wholly listening and holy listening {August thoughts on listening, Part 2}

{I'm focusing on the word "listen" as my One Word for 2014.  This is Part 2 of my August thoughts on listening... You can read Part 1 here, and the rest of my thoughts on listening here.}

So, as you already know, I’m a mother.  Every day.  And if you’ve been reading along in this series of posts, you’ll know I’m discovering afresh that a mother is also a mentor.  Every day.  

Each one of us, whether we realize it or not, is a mentor.  We each have people in our lives who are looking up to us, whether we’re aware of it or not. If you have an online presence, you are almost definitely a mentor to someone, or many someones.  If you are a parent, well, it's obvious who your little mentorees are. If you’re a part of a church family, no matter how young you are there are people younger than you who are following your example.  

So.  This is big stuff.

Yesterday at nap time I snuggled down to continue this book on Spiritual Mentoring I'm reading for a leadership course I’m doing through our organization, and I stumbled upon yet another eye-opening list.  Are you ready?  

This one's titled “The Three Essential Functions” of the mentor. They jumped off the page at me:

Holy Listening

Holy Seeing 

and Wholly Listening.

Not kidding.  I read those words, and I literally laughed out loud.  (Just in case I was still wondering why God had me pick “listen” as my word for 2014 - no further doubt!)  

Curious to know what the authors mean by those phrases?  

So was I.  They define holy listening as “giving attention, developing companionship, enjoying friendship, traveling the road together with the mentoree aware of the Holy Spirit in all places.”  In other words, listening to life “on the way”.  

Holy seeing is “observing the other with love, compassion, genuine care, concern and interest in the development of the mentoree.”

Wholly listening is “being fully and authentically present to the spiritual seeker and the Holy Spirit, daring the courage of a vulnerability that appropriately self-discloses to the mentor, a vulnerability in which all of me listens to all of you.”

Did you catch that whammy of a last line?  “Daring the courage of a vulnerability that appropriately self-discloses…a vulnerability in which all of me listens to all of you.”  

Wow.  Talk about a lesson in listening.

I don't know about you, but I'm not seeing much of the Messiah or Problem-Solver cropping up in these definitions, are you?  No active verbs like “wisdom-dispensing” or “problem-solving” or “rescuing” - all the things I like to think I’m good at and enjoy doing.  (After all, who doesn’t like feeling like a Super-Hero, even if it’s an illusion?)  

The verbs in that list are gentle:  Observe.  Be present.  Be vulnerable.  Even “appropriate self-disclosure”, the most active verb in the list, requires being vulnerable, which brings us back to being, not doing. 

The authors say that when someone is able to listen wholly, with all of themselves attuning to all of the other person, holy listening occurs.  In other words, in that moment, we see God together.  We glimpse Him, together, in the stories, moments, themes and patterns of our friend’s life.  

Listening is a holy practice in which people wholly attend to one another, and in the process discover the whole presence of God in that very moment.  In connecting with God, we become more whole ourselves, and more in tune with our lives and the purposes God has for us.

In the film Waking Life by Richard Linklater, there is a scene in which two artists, filmmaker Caveh Zahedi and poet David Jewell, discuss the idea of a “holy moment”.  Zahedi is talking about the fact that we usually walk around as if some moments are holy and other moments are not holy, and the medium of film is able to frame ordinary moments in a way that lets us see the holiness of each and every moment.  

Zahedi says, “And it’s like "Holy, holy, holy" moment by moment.  But, like, who can live that way? Who can go, like, ‘Wow, holy’? Because if I were to look at you and just really let you be holy, I don't know, I would, like, stop talking.”

“Well, you'd be in the moment. I mean ….” says David Jewell.

“Yeah.”

“The moment is holy.”

“Yeah, but I'd be open,” says Zahedi.  “And then I'd look in your eyes, and I'd cry, and I'd like feel all this stuff and that's like not polite. I mean it would make you feel uncomfortable.”

“Well you could laugh too. I mean, why would you cry?”

“Well, 'cause ... I don't know. For me, I tend to cry.”

“Uh-huh. Well ..."

“Well, let's do it right now. Let's have a holy moment.”

“Okay.”

They pause in the middle of their conversation and look at each other for a long moment, allowing the moment to fill up with presence, each allowing the wholeness of himself to be fully present to the other person’s self.  And both of their eyes - ours too, watching - fill up with tears. 

Finally, as if the holiness has to be broken with words lest it become unbearable, Jewell remarks, “Everything is layers, isn't it?”

“Yeah,” agrees Zahedi.

“I mean, there's the holy moment and then there's the awareness of trying to have the holy moment, in the same way that the film is the actual moment really happening, but then the character pretending to be in a different reality. And it's all these layers. And, uh, I was in and out of the holy moment looking at you. Can't be in a holy ... You're unique that way, Caveh. That's one of the reasons I enjoy you. You can ... bring me into that.”

The “that” David Jewell is trying to describe is the awareness of holiness which emerges when two people wholly attend to one another.  God is always here.  It’s when we pay attention that we finally see Him.

When I am conversing with another human being, made in the image of God, are my shoes off?  Am I wholly listening, so that I can practice holy listening?

What about when my kids want to talk to me?  Do I fully enter into their reality, slowing down, bending my knees to reach eye-level, putting an arm around their small shoulders, turning to look at life with them from their perspective?  

Am I attending to the lives around me with every atom of myself?  

Rather than being exhausting, this kind of focused awareness is centering.  Freeing.  Living in the moment is restful, not frantic.  

Why?

Because God is in the moment, with you.  With us.  

God is here.  Now.  

Take a deep breath, and breathe Him in.  

Now, listen...  

the four opposites of true listening {August thoughts on listening, Part 1}

{This year I'm focusing on one word: listen.  My next two posts, August thoughts on listening Parts 1 & 2, were inspired by a fantastic book I recently read and reviewed.  To read the rest of my posts on listening, click here...}

In a recent post I described my latest epiphany from this great book I’m reading on Spiritual Mentoring. My epiphany was - ready for it? - that spiritual mentoring applies to mothering as well. (Big surprise, right?)  And that I already have three little mentorees running around whose souls I’ve been called to build!  Yikes!  So I'm on board with everything I can learn about this thing called mentoring, especially as it connects with my word for 2014: listen.

The more deeply I travel into this book the more things are hitting home.  This week, a friend’s comment about weaknesses coincided with a quote I had just read about how we approach relationships.  

In her email, my friend said she was finding that “allowing God to uncover her weaknesses led to peace and freedom in her life.”  Being honest about her own short-comings, not just to herself but in front of other people, is freeing her to not be perfect.  

I’ve said it before: I like looking like I have my act together.  Vulnerability, showing my weaknesses, does not come easily or naturally to me.  I want peace and freedom just as much as the next person, but to get to that place by showing you my messy?  Just doesn’t appeal to me.

Here’s a list from Spiritual Mentoring of four things a mentor should not be.  As I read down the list for the first time, my eyes grew wide, because I realized uncomfortably that every one of these things has at some point been a hidden motivation for me:  

Four Major Pitfalls for the Spiritual Mentor to Avoid

The Messiah Complex: I believe I am to rescue you or deliver you from the struggles and pain of your life.

The Problem-Solver Mentality: I believe my role is to tell you what the right answers are or to offer a way out for you.

The Assembly-Line Syndrome: I believe my role is to shape you into a predetermined form or product.

The Wisdom Dispenser Approach: I believe I must dispense wisdom-on-demand every time I [talk with you], because I am a fountain of wisdom and truth.

The authors go on to say that “when a mentor becomes messiah, problem-solver, assembly-line worker or wisdom-dispenser, the opportunity for spiritual formation can become limited.  A mentor is none of these four, though problem solving, wisdom and answers may be part of the unfolding process.  Discernment is the pearl of great price for the mentor.  Attaining discernment requires vulnerability, humility and an ear open to listen to the voice of God’s spirit.”  (Spiritual Mentoring, Anderson/Reese, emphasis added)

Did you catch that?  Discernment is the pearl of great price in mature relationships, and attaining it requires vulnerability and humility, and an ear open to listen. 

Hmmm… listen.  My word for this year.  Coincidence?  

There is a crucial connection between my friend’s email and this quote in the book.  Did you catch it? My friend described her road to peace and freedom through allowing God to uncover her weaknesses.  None of those four mis-guided roles or motivations in relationships contain either vulnerability or humility.  The Messiah wants to save out of her own strength; the Problem-Solver wants to have all the answers; the Assembly-Line Supervisor thinks she already knows the plan; and the Wisdom-Dispenser wants everyone to think she’s incredibly wise and has her act together all the time.  

I’m realizing that, to my shame, I have often been happy to wear one of those misguided hats in a relationship rather than seek the humility and embrace the vulnerability necessary to discover true discernment - which is, ultimately, the only thing my friend really needs from me.  She needs me to listen to her, to enter in to her situation, and to hear from God with her and for her in order to find out what He wants her to do.  

That’s all.  

I don’t have to be God.  

I just have to listen to God, and listen to my friend.  

That’s it.  That’s the way to peace, and freedom.

To be continued…

awake my soul {a repost from the archives}

{An edited repost from the archives... I needed this reminder again today!}

His grey-blue eyes shine.  I can see white flecks like stars.  His dark eyebrows are glued to his hairline in surprise.  His grin glows with delight.  He lets out a whoop.  

“MOM!  GUESS HOW THIS AIRPLANE FLEW!”  

He demonstrates with his fingers squashed together, palms flat, hands turning and scooping in vehement twisty motions.  

The flight of his paper airplane.  

He can’t stop smiling.  

When was the last time something as simple as a paper airplane inspired that kind of intense delight in me?

And you know what?  I would’ve missed it.  I was almost too engrossed in checking email, right next to all that joy, and I almost missed the moment.  

It was a song that saved me.  I indulged in some new music recently, thanks to a miraculously fast internet connection that has suddenly materialized at our house… (Thank you, Lord!!)  

So, Shaun Groves’ song “Awake My Soul” was just playing on my iPod ten minutes ago while I scrubbed potatoes.  

Awake my soul 

to live this moment

Awake my soul, 

give thanks and hold it dear now

God is here now

Awake my soul

On his next throw, Will's airplane lands on my back.  He goes into stitches of laughter.  

I let go of my keyboard, look over my shoulder, make eye contact with Will, and dissolve into fits of giggles with him.  The airplane is in the shape of an eagle, and we laugh that “there’s an eagle on my back!”  

And because I’m in the moment, that “wings like eagles” verse pops into my mind as I spark squinty laughing eyes with my four-year-old.  Is there anything more exhilarating than laughing, locked in eye contact with a child, about a secret joke?  All the thrill and mystery of childhood is in his eyes, and when mine meet his, some electric current infuses his sparkling joy into my soul.

Not to be outdone, Ben climbs on my back, wraps his little arms around my neck, and grins delight into my ear as we rock back and forth.  Soon all three of us are a laughing, giggling pile on the couch, me choking from Ben’s death grip around my neck, drinking in his sweet, sweaty smell, caught up in sudden sheer delight that these two amazing, joyful little people are my sons.  

And this was supposed to be just a brief email check before returning to the “real business” of the day - making potato salad, laundry, vacuuming, etc. 

But I wonder…

What other delights are in store today, moment by moment, if my soul stays awake?

*****

{Click here to see Shaun Groves perform "Awake My Soul" in concert.}

aware of wealth

{A flashback from early September, starting our second three-week wait for visas…}

September 1, 2013 

We are, all five of us, sleeping in one room for a cluster of nights as we embark on our third trip this summer, waiting for visas again…

Never have I felt so vulnerable, never has my foothold in this cleft of rock, this tiny corner of the globe, seemed so tenuous.  I feel powerless to provide my children with what I long to give them, what I know they need: a home.  Stability.  Routine.  Consistency.

And yet, as the darkness deepens here in this funny oblong triple room in a guesthouse in a strange city in the middle of Central Asia, I am aware of wealth.

I pick up my baby from the bottom of her cot, her limbs splayed out, heavy with sleep.  While she nurses, I perch on the side of my bed, listen to four other pairs of lungs besides my own, breathing in, breathing out.  One boy sighs in his sleep.  Another rustles his covers, stirring in slumber.  

I give her the other side, and then, since she’s too soundly asleep to suck, I gently lay her back down.  I pull over her chubby bare legs the summer blanket of pink gingham edged in eyelet my mother made for me when I was a baby, lovingly stored away away against the day when her baby girl would have a baby girl of her own.  

I step across the room to my oldest son, pull up his sheet, smooth his forehead, ministrations a thousand thousands of mothers have performed before me, and will perform long after my mothering days are done.  

I stoop to kiss my second son, the one we all love so much it hurts, the one who hurts us with the violence of his passions, his loves, his hates, his frustrations.  The boy whose blue eyes fairly popped with joy, two inches from my face, as he shouted earlier in the garden, “Did YOU see THAT, Mom?  Didja see what I can do??” as he cavorted and gamboled gleefully with his brother.  

The boy who, tonight as Daddy was tucking him in, moaned in a voice dripping with mournfulness, “But Da-ad, if I close my eyes, I can’t see anything!”  

The boy who exhausts us with his exuberance, levels us by loving us, shouts and sulks his way through each three-year-old day with such reckless abandon as to make me cringe at the thought of him at 13… and 23… and… 

I tuck the covers in around this boy, kiss his babyish three-year-old cheek, listen to him sucking on his thumb, feel my heart swell with maternal pride.  

These four human beings, the ones I birthed and the one who sired them, we are bone of bone, flesh of flesh.  Our soft collective breathing fills this space, and I suddenly revel in this one set of four walls containing the whole of us.  Our family.  That there would be such a thing in the world as the miracle of a family, that I would have one of my own, created out of two become one, birthed from my womb, entrusted to me to nurture...  

Wealth.  Untold.

And I realize the answer to my unspoken, wordless question, my longing to provide them with security, stability: here, within these four walls, is God’s plan for doing just that.  He planned for each human being to be placed in a family, with a certain, special set of human beings to belong to, to own, to love.  

I sit quietly in the dark, feeling complete.  Knowing I am home, in this hotel room, as home as I’ll ever be on this planet.

Home isn’t a place: it’s being part of a family.  

And my heart suddenly wells up with a desperate ache, for all the broken ones, the lost ones, the separated ones, sleeping lonely, crying… Alone in the dark.  

Lying flat on my bed now, under the covers, silent tears trickle into my ears and drip onto the pillow as I pray, with all the love in my heart, that God would draw near to each lonely one, touch each broken heart, adopt each orphan, take the hand of anyone who’s lost, and lead them…

...Home.  

If you're lost and lonely today, longing for family and home, 

cry out to the God who is Father….

"For He is good;

His steadfast love endures forever,

and his faithfulness to all generations."

(Ps. 100:5)

And leave a comment or send me an email - I would love to pray for you!

I blinked, and a year went by...

I take a long time over icing the cupcakes, smoothing pink frosting over each brown heart-shaped top.  I place them carefully into my white tupperware cake box, making the shape of a “1”, carefully pick up each brown crumb, each stray star sprinkle.  I take more cupcake photos than I need to, a few more of the Piglet and Minnie balloons on her empty chair, the string of pink and purple paper loops the boys helped me make this afternoon.  

It all seems so inadequate to celebrate her - this precious-more-than-words-can-say little person, with her squinchy-eyed smile, who has completely captured my heart - and yet I know she is only 1 after all, and she won’t even know what is going on tomorrow, or why all the fuss over her… 

It’s really for me.  

Taking all this time, icing the cupcakes, taking photos of every little thing?  It’s for me, to help me process that my little girl is already a whole year old - 12 months of days, that all went by so fast I feel like I barely drew a breath and she’s already practicing walking.  I feel if I can stretch these last moments before she’s officially one year old, make them last as long as possible, I might be able to grasp how fast the time has gone by… I just can’t believe it.  It feels like only this morning I was cuddling this tiny bundle with tightly closed eyes, tufts of dark hair, skinny little chicken legs, “sticky-outy” ears.  

Photo credit: Will Broughton

I have tried to stay in the moments this year, cuddle her close.  Drink in her scent.  Put other things aside, be with her as often as I could.  But the reality is, I have two other children who need me, a household to run, and - 75% of her first year we have not been living in our own house!  (Let’s see… last Sept-Dec we were in NZ, Jan-Feb in the US, March in Thailand, April-May here at home, June in Turkey, July on a visa run, August at home, September on a visa run… yep, I think that’s about 3 months at home out of 12…)  

If I take a deep breath, and hold it, will she go back to lying on her back and gurgling up at me while I change her diaper?  Can I catch her first smile all over again?  But I love the smile she has now - part of me doesn’t want to go backwards.  

I guess the only thing to do now is go to bed, and wake up tomorrow ready to savor every precious moment with my sweet, sweet girl.  Because these particular moments will never come again!  

spiritual osteopathy

{Tomorrow being Thanks-Giving Day, but us being overseas, I'm feeling a bit disconnected... which reminds me that every day is a day for giving thanks... and today I'm thankful for my loose, free shoulders and spirit!}

“Come through!” she says in a cheerful voice, bent over her computer between clients.  I put my bag down, slip off my shoes, take out my earrings, and lay down on her table, surrendered.  Trusting.  

Her hands are so gentle.  She slides them underneath my back, in between my shoulder blades, right where the ache has grown and lodged over six weeks of nursing my brand-new daughter.  Six weeks of cradling her ever-increasing plumpness, of bending my neck for hours every day, gazing down at my girl as she drinks, not wanting to miss a minute of her sweetness.  

The osteopath shifts her fingers slightly, increases pressure in one spot, releases it in another.  She moves my ribcage around, shakes me gently, wiggles me back and forth, looking for tense spots.  

While she works, we chat about having three children, about her youngest being a bare three months old, about going back to work full time and still continuing to breastfeed.  I marvel at her dedication, at her love for what she does and her love for who she leaves at home.  

She moves to my head, grasps it in both hands, taking its weight.  She changes the position of her fingers ever so gradually, shifting my head on my neck.  I breathe deep.  

The conversation, the touch, the easing of pain all combine to leave me feeling free.  

Refreshed.  

Refocused.  

My back doesn’t hurt anymore.  I leave smiling.  

The next morning, we drive down the road to a group of women who meet every Thursday to pray.  

“Come in!”  The hostess greets us at the door with a warm hug, and we step into a room full of smiles.  Each woman embraces us in turn, and my touch-loving soul drinks up their love.  I sit down on the couch, feeling safe and loved.  Surrendered.  Trusting.    

The hostess turns on worship music.  The room is bathed in peace.  Ruby sleeps peacefully in her carseat, and I sit with my hands open in front of me, and give myself up to the Holy Spirit’s presence.  

As we worship, I can feel the Holy Spirit’s hands on my heart.  Gentle hands.  He finds the tense spots, releases pressure.  Wiggles my heart around, jogs my memory gently to remind me of things I need to repent of.  Thoughts float to the surface one by one.  

I can feel Him realigning my soul.  

By the end of four or five songs, my spirit feels like my neck and shoulders: loose, and free.  

Spiritual osteopathy.  

down with a thud

In January, God gave us the gift of rest.  

A whole week of sun and sand and blue ocean, and eating delicious food I didn’t have to cook on dishes I didn’t have to wash.

It was wonderful.

But even as I was stretched out full length in the sun, uncurling inside and out, luxuriously unwinding from the cold weather and stresses of life in Central Asia, I found my mind irresistibly drawn to the question of “How can I preserve this feeling when I get back?”  

Every moment in the sunshine I had to choose to live in that moment and enjoy everything it held, instead of fretting over how to plunk it in formaldehyde so I could take it home with me.

On the flight home, my suitcase in the belly of the plane filled with dried papaya, shells and silk scarves, I felt the heaviness start to descend again.  The closer we flew to the cold and the dreariness of bureaucracy and politics and frozen pipes, the more my heart sank.  Forgetting my slightly tanned skin, massaged shoulders, lighter heart, and images of blue ocean filling my mind’s eye… I could feel the fingers tightening around my stomach.  

Frustrated, I spent the first few days home spreading reminders around my house: bowls of shells, a windchime, woven baskets… I wore my new silk scarf every single day, and in defiance, I even layered my new sundresses with warm leggings and a merino undershirt to try to preserve the tropical feeling a little longer.  

It’s not that I don’t love our life here.  It is truly everything I dreamed for my life to be - deep down, at the heart level, where it counts.  I wouldn’t want to live anywhere else or be ministering to anybody else.  But living in Central Asia is just plain hard sometimes.  It’s inconvenient,  frustrating, depressing - a daily fight to stay joyful, cheerful and focused.  Hence, the reason our week of resting in the sun was so essential and delightful - and why it is always hard to come down with a thud.

So… what‘s the secret to staying sunny and relaxed in a stressful, challenging environment?  Well, if you have any thoughts, leave them in the comments, since I sure don’t have it all figured out yet!  

But part of it, I think, is choosing to be all there, right where you are, wherever you are.  I chose to be all in the sun while I was in the sun, and when I got back to the snow, I had to choose to be all there in the snow too.  Our first week back home from our holiday we went sledding, drank hot chocolate, lit candles, watched movies, lit a fire, cuddled up with cozy blankets and read new books from a wonderful package from home that was waiting for us when we got back.  

And I wore my sundresses and listened to my windchime and caressed my shells, and put the ocean on my computer desktop.  I think part of being all there is weaving in bits of everything you love, wherever you are.  Don’t you?

*****

What’s one way you’ve found to be all there, wherever you are?

counting the hard eucharisteo

Counting the hard eucharisteo.  This is not easy.  At. All.  It’s hard.

In fact, naming frustrations as blessings is completely upside-down and counter-intuitive.  Did I mention, really hard to do?

I wrote this list down in sheer, dogged obedience to the hard eucharisteo, believing Ann’s insistence that ALL is grace, not just the nice poetic moments:

“Thank you, God, for…

1041. Criticism 

1042. Being faced with my sin 

1043. Being humbled 

1044. Failing 

1045. That He promises His strength will be made perfect in weakness 

1046. That I’m not perfect (ugh!) 

1047. That life’s not perfect (ugh!)  

 

And it wasn’t until I got that far, and wearily read back over my list with a sigh, that I saw it.  How all is grace.  It stopped me in my tracks.  

I heard Jesus finish each sentence in my mind with a new ending.

So, I obediently wrote them down.  And with each addition, my joy-spring welled higher.

1041. Criticism - because it forces me to grow 

1042. Being faced with my sin - because IT forces me to grow 

1043. Being humbled - because it’s healthy and Christlike 

1044. Failing - because it forces me to depend on God 

1045. That He promises His strength will be made perfect in weakness 

1046. That I’m not perfect (ugh!) - because Christ can be glorified in me 

1047. That life’s not perfect (ugh!) - because God’s glory can be displayed all the more brightly 

1048. That God is determined to grow me in spite of myself 

1049. Grace 

1050. More grace 

1051. A husband who is usually right, and when he’s wrong, admits it

The FACT is: even my most hateful, nauseating sins and the ugly, frustrating fact of imperfection belong on my gratitude list - because ALL is grace.  Each ugliness can be transformed by grace into beauty.  

And, I get to number this daily miracle.  A front-row seat to glory.  

AND, it's proof that I am not just dreaming about growing; I am actually being made more into His image moment by moment, thanks by thanks, “gift” by grace-filled gift.  

Even the moments that don’t look like gifts at first actually are.  

{pictures of a spectacular frost last month}