly beautiful, but when Lins sings—especially when she sang yesterday—you know you are sitting in a place that is both earth and heaven. You are experiencing God-breathed magic emerging from someone’s deeply human soul. How overwhelming it is to be confronted with such great beauty.

The moment was like awakening to a new level of living, the kind of living you crave.

When Lins was done singing, a man behind me whispered, “Amen.” The perfect sentiment . . . as if the entire song had been a prayer. And that made the whole wedding feel like a prayer—a worshipful, celebratory, earnest, pure prayer. A gift to all who attended, I have no doubt.

Weddings have the power to reunite us with possibility, hope, steadfastness, sacrifice, commitment. I was reminded of the essence of love, and how petty I can be when it comes to loving Steve. How much I want to rip into him sometimes. How much I unfairly expect of him. How much I try to change him sometimes.

I was reminded yesterday that love is about something far bigger than a feeling. It’s not a new thought, but it’s a profound one. In fact, the pastor who married Beau and Sarah (Sarah’s father) said something I’ll remember . . . “Love actually has nothing to do with what you’re feeling in this moment today.” He went on to talk about what love really is—how love is what manifests itself when, and only when, things have gone south and sideways and there’s nothing else that would keep the wheels on the track except love.

I have this great book I’ve been reading—Emotional Sobriety—by Tian Dayton. It’s a little heady at points, but absorbing nonetheless. I’ve been doing a lot of reading and thinking about recovery lately, and this book has been helpful. She says, “When our hearts are wounded through disappointment or loss, love restores us to comfort and balance. Fear triggers us into self-protective responses like fight (anger, rage), flight (taking off, dissociating), or freeze (shutting down, withdrawing), while love and caring soothes us and brings us back to a state of equilibrium.”

In other words, love has such great power to heal us . . . if we will let it. Why is it often so hard to let ourselves be loved and to love well in return?

The wedding helped me to remember what love is (and what it isn’t).

I’m going to carry around a line of “Praise to the Lord” with me, a prayer of my own . . .

Ponder anew what the Almighty can do.

May we all remain open to healing love.

So I thought it would be fun to share some of these tidbits periodically. Enjoy!

“Rae was Rosie’s authority on all things spiritual, because her beliefs were so simple and kind. You were loved because God loves, period. God loved you, and everyone, not because you believed certain things, but because you were a mess, and lonely, and His or Her child. God loved you no matter how crazy you felt on the inside, no matter what a fake you were; always, even in your current condition, even before coffee. God loves you crazily, like I love you, Rae said, like a slightly overweight auntie, who sees only your marvelousness and need.” –Anne Lamott, Imperfect Birds

“Where you are is who you are. The further inside you the place moves, the more your identity is intertwined with is. Never casual, the choice of place is the choice of something you crave.” –Frances Mayes, Under the Tuscan Sun

“There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.” –Maya Angelou

“It was when I was happiest that I longed most. The sweetest thing in all my life has been the longing, to find the place where all the beauty came from.” –C.S. Lewis, Till We Have Faces

“I hope I’m wrong, but I imagine that about 90 percent of the human race is snoozing along, just going through the motions. And 100 percent of us dull out some of the time. It takes miracles, white magic, wonders, to jog us from our slumber. What if we really were masters of our mind and life? What if we were God-in-action? What would we do then?”  –Carolyn See, Making a Literary Life

Last night, I began to make a good-for-my-soul short list: Basil plant. Family time by the pool. Husband home for now. Mix CDs from Jamie. Etc. I also added yoga to the list because it has become a recent obsession of mine.

Until I went this morning.

For the second time in very recent history, Lane literally decomposed in the “Child Watch” program and the childcare worker had to come up to the studio and yank me out of deep meditation to retrieve my wailing daughter.

While yoga is good for my soul, practicing yoga while anxiously watching the door, wondering when the “Child Watch” people are going to barge in and pull me out . . . that is not so good for my soul.

So I’m at a bit of an impasse.

How does one balance the need for holistic peace with the agony of one’s daughter? Apparently, she wins.

Perhaps she is getting back at me for “Operation Iron Fist” (sounds far more punitive than it really is thanks to my Navy SEAL husband’s creative with naming missions), a little tough love Steve and I instituted recently to get everyone back sleeping through the night after a rough patch. I sat outside her door praying that she wouldn’t hold it against me. But now I’m wondering if she is. Maybe she should. The fact that we named it “Operation Iron Fist” was really overkill. (But it did work beautifully).

All of that to say, I will be drowning my yoga-grief in some basil-infused peach iced tea, courtesy of a friend’s suggestion on facebook. Thank you, Melissa. And I will be giving Lane an extra dose of love today because she needs it. After all, I know what it’s like to be in a dither, and sometimes you just need someone you trust to scoop you up and hold onto you for awhile.

Namaste.

Of course, since it was July 4^th, I also brought in the war, and the great confliction I feel around the realities of war. I am so proud of the work my husband and his teammates have accomplished overseas—the work of freedom and justice—and yet I am also deeply saddened by the lives lost, the families separated, the cost of having such a cause.

I read an excerpt from a chapter in Found Art that really highlights my difficulty reconciling a loving God with the state of our world. I wanted to share that chapter because it honestly relates my struggle, and yet I feel like it is hopeful. We must hate the injustices instead of hating God. We must keep looking for God in the tiniest cracks and the smallest crevices of our world because he is there.

After church, we had a handful of friends over. Steve grilled and we all took turns chasing kids. Steve and I put the kids down and fell asleep even before the first fireworks went off. He’s just returned from a two and a half week trip with four stops, literally flying around the world. We are both tired.

I spent the day thankful to have him home, thankful for the squeals of delight our babies let out when they saw him walk through the doors at the commuter terminal, thankful for our friends who tirelessly support and encourage us, and thankful for freedom . . . the kind of freedom that we long for every day, the kind of freedom that directs us to God.

As the introduction to my message, I shared Maya Angelou’s poem, “Caged Bird” that speaks to the injustice of slavery and the longing song of freedom.

A free bird leaps on the back of the wind

and floats downstream till the current ends

and dips his wing in the orange sun’s rays

and dares to claim the sky.

But a bird that stalks down his narrow cage

can seldom see through his bars of rage

his wings are clipped and his feet are tied

so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings with a fearful trill

of things unknown but longed for still

and his tune is heard on the distant hill

for the caged bird sings of freedom.

The free bird thinks of another breeze

and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees

and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn

and he names the sky his own.

But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams

his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream

his wings are clipped and his feet are tied

so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings with a fearful trill

of things unknown but longed for still

and his tune is heard on the distant hill

for the caged bird sings of freedom.

Many of us feel as though we’re caged, clipped, kept, suffering from something we didn’t choose. My exhortation on Sunday and my exhortation today is to, keep singing.

We long for a world free of suffering, sadness, loss, disappointment, addiction, abuse, poverty, homelessness, war. Though our world is broken, even our very lives broken, we must keep singing.

For we know, deep down on the soul level, it is for freedom that Christ has set us free.

I’ve never been to this area of Italy. The only Italy I’ve seen is Sicily. Steve and I took a military rotator flight over when we were living in Bahrain. With only five days to explore, we just stayed in Sicily and ate calamari and drank liters of red table wine. I have a snapshot-memory of Steve bodysurfing in the Mediterranean like a boy. Another of us rooting through tiles in a pottery shop. And then two dinners come to mind – one on a deck jutting out over the ocean and another in a courtyard walled in with an ochre wall that was perfect at dusk.

Mayes ushers me back to those memories. I love how a good book can do that.

She also makes me long for a farmhouse to restore, land to walk, old brick floors, stone walls, fruit trees, olives, and a vineyard. Imagine that being your life. Astounding.

I like reading about how she is fixing up this old home and its land, the restoration and resurrection of the property a metaphor for the transformation that takes place in the self when we put our hands in the dirt and stack stones and prune fig trees (figuratively or literally).

I love how taking on a project helps us feel alive, how it changes us in the process of getting the work done. Creating, beautifying, rebuilding are each such profound healers. So, in lieu of not having a dilapidated farmhouse in the wings, I think about the projects I do have, the God-given projects. I think about the things I need to sink my hands and heart into in order to stay alive.

The inertia of life can too quickly pull us toward numbness, paralysis, despair. I loathe that reality. So I try to push back in my own small ways. What has God given me to restore, beautify, redeem, remake, create?

I write a paragraph or two.  Nothing finished. Just something. The act of participating in my own life puts blood in my veins.

Priming the pump. Pruning the vines. Washing the windows. Digging the well. Perking the coffee. Breathing the basil.

May we all have the courage to participate in life in real and meaningful ways! May we all have the courage and vision to take the old, falling down farmhouses and turn them into mini-masterpieces.

Oh! Teach us to live well!

Teach us to live wisely and well!

And let the loveliness of our Lord, our God, rest on us,

confirming the work that we do.

Oh, yes.

Affirm the work that we do!

–Psalm 90

Steve and I decided to do something very healing for body and soul. We went to an oceanfront restaurant and shared a plate of King Crab legs. My kind of wellness program. I sat staring out at the dolphins surfacing in the ocean while he cracked and retrieved every last bit of crab. We talked about the future and how many things feel cloudy right now. We talked about the places in our life where we need to act and the places where we need to wait.

The next morning we went to a local joint for breakfast and Steve read to me while we ate chorizo and juevos rancheros. Steve was reading Donald Miller’s newest, A Million Miles in a Thousand Years. I read it when it released, but I loved having it read to me over breakfast and being reminded of the importance of living a better story. A simple message with profound implications.

After breakfast we walked on the beach and talked about the future more, how we might add some life and risk to our story. I loved having time and space to really talk and process and consider with Steve. We talked about my writing career and what’s clarifying in that realm. We talked about the 50K race he’s running this fall (barefoot!). We talked about the Navy and how the remainder of Steve’s career might unfold.

We came home to Lane’s sinus infection. Isn’t that the way it works! Regardless of the mayhem that is our home currently, I’m still feeling very grateful for that little blip of time to disappear and walk on the beach and breathe a bit.

I’m entering into a summer lull of sorts, recovering from a busy first-half of the year and planning for the fall.  Thank you to those of you who invited me to your churches, organizations, and events over the last few months. It’s been amazing to talk with so many of you about life’s foreign places and the beauty that just might be waiting for us even in the most unfamiliar of landscapes. Thank you for seeking transformation and for desiring to live openly and authentically. We’ve had some valuable conversations, haven’t we.

I’m looking forward to what God may have for me in the fall. If you have a church or group near you who would like me to come talk about some of the themes in Found Art, please leave a comment or email me at leeana@gypsyink.com.

I’ll leave you with a short-list of what I’m looking forward to this summer:

1. My family coming to visit in July.
2. A beach vacation in August.
3. Working on a proposal for book #2.
4. Prosecco by the pool.
5. Speaking at my home church, Flood, on July 4.
6. Swim lessons with two 18-month-olds. Nuts.
7. Reading voraciously.
8. Celebrating the upcoming arrival of Tina and Amie’s babies.
9. Spending some QT with my mom while she’s on summer break from school.
10. Seeing E,P,L, the movie.

Of course, now you have to post your looking-forward-to list . . .

Steve and I took the babies to Fort Roscrans this morning, the national cemetery on Point Loma that overlooks all of San Diego on one side and then out across the ocean on the other. We waited in a long line of cars and tolerated the protests from our back seat even though we knew we’d probably only stay a few minutes once we were there.

We finally pulled off onto the shoulder, into the makeshift parking lot that was forming on the side of the road, and we loaded the babies into the stroller and took off up the hill.

Instead of participating in the parade or enjoying all the military bands, we just walked straight to Marc’s grave. We didn’t really discuss our plans ahead of time. I guess we both sort of knew, an unspoken consent, why we had decided to make the trip.

Marc was the first Navy SEAL killed in combat in Iraq. Because Steve was assigned to his widow immediately after she had been notified of Marc’s death, we feel a sense of connection to them. I wrote about the entire story in chapter 22 “Mourning” of Found Art, but it was all fresh again today.

Marc was killed in 2006. Today, just shy of four years later, we stood in front of his grave while our two children ran in the flag-studded grass around us. Our babies wanted so badly to pick up the empty bottle of Jack Daniels someone had leaned against his headstone, or the five gold SEAL Tridents that were lined up on top, or the wreath of flowers with the flag in front, or the vase of flowers leaning against the left side. All evidence that family and teammates had visited.

We picked up the babies and held them so none of the tributes that had been left would be disturbed. We talked about “Mr. Marc” briefly and then loaded the babies back into the stroller and walked back to the car.

It was a simple moment—pulling out fruit sticks to bribe our kids to sit still—and yet it was filled with thousands of words neither of us could ever say.

Each headstone a representation of someone killed in their 20s or 30s. Each headstone a reminder of the gravity of war. Each headstone a tragic loss. Each headstone, Marc’s headstone, a reminder of the worst fear turned true. And they go on and on and on as far as you can see.

As usual, I am suffocated by it all, and yet going seems so necessary. Acknowledging the reality of my husband’s service, the reality of the war that still rages, feels necessary. Taking our kids feels necessary. How could we possibly let today pass by without honoring what we have been through?

Today, we remember those who have died fighting for our freedom. Though war is indeed a complicated endeavor, today we acknowledge the great courage of those in the fight. Today, we remember Marc and his widow Maya, and we allow a sense of sorrow to sit with us knowing that Marc’s young and promising life—just like far too many others—was tragically and prematurely ended. I feel both deeply proud and deeply grieved by today.

I am honored to know men like these, to be married to one of them. I am honored to know those who possess an undying desire to bring hope to our beautiful children, bring voice to those who have been long silenced, bring relief to our bankrupt world.

May we all find the courage to join in such a fight.

Last night, after we put the babies down (after I had rocked Luke for some time because he had slipped in the bath tub and knocked the heck out of us head and lay there flat on his back, naked, screaming, looking up at me with terror in his eyes and that look that says, “why did you let this happen to me”), we put the blue suitcase on the bed and I took out all my clothes from my trip to Nor Cal last week where I spoke to a so-lovely group of women from Menlo Park Pres, and Steve began loading his clothes into the bag for his week-long trip. Revolving suitcase.

At about 6 this morning, I was back in Luke’s room, back in the rocking chair (I’m wondering if a splitting headache was what woke him up so early) rocking my getting-big-boy back to sleep when Steve snuck in and kissed me a silent kiss goodbye so that Luke wouldn’t stir.

“Bye, babe,” I mouthed to him silently and we both just kind of smiled, knowing that you always do whatever it takes to avoid waking a baby.

When Steve had been gone an hour or so, and the rest of us had a bit more sleep, I loaded the babies into the car and headed to Target for an Americano (there are few things that speak to my heart more completely than a Starbucks inside a Target), VeggieTales, and a frozen pizza for dinner tonight.

While in Target: Lane almost swallowed her faux-flower hair clip, Luke dropped ¼ of a banana which I promptly rolled over with the cart, Steve called on a layover, both babies wore me down until I took them out of their harnesses and let them loose in the main part of the cart, and I almost started taking shots of whatever they were selling on Aisle 9. Like a troop of wild animals, the wake behind us was resplendent with foodstuffs and ruined displays.

As I was checking out, the Target employee says with great concern, “Uh, ma’am, she’s about to fall out of the cart.” Lane has one of her legs pitched up and over the side and she’s trying to figure out how to shift her weight so she can dismount the cart. Of course, I’m not supposed to have a child (let alone both of my children) standing in the main part of the cart. Very dangerous.

So I grab Lane before there’s an incident, and with both of my children “complaining,” I slide my credit card with my free hand.

The Target employee ends our time together with, “Are they always such a handful?”

I keep Lane in one arm and with the other lamely steer the cart out into the parking lot with Luke at the helm. We hit a bump and my car keys hit the ground while I’m in the crosswalk. I wedge my foot behind the wheel of the cart (so it doesn’t roll away) and bend down and grab the keys as Lane throws her head back thinking it’s all a game. A man in a sedan waits for me to do this whole song and dance.

It was an unglamorous morning.

I often feel like the rest of the world is clipping along in synchronized goodness, and we (me and my handful children) are the clumsy barnacles on the broad side of humanity, dropping keys and spilling coffee and launching out of shopping carts.

Today, some sliver of grace has presented itself out of nowhere, and I can actually just smile and say, “Oh, well.”

For that reason, and that reason alone, today is a total success.

The Slipper Slope of Coping

I talked with a Navy wife the other day. She has five children, and her husband is preparing for his fourth deployment. I asked her how she was handling it all, and she coolly (read: defensively) told me she was doing “just fine.”

She added that she gets so frustrated when military wives struggle with their situation. “We knew what we were getting into when we signed up for this marriage. We have no right to complain.”

I stared back at her, somewhat pained, knowing she was not doing “just fine” and fairly sure she had made the mistake many of us make, which is to simply dismiss any kind of honest confession for complaining.

Some of us have gotten good, maybe even too good, at coping. We steel ourselves into this pillar of strength, and we challenge anything to penetrate our armor. Meanwhile, we may or may not be feeling that same way on the inside, underneath our self-protective layers.

The problem with practicing this kind of incongruence—the outside and the inside at odds with each other—is that we get used to living split off from our true selves. We become accustomed to denying what’s actually going on inside us, and this creates a person who cannot be honest about her pain, cannot let others see her weakness, and cannot tolerate any kind of authentic struggle in others.

This woman sends the subtle (or not so subtle) message to her friends and to her children that the real winners are those who suck it up and deal with it and never let anyone see them sweat.

How incredibly isolating this behavior becomes for everyone. Yes, others may see us as amazingly stalwart, but they will never see us approachable. This keeps everyone dancing around each other at a safe distance, never really able to offer help and support. How sad! All of us in need, and yet none of us able to access our own emotions or each other’s.

So how do we decipher between complaining and true confession? Complaining is all about staying stuck, rehearsing the injustices with no desire to see things differently, change behavior, or receive support. Complaining is about wallowing and whining, unconcerned with growth, maturity, or transformation.

Confessing is something different altogether. Honest confession is an externalizing of an inward conversation for the purpose of gaining insight, releasing a burden, or admitting reality.Confession leads to movement and helps us get out of the grind of merely coping. It opens doors to growth and change because it is an act of congruence. By externalizing—sharing—our true state of affairs, we are better able to identify what we need and how we might be able to engage in some simple acts of self-care.

So, let me practice what I’m preaching.

If you were to ask me how I’m doing with 17-month old twins, a Navy SEAL husband who is in and out on travel, and the delicate situation of all of us living with my mother in her house, I would tell you the following:

“I’m tired. I’m trying to be honest about how exhausted I feel and, instead of pushing myself all the time (read: punishing myself for not doing my life better), I’m slowing down when I can.”

What does that slowing down look like? Glad you asked.

“I’ve started yoga twice a week. I’m taking naps when my kids nap. I’m reading more and watching TV less. All of these things are good for the soul. In addition, I’m trying to figure out some fun things my family can do together when my husband is home because we need more fun in our lives right now.” Then I might add, “So, tell me what you do to take care of yourself in the midst of this stressful life? And what do you do for fun as a family? I could use some suggestions.”

And then you might offer me some great ideas of how you and your family are getting through the ever-changing days of military life.

Beautiful, huh.

Isn’t that so much better than, “just fine”?

(BTW, I really would love to know how you take care of yourself and how you create fun for your family. So post a comment and share the wealth!)

Leeana Tankersley