Bees in My Bonnet

 Let me tell you what prayer looks like for me: it involves all the feels, if I have any, and often I feel nothing. Absolutely flat. Unfeeling. Blank. Numb. Even in those states, I pray. Sometimes my words are more thoughtful, sometimes they're a jumbled mess. I don't think it really matters to God - THAT  I pray, I am convinced, delights His heart. These days my head hits the pillow and my whole body slows down and then the feelings come. "I don't want this, God. I feel like You, in a single instant, handed me a pathway of suffering, of pain, of regret, of darkness. I know You were there, protecting my boy. I know You spared Him. I'm grateful, I'm SO grateful." Then I pause. I think about gratitude. What does it mean that I'm grateful? I open my heart before God and say, "You have been good to me, to him. I know it. His suffering is great - and ours, watching him suffer, is great too. I know it could have been worse. But in this moment, I want to

 I realize people of Christian faith, people of other faith, and people of no particular faith, read this blog. And all are welcome here. Thing is, I sometimes ponder my own life of faith through an external-journalistic eye, and pronounce my own opinions of myself: Sarah, your faith is just crazy. Even in my prayers, I express this directly to the God I believe is there: "Lord, is this just a fanatical, pie-in-the-sky sentimental thing that I do - praying to You? I sometimes feel crazy trusting You this much ." Here I am, in those moments, asking God if He thinks I'm as crazy as I seem to think myself. Sometimes I trust God so wildly, so boldly, so almost-stupidly, that I think I'm more than a few cards short of a full-deck. And then I tell God what I think of my trusting Him so much - I analyze it and say, "There's a word for this in psychological terms: Magical thinking."  Lately I've been trying to wrap my head around this concept: magical thinki

 About 2 weeks ago I received a short message from someone saying she had finally made it to visit my parents' grave - to remember them and their impact on her life. She added a picture of herself next to their headstone. I messaged back that had I known she was in town, we could have met. We were not very well acquainted or connected, and she didn't know I lived in the Chicago area. She was leaving the next day, and we had enough time to catch a deep-dish pizza lunch together. She had met my parents in 1979 when she had escaped from Vietnam on a boat - many were fleeing the country at that time. My parents had just begun to work in the refugee camps in Hong Kong. Winnie got her English name after asking my Dad to give her one. When she became a U.S. citizen she made it official - taking a Western name, given her by a western man who once took her to the dentist when she was in great pain. She never forgot his kindness. She wanted to bless his memory somehow. I asked Hannah if

  When I come to myself - Realize there is a self to come to, A space, a moment, an in-between - I find surprise - there is a me beyond the doing. The doing of things is necessary, A blessing, even. But a self that thinks, That feels the ground beneath my feet That beholds beauty and is awestruck, This is a gift - the first gift to me Is me. I am taken with the Giver - From His hand come all good things. But would He not have me welcome this first gift? To know it, receive it, accept it? I think He would.

 I was about 15 when I first read the small tract-pamphlet, "My Heart, Christ's Home" and I'm not quite sure how I felt about the message it brought. I think I cringed a little. It felt like I was tempted to hide parts of myself from God, for fear or shame of what He must think of me. It evoked something contrary in me...something...amiss? I can't quite place words to describe my misgivings. Even so, it left a seed - a thought-seed - in me, to germinate, ponder, and dialogue in prayer, asking, "Lord, are You welcome in every crevice of my heart?" And I lay that before God and we explore together, even the darkest corners of my soul. I believe in the exploring there is grace. And discovery - not so much for God - surely, He knows what's there before I do.  Many years later, I discovered Theresa of Avila's Interior Castle. It harkened back to that germinating seed - is my heart Christ's home? Her writing drew me in differently somehow. I suppos

 23 years ago today I woke up and felt miserable - I think I had vomitted in the night and I phoned Sam first thing in the morning. "I don't think I can get married today," I said. This was, of course, disheartening to him. But I gingerly drank some weak tea, handed my Dad a folded up plastic bag to keep in his pocket while he walked me down the aisle, and proceeded to prepare for our wedding later that day. It was Easter Sunday - a day full of hope, joy, and resurrection celebration. Maybe I was hoping that Easter would represent our marriage - the resurrection power of Christ infused into our union. Easter is a day of hope fulfilled, faith becoming sight, the unbelievable becoming real. That's essentially what I felt marriage was going to be.  And I don't intend to dampen the romantic notions I had but I must say, these were indeed, romantic sentiments. Marriage has turned out to be gritty, challenging, (rewarding, yes!), hard work, stretching, painful, on the n