Memorial Day 2012

The brave die never,

though they sleep in dust:

Their courage nerves a thousand living men.

Minot J. Savage

“a good story in which to learn to fail”

I just finished reading Lauren Winner’s new book Still.  It’s a series of reflections on life after losing her mom, ending her marriage and trying to figure out if the God she once passionately confessed is really there at all. Life, as she says, “in the middle.” In some places I found myself revelling in her soul-pricking insight while others left me scratching my head, but part way through I made a decision. I decided to exchange any ambivalence I had over her journey (this woman I didn’t even know) for acceptance of who she was in the pages before me –a gifted, thoughtful woman authentically pursuing her God.

This snippet, perhaps my favorite in the book, is a beautiful picture of why I’m glad I did:

“It turns out the Christian story is a good story in which to learn to fail. As the ethicist Samuel Wells has written, some stories feature heroes and some stories feature saints and the difference between them matters: ‘Stories . . . told with . . . heroes at the center of them . . . are told to laud the virtues of the heroes–for if the hero failed, all would be lost. By contrast, a saint can fail in a way that the hero can’t, because the failure of the saint reveals the forgiveness and the new possibilities made in God, and the saint is just a small character in a story that’s always fundamentally about God.’

“I am not a saint,” says Winner. “I am, however, beginning to learn that I am a small character in a story that is always fundamentally about God.”

Ditto.

“Are You A . . . ?” (A Quick Reflection on the Festival of Faith and Writing)

Over the weekend, I attended the Festival of Faith and Writing in Grand Rapids, Michigan. Lots of bloggers are commenting on their experience (check out Michelle Van Loon’s for starters ) and if I had the energy, I’d write a post of my own. But instead (my friend Caryn and I were just marveling over how tired we still are) I’ve mustered up just enough for this one thought:

Early Saturday morning I was having breakfast with a few colleagues in the conference center lobby when, in desperate need of more coffee, I wandered into the “restricted section” (reserved for conference presenters and hotel guests) for a refill. I overheard a middle-aged man asking Pulitzer Prize winning author Marilynne Robinson if she was a presenter at the conference.

“Yes,” she said. “I am.”

“Oh,” he said. ”Are you an author?”

“Yes,” she said again. “I am.”

I politely smiled, not quite bold (or socially inept) enough to stick around for the rest of the conversation. But as I made my way back to my colleagues, I couldn’t help but think how even the most successful people are only known and celebrated within the circles in which they are known and celebrated.

It was a sliver of a moment, but one dripping with profundity about motivation and perspective and humility and pursuing our dreams.  Because — whatever our circle —  someone’s bound to ask all of us if we are, well, anyone at all.

And no matter what that circle, our answer will be yes.

And our answer will be no.

And the person who asked might not really care about our answer to either.

My (one and only) Lenten Reflection

I recently read this Bernard Bailey quote on a whimsical little sign hanging in a store window: ”When they discover the center of the universe, a lot of people will be disappointed to discover they are not it.”

I laughed because I knew that by “a lot of people” he meant me. It’s been the recurring lesson of my Lenten season.

True confession: I’ve never really done Lent before. I didn’t grow up with the tradition, wasn’t raised in the brand of Christianity that practiced it. During the past six years, however, thanks to our current church, that’s changed. I’ve come to appreciate it. I’ve listened to friends and acquaintances talk about their attempts to give up wine or chocolate or Facebook or some other vice that’s squeezed a little too tight and have admired their discipline and conviction. But for no particular reason (except perhaps my own laziness), I’ve never chosen to join them.

So this year, I decided to give it a go. Uninspired by the typical dietary restrictions, I decided to do a weekly fast. Nothing crazy, just breakfast and lunch, about 12 hours in the middle of my week. While I’ve fasted before (sporadically and always for specific reasons), I’ve more so enjoyed making it part of my normal routine. I’ve found it enlightening, refreshing. Even now, as I sit here typing away my last couple of hours, I’m strangely sad to see it end. Not because I love being hungry, but because my brief little exercise in self denial has taught me something about myself that I needed to be reminded of.

It’s not very often I deprive myself of the things I want. Anything, really. I’m alarmed, in fact, by how accustomed I’ve become to filling my needs when and how I feel like it. How easy it is to open my laptop or my pantry or my wallet and get the exact thing I want at the exact moment I want it. I’m quick to over indulge, protective of what’s “mine” and am ridiculously, pathetically awful at dying to myself.

But my weaknesses have reminded me of God’s goodness and grace. His patience, his tenderness, his empathy. The needs only he can meet, the longings which aren’t meant to be fulfilled, the necessity of dependence, the vulnerability of limitations, the crystallizing that happens by yearning for that which lasts but is not yet here. Most of all, though, it’s reminded me of my own brokenness, my utter inability to do life on my own and my desperate need for a Savior.

My friend Adele says, “Our small denials of the self show us just how little taste we actually have for sacrifice. . . .” Which ultimately reminds me of how great his was. Fitting, I suppose, considering this is Holy Week, the culmination of why we practice Lent in the first place.

Letter from a Birmingham Jail

From Martin Luther King’s Letter from a Birmingham Jail:

“Is organized religion too inextricably bound to the status quo to save our nation and the world? Perhaps I must turn my faith to the inner spiritual church, the church within the church, as the true ekklesia and the hope of the world. But again I am thankful to God that some noble souls from the ranks of organized religion have broken loose from the paralyzing chains of conformity and joined us as active partners in the struggle for freedom. They have left their secure congregations and walked the streets of Albany, Georgia, with us. They have gone down the highways of the South on tortuous rides for freedom. Yes, they have gone to jail with us. Some have been dismissed from their churches, have lost the support of their bishops and fellow ministers. But they have acted in the faith that right defeated is stronger than evil triumphant. Their witness has been the spiritual salt that has preserved the true meaning of the gospel in these troubled times. They have carved a tunnel of hope through the dark mountain of disappointment. I hope the church as a whole will meet the challenge of this decisive hour. But even if the church does not come to the aid of justice, I have no despair about the future. I have no fear about the outcome of our struggle in Birmingham, even if our motives are at present misunderstood. We will reach the goal of freedom in Birmingham and all over the nation, because the goal of America is freedom. Abused and scorned though we may be, our destiny is tied up with America’s destiny. Before the pilgrims landed at Plymouth, we were here. Before the pen of Jefferson etched the majestic words of the Declaration of Independence across the pages of history, we were here. For more than two centuries our forebears labored in this country without wages; they made cotton king; they built the homes of their masters while suffering gross injustice and shameful humiliation -and yet out of a bottomless vitality they continued to thrive and develop. If the inexpressible cruelties of slavery could not stop us, the opposition we now face will surely fail. We will win our freedom because the sacred heritage of our nation and the eternal will of God are embodied in our echoing demands.”

Read the full letter here.

StoryTellers

The Steelers had just lost to the Broncos in overtime. And when I say just, I mean just. The game was on the big screen in a room full of high school students. A few of them were watching, but most were milling about, talking, goofing around. When Tebow’s pass hit the end zone, I looked around for a face that mirrored my own, but as I stood with my hands clasped behind my head, I realized mine was the only one contorted in frustration. A bunch of midwestern teenagers didn’t much care that my east coast team had just watched their post-season dreams go down the pipes.

Anyway, it didn’t much matter. The kids were poised and ready to listen. It was time to share my story as part of their monthly gathering called StoryTellers. I wasn’t sure if they’d find my story either interesting or worthwhile, but in the end I realized that I couldn’t really help that — my story is my story; not much I can do to change that. I fiddled with my headset and took a deep breath as I glanced at the fat leather chair where I’d be sitting. Speaking never gets any easier, at least not when it comes to controlling my nerves.

I started with a quick Steeler lament, then sat down and tugged at the brown paper bag that sat at my feet.

I had taken down my Christmas tree the day before, an emotional ritual that has turned into a story itself.  You’d think the sentiment would be in the putting up — the stringing and the hanging and the twinkling – but with eight hands excitedly poking in the same box, I find the process a little too noisy, a little too rushed, a little too communal. Instead, I’ve come to savor the taking down, the part I do alone when no one else is clamoring for attention. It’s become my way to look back over the year and think about how this particular year has been woven into the rest.

Students waiting, I pulled the ornaments I’d chosen from the bag and, one by one, shared the parts of my journey reflected in each, slices of who I was and who I’d become and who I hoped to be.

- A pewter cross from my uncle that we always hang first, an easy way to remind my kids what Christmas is about; a reminder to me that teaching my kids once a year about Christmas is easy, teaching them about the cross as part of our daily life is hard work.

- A Dr. Suess Grinch I’d given to Eric the first year we were married after declaring we’d be exchanging ornaments as a way to commemorate the last year. He bellyached about the idea so much, I decided to give him the Grinch. Every year we laugh when it comes out, a reminder to never take ourselves too seriously.

- A handful of the kid’s school creations, wrought with glue and glitter and bright-colored pom-poms. I used to think they’d detract from the beauty of the ”real” ornaments, but now they’re among my favorites, a reminder that time moves fast and is utterly, eternally irreversible.

- A wooden sled from my friend Amy, the most sentimental person I know. It was a childhood gift from her grandmother which she gave to me at the end of a particularly hard year. No one traveled more deeply with me than her, a reminder that true friendship sometimes requires we sacrifice ourselves for the sake of another.

I had dozens others I could have shared, each with a story of their own. I used one final ornament that said “Ohio” (that I picked up from a gas station on I65 when we moved from Ohio to Chicago six years ago) to segue to the most current parts of my story and found myself wondering in the midst of it if anything I was saying even made sense. In fact, I’ve been thinking about it all week.

This morning, my friend Mike shared this quote from Frederick Buechner in his sermon: “To lose track of our stories is to be profoundly impoverished not only humanly but also spiritually.”

It’s when I realized that our stories are for others, but the process we go through to tell them is often for us. It requires taking mementos off our trees and pulling stuff out of our brown paper bags and watching, piece by piece, how they’ve been knit together.

Christmas Moments

   Below is my Christmas letter for 2011. I’ve found it impossible to send cards to everyone I’d like to send to this year and so decided to post it here for those who I just couldn’t get to (you’re no less loved, I promise!).  Also to the occasional passers-by of this blog, I wish you the very merriest of Christmases!

Every year I start my Christmas letter the same way – by telling you I wasn’t going to write one.  I usually make the decision sometime in November, determined not to add one more thing to an already busy season, then exhort myself to stand firm: YOU.WILL.NOT.WAVER.

But, then — every year– something happens. A moment, subtly and unexpectedly comes to life and wraps its tiny hands around my heart. And I find myself here, once again, tapping away.

I was clearing some Christmas cards out from last year’s card holder, making room for the new ones that had begun piling up on my kitchen counter when I came across a cute little card with a puppy wearing a Santa hat. Not remembering who sent it, I opened the card and smiled when I saw my grandma’s familiar signature. She passed away in January at 93. It was the last card I’d ever receive from her.

Card in hand, I paused for a moment, thinking how her penmanship reminded me of my mom’s, and then tucked the card back in with the others. It didn’t technically belong there, but throwing it away didn’t seem possible. It was, like so many moments we experience in any given year, one that presented me with a choice: simply rush by it, nonchalantly tossing it aside, or, instead, let it linger and fill me and move me in a way that compels me to stop. And listen. And reflect.

That’s when I knew I’d be writing this letter.

In many ways, our year could be categorized as an accumulation of blurred and rushed moments. Our first full year with “mom” back to work (at InterVarsity Press, a Christian publishing house) while she continues to sneak writing articles and blog posts into the nooks and crannies of her days, while “dad” expands his role at Christ Church of Oak Brook (and get his second graduate degree while picking away at his guitar) has been good, but has left us scrambling to find a new rhythm of life. Sadie turns 10 in less than a week, the combination of quick wit, responsibility, and pure grit that has become so “Sadie” leaves us continually impressed, questioning if she didn’t somehow skip a few years along the way. Clay is creeping up on 9, his athletic bent and sweet imagination never failing to fill his mama’s heart (he has single-handedly played and won both the World Series and the Super Bowl in the confines of our backyard).

The four of us have worked hard to incorporate things like rest, boundaries and balance, but we can’t seem to dodge the season of life we find ourselves in – we’re just plain busy.

Which is why I love the Christmas moments. The ones that make us pause in the midst the hard and breathless and chaotic and remember that life is full of moments that are rich and meaningful and overflowing with love and laughter and grace. Moments worth pursuing–card in hand–and sopping up and soaking in.

And so the Camfields of 2011 are learning, regardless of the season, to grab as many moments as we can; choosing to value relationships more than schedules, time more than money, neighbors more than ourselves and a Jesus worth pursuing more than any of the rest.

This Christmas I pray that your family stops long enough to grab a hold of your own moments . . . and tucks them away for another year to come.

Love, Jesus and Merry Christmas to you!

“Suddenly a great company of the heavenly host appeared with the angel, praising God and saying,

“Glory to God in the highest heaven, and on earth peace to those on whom his favor rests.”

*Photo taken by Piggy Toes