Choosing to See Miracles: Faith in the Face of Uncertainty

I'm not sure that I believe in the traditional idea of God. It's tough for me to imagine a God in the sky, willing to send his precious children to hell when they fail to accept His gift of grace. I'm not exactly sure what I believe these days. It's hard to put into words and ever-evolving. There are principles and teachings from many faiths that ring true to me, and many traditions that I am "unlearning", but there is one thing that keeps me coming back to the traditional Christian understanding of God and that's the sense that almost everything is a miracle. We rarely take the time to slow down and recognize this truth, but it's one that speaks deeply to me.

The first and most basic miracle that trips me out every time I think about it is the fact that I am alive. Do you know how many things have to go right for a baby to be born? There are so many systems that have to be working just right for an egg to even be fertilized. And then to carry a baby to term is a miracle all it's own. At least 20% of pregnancies end in miscarriage and that's probably a gross underestimate because many pregnancies end long before a woman even knows she's pregnant. And then there's the birth process. What a mess and how many things can go wrong in those harrowing hours of bringing a child into the world. And now as a mom myself, I think of all the potential accidents that can happen throughout a childhood. I've managed to stay alive for thirty years. The systems in my body keep doing their job every day. I've somehow avoided a fatal accident. So many things have had to go right for me to wake up this morning...things far beyond what I can explain. 

The other miracle I think about often is the miracle of my marriage. Literally generations of people had to make certain precise decisions for Dustin and I to end up together. Who they married, where they moved, jobs they took, children they all led to me finding him. We don't often think about how the seemingly small decisions we make today will impact the generations following us, but they do. My parents each individually decided to enlist in the Marine Corps and the universe aligned for them to be stationed in the same place, in the same platoon. They decided to fall in love and get married. They decided to raise me in Louisiana near my dad's family. They chose to raise me in a certain faith tradition and church and Dustin's parents decided to move to our church in a pivotal moment in their children's lives. And all of those decisions, and thousands of others before that, had to happen for us to ever cross paths. What if they had made different choices? On that spring break when I came home from Boston, Dustin decided to come hang out at my house with mutual friends. What if I had decided to go somewhere else for spring break? What if he had decided to stay home that night? What if I had never decided to move back to Louisiana? I just can't explain how all these things aligned for us to end up together, but they did and there's no doubt in my mind that we were meant to be. It is bigger than a choice we made, it was destined. 

And the list really goes on and on. Albert Einstein is quoted as saying "There are only two ways to live your life: as though nothing is a miracle, or as though everything is a miracle" and I find that there are miracles happening all around me every single day- some big and many impossibly small. My life is not perfect, but all around me there is magic that I can't explain, that science can't explain, that I have a hard time believing is just random chance. So I choose to see miracles and that gives me hope that there is a God working in mysterious ways, a God worth praising and seeking, a God worth coming back to over and over again despite my doubts, questions, and disbelief. 


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On Death & Dying: Preparing for the End When You're Just Getting Started

There's a large cemetary my son and I drive by regularly. It's tucked in between a highway and shopping mall. It makes me sad to think that someone can end up buried for all eternity next to an Olive Garden, but I guess there are worse places to end up. One of the first times we drove by, my son commented about all of the pretty flowers. I explained that it was a cemetary and that each one of those bouquets represented somebody who had died. He responded with a simple "oh". The next time we drove by, he asked me why people die. I explained that eventually our bodies just break down and that it happens to everyone, but hopefully not until we're very old and have lived a full and happy life. Most recently when we passed by, he told me that he didn't want to die. I told him that I didn't want him to die either and that hopefully it wouldn't be something he had to worry about for a long long time. We've never shyed away from the topic of death. It's an inevitable part of life and I'd rather lay a solid foundation than have my son's first encounter with the idea be at the time he loses somebody he loves dearly. We don't talk about death enough in our culture, especially when we are young and so alive, but I think that cheats us and our loved ones of a lot. Not only does it leave everyone emotionally and mentally unprepared, it also puts people in a terrible situation should they have to make decisions about the end of our life without knowing our wishes. 

My own first up close encounter with death happened when I was twelve years old. My grandfather who was dying of cancer moved into our home under hospice care and spent his final weeks of life in my childhood bed room. There aren't words that can adequately describe what death looks like up close. It is messy, it is hard, it is difficult to watch and hear and smell. But it can also be still and quiet and mundane- full of routine...shift changes, med administration, and the business of dying. Since that initial experience, the cycle of loss has repeated itself a few times in my life.

And then there's the bizarre nature of grief. It catches you off gaurd in moments that you thought were safe. It hits in the lyrics of a song or in the midst of a memory or in the small quiet moment when your mind is still enough to soak in the loss, the absence of what was. It has no respect for boundaries or context. It floods in all around you and swallows you whole before you even know what's happening. In my early twenties when my grandmother died, I remember going through her calendar and calling to cancel her upcoming appointments. When I got the receptionist at the podiatrist's office, I told her that I was calling to cancel an upcoming appointment because unfortunately, my grandmother had died. She burst into tears, sobbing on the other end of the line. I found myself, the grandaughter, comforting this stranger on the other end of the line. "I'm so sorry for your loss", I said quietly before hanging up the phone. I've laughed about that encounter many times over the past several years. How strange grief is. 

Most recently, death has come knocking at my door as my husband and I prepare our will. It feels strange to talk about our end of life wishes while we are young and vibrant and pretending like we have decades before we need to worry about such things. But the truth is, death waits for no man and has no respect for our own personal agendas and plans. It comes when it wants, sometimes swiftly and often unfairly. The process of discussing our end of life wishes was eye opening. We each learned a lot about ourselves and each other. We vulnerably had to ask people to take on the immense responsibility of raising our son should something happen to us. We had to reflect on our hopes for his future, a future that might not include us. Despite the number of tears I've shed thinking about leaving too soon or losing Dustin before I'm ready, I am also confident now that I know his wishes and that he knows mine. I know that I will not burden my family for weeks on end, draining them of our assets as they try to cling to me, because they will know that I don't want that. I know that my ashes will be spred in some of my favorite places, becoming a part of something new. I know that our son will be well cared for and that we are setting our extended family up to successfully and comfortably raise him for a future that is bright. 

It might seem silly to have an attorney draw up a will at this stage of your life, while your family is young and just getting started, but I'd argue that this is the most important time to do it. Your loved ones should have no doubt about what you want to happen, to you or to your children. You should give them as many tools and resources as you can to carry on in your absence. The transition for your children should be as smooth and seamless as you can make it. You should give your loved ones the freedom of knowing what you want and give yourself the peace of mind to know that it will all be okay. Don't be afraid to confront the end of your life, it makes the living part that much more beautiful.  


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A Liturgy for the Sacred Mundane

For the morning sun that peeks through the window, 
And the smell of freshly ground coffee. 
For the sleepy faces of children as we wake them and for partners who tell us that we are loved, 
For the mornings without alarms, 
but also for the mornings we are rushing to ensure that everyone gets out the door fully clothed,
For all these sacred mundane things, we give thanks. 

For the smell of fresh cut grass and the colors of spring, 
But also for the restorative rains and the cool breeze of autumn. 
For the feeling of a knowing look, 
For friends who intuit just how to take care of us when life is hard,
But also for that brief moment at the end of a hard season where you feel like you can really breathe again, 
For all these sacred mundane things, we give thanks. 

For the sound of a loved one’s keys in the front door after time apart, 
For the smell of cookies baking in the oven, 
And chips and salsa on a patio. 
For the way dogs greet us as if this moment is the best thing that’s ever happened to them, 
But also for still, quiet, purring cats.
For all these sacred mundane things, we give thanks.

For toilet paper and air conditioning and for the bounty after a grocery run, 
For dark chocolate and hot baths, 
For fresh sheets and the smell of lavender, 
For evenings by the fire with a good glass of wine, 
But also for evenings with cheap beer and belly laughs,
For all these sacred mundane things, we give thanks. 

For the sting of the cold night air, 
And the immensity of the universe, 
For our brief moments of being, 
And for the simple beauty we stand witness to every single day, 
For all these sacred mundane things, we give thanks.