Author: Tamara Belanger (Page 15 of 74)

That kept rolling round my head this morning, those title words, like an echoey thundery sound……I know what weary means……I went to sleep last night feeling camped out on the edge of it, afraid my tent would fall off in the night.  I woke up this morning and made my way to my coffee.  I was more than glad to be in an upright position, but still carrying that bricks on the chest feeling.  “Let us not grow weary….” whispered itself into my skull, outta “nowhere”, except that I know where it came from.   How do I do that, God?  Why are you saying that to me?  I sat down heavy in front of my computer and typed in “what does weary mean in Hebrew?”  Why do I keep finding myself here?  I wanted a prescription, something to cure me, immediately.  “Having one’s patience, relish or contentment exhausted; having the strength exhausted by toil or exertion; to weary oneself with traveling; wearing of marching, confinement or study.”

This is hard to write about, hard to think about, hard to speak “out loud”.  I risk being misunderstood.  But the raw of it is, what if everything I do is about me?  Yesterday was a “hollow” day for me.  This is about to get real pathetic, completely shallow and neurotic so hang with me till the end.  I posted on Facebook; little to no response, same with instagram.  I hate Facebook; No, I don’t; Yes, I do.  See what I mean?  I hardly saw any of my friends that day; precious few of them stopped to talk.  Even the kids rushing in to see me at school seemed in a hurry .  Were they really?  Or was it the glasses I was looking through?

I walked in my house at the end of the day, ready to eat lasagna until I forgot about it all when my message light flashed a promising green; my friend checking in.  I grabbed onto it like a rope in the water.  We chatted from our screens for a minute before I ventured that I was feeling “someway”, an indian term someone taught me once that means…..a vague feeling that you can’t find the words for.  Then I typed this.  “It’s back again.  That feeling that I’m an intruder on the face of the earth.”  And just like that, I remembered.  It played itself back in my head, the movie from early that morning.  I’d had to walk by a car with someone in it that I’d felt rejected by and suddenly I felt like a naked nine year old girl running for emotional cover and nowhere to go but right by the car.  It’s possible I heard my bones turn  brittle as I walked by and clinked together all nutty fruitcake.   That  caused me to stick a “needle” in everyone’s arm the rest of the day to siphon off the life juice I needed to push it all back away from me.  Except it wasn’t enough.   No amount of social reciprocation; no amount of solitude could bury that nagging yuck.  I give up, I decided.  I’m too tired to write in my blog and who wants to read it anyway?  I give up taking pictures with a stupid cell phone.  Why am I wasting my time?  I’m too tired to love these kids at school the right way and what if I’m just a fake who passes out love to get love?  Why am I doing any of this?  The questions scared me.  So I went to sleep.

This morning He was waiting for me, the Lover of my soul?  With those words that made me chafe irritable at Him.  “Let us not grow weary in doing good.”  I’m too weary not to be weary, God.  Just fix me.  But it urged me on.  I needed to know what He had for me in it.  How, God?  How?

“When we are in vibrant relationship with God and receiving our fill from Him, we are less likely to push the boundaries God has set for us or to work ourselves beyond what He would ask. We are more apt to recognize what God is calling us to do and what He is not calling us to do. God equips us for what He calls us to (Hebrews 13:20-21; Ephesians 2:10). When God continually fills our spirit, it is impossible to dry up and burn out.”–gotquestions.org

I sat back from my computer screen.  There.  There it was.  Three days.  Three days had gone by since I’d talked to God, except in the way you do when you have a rock in your shoe and it hurts but you don’t stop long enough to get it out?  That nagging, frenetic talking to God.  And I was empty.  So I turned to blog counters, Facebook likes and Instagram hearts, nods and smiles from friends for my atta girl cookies.  And when I was full out panic mode thirsty, I walked myself in front of a car that carried a particular brand of rejection that I was way too friendly with and it took me down the rest of the way.  I had forgotten from whence comes my Help.  I had forgotten my Reason.

The thing about God is, when you’ve looked down at the dust around you, He means to pick you up clean out of it.  I got to school this morning, with doughnuts for my school kids.  Not because I needed them to love me, but because God reminded me I was a container of Him.  He wanted to love them.  I sat at my store table and saw my friend, Amy, coming towards me, just to sit and talk.  Laurie walked by.  “I’m not getting your blog.  Did you take me off your list?  I don’t want to miss it.”   No.  No I didn’t.  I just haven’t written and I smile in my heart as she walks away.  He wanted me to know He wants me to write and He used Laurie to tell me.  One by one the kids came in to give me a hug and I sit and talk to Shane  over a cup of coffee about the paper he wrote for Bible class. such rich conversation for such a young man, I think.  He is one after God’s own heart.  The bell rings and they all scurry off for the morning.  At lunch time I was needed for second grade recess and I found myself in a swarm of bright faces and conversations about pet chinchillas and watch me I can do cart wheels and “TAG!, you’re it!”

At the end of the day Erick and Conner flew in for their special candy in their special drawer and I gave them both hugs and reminded them that they were loved.  Penny sat down at the table in the store waiting on her kids to get out of class, my day now full circle, as she and I pondered together this weary thing, this staying in the race.  I could almost see the glint of iron as we sharpened one another.  As the last kid left and I locked up the store for the day, I heard in my heart…”My  burden, the one I give you, is light.  But you must come to Me first…..and I will give your heart it’s rest…..so that you do not grow weary.”

I couldn’t wait for tomorrow.

I took a wrong turn is all.  I’m known for that.  How many times, I wonder, have I heard my kids from the back seat.  “Mama?  Are we lost again?”  We laugh about it still.  Because it happens still.  And always, I say…..”God?  You know where I am.  Point the way back?”  I know.  Maps and GPS’s and such.  The thing is, for years I’ve been this way and never used any of it to get back.  He would seem to drive my car back in spite of me and I would marvel at the intersection that I found myself in, the one I should have been in in the first place.  Ah life.  The spiritual parallels always make me smile.  I look for those.

Yesterday, all foggy and misty out, my girl and I took ourselves to the shooting range to practice our newfound “skill”.  She seems to have been born with it.  I can spell “g-u-n”……at this point.  But I press on as I press the trigger.  We headed home after, ready for jammies and movies.  It had been a good day off.   And that’s where we drove into new territory.  I realized, as the road started looking nothing like what I anticipated, that I had not been here before.  

I used to panic at these unplanned detours.  And sweat.  And breathe funny.  And grip the steering wheel crazy eyed.  Because somehow I believed that I would never find my way back.  That I might end up living off the land somewhere in a remote part of Iowa.  Now?  I laugh at myself.  I still point my heart upwards.  “God?”  But now I settle into my seat and start looking around.  I had a friend once who taught me to pay attention through a camera lens.  I don’t have a real camera.  But my friend put his camera in my hand and taught me to “see”.  So now I look with different eyes, the ones in my heart and on my face.  I wish I could show him what he’s taught me but he’s gone now.  And so, I turn to my girl beside me; to teach her in turn.   “Do you see ?”  I pull off the road and tramp muddy to get closer to the picture my heart sees.  I click three times.  I learned that from my friend.  You never know what the third click might capture that the first two missed.  I look at my screen and can still hear the dripping sound of melting snow, the faint trace of the smell of tobacco laying forgotten on the barn floor, the cawing of crows circling in the sky above me.  Taking pictures does that; they imprint sounds and smells and feelings in your spirit.  When I go back later, I am startled at the details I missed when it was right in front of me.  They are wordless journals to the journey.

They are compasses in reverse, after the fact, reminders steady of where I was and where I was going that I couldn’t see or know at the time.  This trip home yesterday, off the beaten path away from what I knew?  Reminds me of the proverb I’ve heard many times.  All who wander are not lost.  Sometimes?  The Father of all that passes before, beside and behind me is gifting me with a different perspective.  And teaching me how to set sail with a steady heart.

Steady Heart by Steffany Gretzinger

I’m up early on this Valentine’s Day, been up for quite awhile, thoughts swirling around my head like little helicopters.  Not the traditional Valentine thoughts.  I don’t have one.  Not a man one, at least.   I’m not good at man valentines.  I know this because they tell me so.  By leaving; by choosing others.  I don’t blame them.  I’m whimsy and fun.  But then I want to crawl in and make myself a home.  And that seems to cost too much for a man, at least the ones I pick.  Clearly, I am not good at it.  I don’t like this holiday because it feels manufactured to make you feel on the outside when you don’t have a valentine.  It’s bittersweet and makes me hunker down like when I’m in a bitter wind and waiting for it to blow past.   So, on this Valentine’s Day, I’m thinking of things that matter to me and trying to shape my smoothie into a heart design.  It feels a little like when you win the consolation prize and you give yourself that “it’s really okay” speech, when deep down inside it makes you wince and isn’t really totally okay at all.  The boat ride on days like this can get choppy in the heart.  But I  white knuckle it and find I can live through it after all.  Because after all, Valentine’s Day isn’t a sacrament in the Bible except that “God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son,” and that, it turns out, is the only valentine that will ever really last and not get mad at you or get distracted or worse, die.

She matters to me.  Yesterday, my girl and I spent a day being spontaneous, which is the heartbeat of my little free spirited self.  I thrive on the happy in the u turns in life that cause you to end up at a movie that you didn’t plan on because it just occurs to you to go.  We shot guns for the first time and hung our targets up on the wall at home to remember this day.  She outdid me with her aim.  I don’t mind at all.  We ate fried chicken fingers dipped in sauce in our car because we like how it feels; warm and cozy and quiet and not all frenetic fast food restauranty and we get to pick our own background music on the radio.  We talk about the heavy in the movie that made us both cry; the sadness at seeing a father have to lay his head down on his dead son’s chest and say goodbye.  I think in my head how it scares me a little to look to the day when this girl is off busy somewhere and not beside me sharing everyday adventures like this.  I don’t have the money to buy myself distraction or friends when fear or pain sets in like that.  I think how maybe that’s not such a bad thing.  I’d do it if I could.  I know that about myself.  As it is, it makes me live in the here and now.  And deal with real.

I talked to my boy at 5 a.m. my time.  He’s in South Africa and he and I both know in our hearts, this will probably be a lifetime thing.  He belongs there.  God put the fire in his belly for that place and he can’t shake it.  We exchange words black and white in the chat window on Facebook and tears run unchecked down my face.  Pride and and joy for him and the irony of missing him but not wanting him back because I know it’d break his heart to leave there.  Sort of like heaven on earth.  You can’t anticipate this feeling when you’re raising them little.  You try but you can’t.  And it’s hard to explain to someone how you can’t talk about it without crying.  Until they feel it too.

This place, where I call home for now, matters to me.  Not because I love the structure so much as the story it tells.  My daddy’s heart put me here.  He befriended a lonely, elderly man one day because he was always paying attention like that, and one day, months after the man died?  My father discovered he’d left his house to him.  My daddy lives in heaven now and wanted me to live here in this house.  In my bones?  I don’t think I’ll die here.  But every day that goes by I look back over my shoulder to this view in my car mirror as I drive off to make my way in the world and marvel at how things go.  This is a picture of grace to me; wild and unexpected.

Beatrice matters.  She’s my new granddaughter.  I’ve only just met her the one time so far.  She lives far from me and God paid for a ticket for me to fly to see her.  She was two weeks in this world.  I did most of the talking.  I wasn’t quite sure what to say.  I told her that I loved her and that maybe we could make things with scissors and construction paper one day when her hands were bigger.  And that I could tell her stories about her mama when she was little.  And make her laugh.  And sing to her.  And pray her wings so her heart will fly in this big world.

I work at a school.  I don’t hold an “important” position there.  But each face that walks through the door and comes in to get a piece of candy or a hug or I look in the eye and we sit and talk?  Matters.  No matter how quick or how deep the conversation is, I always whisper a thank you for the encounter.  This matters more deeply to me than I can sew the words together.   These young faces that look up to me with more admiration than I deserve.  They are salve on my heart.  I remember these tender days in my own life and watch careful on their faces for signs that they need a word fitly spoken, a quiet encouragement that I’ll be thinking of them that day.

Sunrises…and sunsets….I love them like friends.  They put parenthesis around my days.  They hug me with hope at the beginning and comfort at the end.  That He is and was and always will be.  That when I don’t understand, it’s okay in a way that I don’t understand.   And speaking of friends…..the ones that get me?  That let me be all needy and weepy and silly and wispy and serious?  The ones that seek me out and won’t let me cut bait.  Those.

I love the person this shadow represents.  He’s taught me, this past year, how to love in spite of, because of, instead of, through it, after it, in the middle of.  He’s taught me how to give unhinged, unconditional love,  with no hope of reciprocation.  He’s caused me to look hard at why I give what I give.  He’s given me insight into living with the hard.  He’s shown me how to pray for things I may never know the outcome of.   He’s made me understand the cost of loving who He brings to my hearts’ door.  He’s made me cry.  He’s made me hurt.  He’s made me laugh in spite of myself. He’s taught me how to love anyway.

This living life each day?  Can be long.  This life in pictures?  Can seem short.  Carpe diem.  No matter what.