Dreaming of Silence

1999.
London.
Some very old cathedral whose name escapes me.
Candles, darkness, stillness.
Community.
Peace.

The first time I remember ever experiencing contemplation. Intentional stillness. Breathing in prayers.

It was a small taste of many more experiences to come. Staff retreats, personal times of solitude, early morning intentional quiet before the sun (and my children) rise.

But it's elusive these days.

Don't get me wrong. I like to be on the move. People look at you like you're five kinds of crazy when you are out and about with three boys. They assume you are run ragged all day long. And I am.

But I happen to like exercise. And games of chase, hide-and-go-seek, endless games of soccer and catch. I like the movement. The noise level, maybe not so much, but I don't mind never sitting still with them.

I do, however, miss quiet and contemplation and slowing down intentionally, particularly in community. There's not a lot of time to get to our church's contemplative service right now. It's at dinner time on a Sunday, when it's Defcon 5 around here and we hit survival mode with all hands on deck until bedtime.  I could go to a women's bible study at a local church if my child's nap would cooperate, but really that's just more input. More words and noise right now. I like to chew on my pastor's sermon all week and read alone...but my brain can't take too much more information at the moment. It's filled up on so much. Sensory books. Parenting books. Sermons. Worship prep. Therapy plans for the middle child.

And as I've begun to think about what "yeses" I can say when we move, I'm wondering if there will be a place, a space, just in the middle of the week, maybe mid-morning. A place where child-care is offered and men and women can gather in quiet, in contemplation. Maybe it's led by someone, maybe it's just an open time to come, be, listen, breathe. Maybe it doesn't exist yet. Maybe it can.

I don't know.

But I'm dreaming of it.

One time a week, where harried people (parents or not) can come and contemplate the glory of our God. Soak in the stillness and calm of His Spirit. Bask in the love of His Son.

I long for it. I cannot be the only one who does.

Untangling RVA

In just a few short months we'll head south again to Richmond. Back to where our family began. We met there, married there, bought our first home there, got our first pet there, had our first child there. You know, became adults. Or at least we looked like adults. When do you really start feeling like an adult, anyway?

Richmond was not first on our list to return to. In fact, in some ways, it was probably last. It was a place we never planned to return. A place that, for me at least, represented pain. Represented exhaustion and chaos and all the ways I didn't want our family to function. When we left it for NC seven years ago, we left it with a big sigh of relief.

It was a chance to start over. Fresh. New.

I still remember those first few months after we moved. The days were calm and joyful, filled with house projects and playing and attempting not to melt in the Durham humidity as we met our awesome neighbors. The evenings were filled with family dinners and twilight walks and long conversations with my husband after our son, then only 2, went to sleep for the night.

It was peace.

And in the midst of that peace, I blamed all of what I had felt IN Richmond ON Richmond.

The overwhelmed. The exhausted. The angry. The alone. The sadness.

It was Richmond's fault.

Even those first few years in NC, if I drove through RVA on the way north, I would tense up. I couldn't stop for a fill-up or a coffee. I drove through it as quickly as possible and kept my eyes facing forward.

It was in NC that I started blogging. Made the attempt to move from unable to even articulate a feeling to myself from occasionally being brave enough to share a feeling with the public. I shared about our miscarriage. Our infertility. Our adoption process. Parenting. Friendships. Marriage.

But never once did I write about Richmond.

It was, until a few months ago, a place I kept closed off. Until we got that call from VCU. And began to ask God if it was maybe, just maybe, a chance for a do-over. An adventure in redemption.

Friends, I had to get down on my knees. I had to surrender my anger. Surrender my fear.

And in so doing, I began to see that it wasn't Richmond's fault at all.

It was me, and me alone.

Those who know me now, know that I share about the hard places. I blog, I write, I try to find funny things to say in the midst of the hard moments. I work at being open.

But back then, I was one big secret. I was fine. All the time.

So much so that I was actually going through a miscarriage in the middle of a church leadership meeting, chose to stay there, not tell anyone it was happening and just occasionally rush off to the bathroom to panic and breathe and come back as if nothing was wrong.

So much so that I went away on a retreat with my colleagues during that same time and only told the woman I roomed with. 3 whole days away togther in a beach house and no one knew a thing was wrong. They just thought I was tired.

So much so that during that drawn-out month in which we lost our daughter, when a good friend called and asked if she could bring us a meal(because clearly she knew something was wrong), I chose to pretend that nothing was wrong at all and didn't tell her what was going on. And refused the meal.

So much so that I began to avoid our friends because I didn't want to answer any questions about why I was sad or distant. I focused on packing. I focused on thinking ahead and ignoring the now.

So much so that my marriage was basically a setup of excellent roommates who were over-committed and exhausted. Ships passing in the night who traded off childcare. Because to interact was to deal with pain that we weren't sharing with anyone else. And who had the time to interact, anyway, with all the ways we were involved in life around us?

Ironically, we were a part of a very intentional community of people at that time. A new church plant, people who had moved into the city to be in each other's lives. We were on church committees, worship teams, small groups. We had friends nearby.

But we had put our community BEFORE our marriage rather than inviting our community INTO our marriage.

There is a big difference, friends.

One way allows me to present the illusion of service and love and the other let's me actually LIVE a life of service and love.

I chose the wrong way.

I am a long way away from untangling all this. I know that almost 10 years later, I am no longer a walking secret. I have talked about the miscarriage. I have adopted two beautiful sons. I have dealt, as best one can, with the infertility. I have a good marriage that is way more than a roommate situation. I keep a feelings chart handy because, on top of trying to figure out what I am feeling at any given moment, I am trying to teach my children how to identify what they feel. I am clearly not equipped for that particular quirk of parenting but I soldier on and we learn together.

But as I look forward, there are things I need to do.

I have never apologized to the friends I shut out. I hope to do that.

I have never driven by our home in Church Hill on my trips through Richmond. I want to do that.

I have only once been back to our church community there and, at the time, all it did was dredge up the pain. I have to visit and let the Lord practice his work of redemption.

Most of all, I hope as I continue to untangle and forgive myself and move forward, that we can start fresh as a family. 10 years later. 2 more pets. 2 more children. 2 more sets of goodbyes under our belts. We have changed and so has RVA.

Ready or not, here we come.