The moon wanes in degrees, changing from light to dark in less than two weeks, visible to invisible in only thirteen days. One night you look up and the moon is a golden, yellow plate, so close you could eat off of it. The next night it looks the virtually the same, even though things have already begun to change. When you stare up at a full moon, it’s hard to imagine it getting any smaller or that it might someday disappear from sight completely, and yet it happens again and again, month after month.
Once, when I was very small, I went to bed early, all by myself; but I couldn’t get to sleep. It was around eight o’clock, but still light outside. The windows were cracked, and a warm summer breeze fluttered through the sheer, fluffy curtains. I don’t know what house we were living in, but the entire room seemed yellow in the fading sunlight, from the paint on the walls to the fabric I was curled beneath. Suddenly, I felt very scared and alone, so I began praying for God to help me not to be afraid. Then I asked him to hold my hand until I fell asleep. I pulled my hand out from under the covers and laid it on the pillow beside my face. I opened up my palm and waited. Just as I began to doze, I felt a light, gentle pressure in the middle of my hand. I squeezed it back and drifted off to sleep.
On another night, when I was twenty-eight, I went out for a walk because I couldn’t stand to be home alone while my husband and our two small children were gone. It was a couple of months after my second miscarriage and John had taken the kids out for dinner in order to give me a break, but the quiet house was too quiet so I put on my tennis shoes and headed out the door. We lived in a townhouse community, and as I got closer to the empty playground in the middle of the neighborhood, I decided to sprint to the slide. I ran as fast as I could but I only made it a hundred yards before I started crying. Crying made it harder to run and even harder to breathe, but I didn’t stop until I climbed the slide stairs and lay flat on my back. I stared up at the grey and white sky as the last of the tears trickled down to my sweaty hairline.
“Where are you, now?” I yelled out to the muggy air. I opened my eyes as wide as they would go, searching everywhere for a bit of warm color. I listened as hard as I could, begging for whispered assurance to blow across my skin. Then I raised my empty hands to the sky, praying to sense God’s presence, but there was no hand reaching back for me. There was simply nothing. So, nothingness took over for several weeks, until the light came back again.
I couldn’t see the moon that night, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t there. Like my faith, like God himself sometimes, it was merely hiding behind a shadow.
When I find myself in a dark place, I tend to think I’m the only one who’s ever felt this way. So I isolate myself and don’t ever talk about what I’m going through, which only makes me feel more alone and more afraid. However, when I open up and share with people I trust, I feel less alone and less afraid.
This morning I picked up a book of poetry by Madeleine L’Engle but instead of turning to a poem, I read the foreword by Walt Wangerin. As he describes her sonnets at the end of the book, he says this:
“The very process of writing one’s grief into the starkly ordered form of a sonnet, and then of a sonnet sequence, is to seek meaning in confusion, to seek light in darkness – and the search itself illumines.”
That sounds a lot like creation to me. It makes me think that when we reach into the chaos of our lives and attempt to make a new thing, we are reflecting the image of God – bringing light into formerly dark places. When I first wrote about these memories, the metaphor of the moon helped me make sense of two very diverse experiences. I thought to myself: sometimes the light is hidden by shadow; there’s no shame in not being able to see.
I felt relief, and it was good.
Then I let someone else read what I’d written. First, I shared the piece with my husband, and then with Jonathan Rogers as an assignment for his online class. They both seemed to understand it and they both told me they really liked it. A few days later, I realized that the vision of my memories had changed. Now, when I looked back into my childhood bedroom and at the night on the playground, I saw John and Jonathan in the memories with me. They both stood at the edges smiling at me, their eyes brimming with compassion and sympathy. Suddenly, I felt more than relief. A wound turned into a scar. And that was very good.
This is the wonder and blessing of living in creative community. The twofold act of capturing and sharing has become a hand reaching back for me on that dark playground nine years ago. It helps me believe that the moon was, is, and will always be out there somewhere. Whether or not I can actually see it.
** Author's Note: I just finished taking an online writing course led by a friend of mine, Jonathan Rogers. It's been incredibly challenging and has helped me better understand the areas I really need to grow in as a writer. Each week we were given a short assignment and I wanted to share one with you here. This one will leave you hanging a little since our word limit was only 500. However, this little scene is a crucial starting point for the book I've been working on the past couple of years, so hopefully you'll get a chance to hear the rest of the story one day. As always, thanks for reading...
I was twenty-two years old the first time I saw a counselor.
It’s a strange thing to go to therapy for the first time, like inviting a complete stranger over for tea and greeting her at the door in a swimsuit. When I called my therapist to set up our first appointment she told me that she usually met with clients in the back of a portable trailer that was currently in use as a crisis pregnancy center.
Good, I thought, that’ll make this easy.
I drove over by myself on a Saturday morning and sat in my parked car staring at the empty gravel parking lot for a full five minutes before getting out.
As I walked up the wooden ramp made for wheelchairs, Gail opened the door and met me on the porch, smiling.
“Hey, there Janna!” she said brightly, offering her hand, “I’m Gail.”
We’d seen each other at church before and there were no other cars in the parking lot, so it felt a bit like she was pointing out obvious things on purpose. I guessed it was a necessary introduction though, the polite thing to do.
I half smiled and gingerly shook her hand. “Um, it’s really nice to meet you,” I lied.
She pointed the way into the building for me and said “My office is down the hall on the right, just across from the bathroom.”
I walked through the musty, half lit hallway and sat down on the small sofa in her office and grabbed the ratty pillow with faded flowers lying on the seat next to me. Gail sat down behind her beat-up, second hand desk and then remembered the noisemaker on the floor, just outside the door.
“I can turn that on if you want,” she said pointing to the small box in the hallway. I just looked at her with a confused expression.
“You know,” she waited, “... for privacy?” I hesitated, blinked, and nodded -- the universal sign of understanding.
“But since it’s just the two of us here today, it’s really not necessary.” Her tone was meant to be reassuring.
“Yeah …” I stalled, waiting for another option, something that meant we weren’t about to get all serious and personal. She gave me nothing.
“Okay.” I told her, noting the open door, another luxury afforded by “just the two of us.”
“It’s fine, I guess.”
Gail asked me how I was doing and I mumbled out something and stared at the floor. She was quiet for a minute, then she said, “Well, if you ever think you’re pregnant again, I’ve got access to free pregnancy tests,” she smiled for half a second, until she saw the look of startled surprise on my face. It was kind of a funny thing to say to someone who’s come to see you to talk about postpartum depression.
My look faded slowly, but Gail was unfazed.
“Free is always good, right?” she probed. “So you know, just, uh... let me know…”
and it's so hard now to get back into it, to pick up where i left off, to remember how to let the words spill out; mainly to ignore everything else around me and focus on what's in my head. there's so much else crying out to be done right now: eating, cleaning, shopping and planning, even putting on make-up. they all seem to be tasks of utmost importance, yet they are not. they'll still be here when i'm done. it's okay to ignore those things for now, to take advantage of the quiet moment and practice. there's no time for a marathon right now but that doesn't mean i can't stay limber and in shape. i don't want to get so rusty and stagnant that I can't make it down the street anymore. (man. am i hungry! that sandwich is not gonna cut it. even though i need it to. i really can't afford to waste so much time eating all the damn time.)
yep, and now i need to pee again. it tries my patience to be so closely bound to this mortal coil of flesh.
(if that's ^ not a pretentious sentence then i don't know what is)
it's raining pretty hard outside. just started. not sure the asphalt was even warm enough for the smell of creosote? to form today. and this is what it is, trying to write. trying out words, putting together sentences, forcing my fingers to strike the keys, whether or not my thoughts make any sense.
i can't shake the jittery feeling though and i feel like i could cry. i just want to go back to sleep and get back on a regular routine so my bowels can get themselves back in order.
there is nothing here. it feels like...i don't have the words. any words.
how can my first baby be turning fifteen on Monday? how can the cone headed newborn i saw for the first time just yesterday, be old enough now to drive a car? to sit at his laptop in the room next to me and listen to David Bowie sing about 1984? how is this slow, yet paradoxically fast, time travel possible? where is the pause button? why can't we make it stand still?
now the rain is gone as quickly as it came and i am halfway through a single size serving of coconut flavored yogurt. my head feels congested and it's getting hard to breathe in through my nose. the tears refuse to stay put behind my eyelids. why does it feel so shameful to just let them roll?
our family vacation begins next week and my sister turns forty the week after that and my daughter picked up a back-to-school list at wal-mart yesterday, and i cursed its very existence. i'm not ready for these children to advance another grade, to age another year. and yet i need them to go if i'm ever going to be able to get back to work and finish the story i've just begun to tell.
a book about time. and faith. how one affects the other and vice versa. maybe this is why we don't make a habit of watching the sun rise every morning. why we no longer sit on our porches in the evening and let it sink out of sight. perhaps it would break our hearts too much to welcome each new day with joy, knowing its farewell is a mere fifteen hours away.
and so it goes and so it goes, i'll try to follow the advice i heard on the radio this morning, to say what needs to be said, even if it's "too much." i don't want to be the kind of person others have to steal love from because i was unwilling to give it. best of luck to all of you, still trying to do the same.
And keep my eyes above the waves
When oceans rise
My soul will rest in Your embrace
For I am Yours and You are mine
Sometimes, all I need is the air that I breathe
and to love you.
Today, however, I would prefer not to have a sore throat,
and a dirty house,
and three kids at home.
your least devoted follower
It was nine years ago today, when I miscarried a baby for the second time. I've written about that experience a few times since then but in the course of working on my book, I came across this piece I wrote in 2004, about the first time it happened to me. I feel like I'm supposed to share it here today. I hope it helps you to read it. I know it helped me to write it.
When we got to my house I didn’t want to go in yet. It was late and the windows were dark so I knew John and Sam were already asleep. I didn’t have the courage to enter an empty house in the state I was in so I just started talking, telling her every last detail of what had happened to me that day, even though she already knew it. Hillary listened for the longest time and the one bit of advice she had for me was this:
We still sang that song in church and every time it began, I would catch my breath. I felt like each chord was cracking a new fracture down the middle of my heart and I couldn't sing the song anymore. In fact, I wasn’t able to sing at all. For about two months, church services were the hardest part of my week. It took me nearly two hours to get ready. I had to look perfect, had to have make-up, hair and clothes that said, "I'm fine." Of course I'd cry during worship time, but not too much. I probably even looked spiritual to some people.
I spent the entire pregnancy waiting. Waiting for the baby, waiting for something to go wrong, waiting to go the bathroom again. Scared every time I sat down on the toilet that I would see red again. Then it would all be over, just like it was before.