One of the first responses I received was from a Nazarene friend, and he said, “Thank you.” Do you know how I responded? “I cringe to think that you read this, and I’m sorry if I’ve offended you.” (See how I can’t seem to get away from guilt?) But then he said, “I’m a recovering legalist who hates narrowness and loves wideness and compassion.” That brought tears to my eyes. It still does.

For those of you who felt it I was going too far in blaming an entire denomination for my guilt, maybe you’re right. After all, I’m the quintessential firstborn child: I want to do everything well, and I want to please people. And if I don’t succeed at either of those, I feel bad. There was a conversation going in the comments about things that influence us; I’m sure there are a variety of things that have influenced my guilt, the church only being one of them.

I want to say two things:

1. Guilt is not the only thing I think of when I think of my upbringing in the Nazarene Church. There were also times of joy, friendship, and love. I talk about losing Dr. Greathouse here and I talk about missing the COTN here and what I think my parents did right here and how hard it was to say goodbye to my Thai Nazarene friends here.  My last post was addressing one issue I’m dealing with as an adult and trying to sort out.

2. Guilt is not why I left the Nazarene Church. I left because I was struggling with things like a high emphasis on emotionalism and the church becoming uber user-friendly and looking just like the world. I left because I would get a spiritual high every Sunday but then struggle with experiencing God in my day-to-day life. I left because I had been introduced to liturgy and wanted to know what it was. Maybe the expectations I felt like people had for me played a part in it, too; if so, I didn’t realize it at the time. But I have never felt like I left because of guilt.

I spent some time talking to my dad about all of it today, and I realized how difficult that post was for him to read. You know, my dad has struggled with guilt, too, but he has come through many dark days and come out on the other side and found healing. “One of the things I love about the theology of the Nazarene Church,” he said, “is it’s focus on God’s grace for us.” My dad is a man who’s been utterly overwhelmed by God’s incomprehensible and amazing grace.

And I fell into my father’s arms and cried and said, “I’m sorry for disappointing you.”

And do you know what he said? “That’s the thing, Karissa. You never have.”

And suddenly I remembered that my name, Karis, means grace, and that no matter how hard I rail against this or that, or try to speak my truth, or try to find an answer to all my questions, I can’t forget this: It is only because of God’s grace that I am here and that there is any good in me.

Orthodox Christians don’t believe in the total depravity of humans. If God made us in his image, and he is good and love, then we can’t be totally depraved. God put good in us.  To me, that is an amazing and freeing thought. We do believe that our relationship with God was broken, and that Jesus came to heal it.  Even when we screw up, God still makes good in us.

I saw that good in your comments, and I saw that good in my dad’s eyes today, and I see it in my mom’s eyes, and I see it in my home every day in my husband and children.

Dad, you gave me my faith. No matter what church I go to or what struggles I have, that seems like a pretty big thing.

I have been looking through old journals yet again as I revise my manuscript. I kept prayer journals for years. In those journals I see a girl desperate to please God and the adults in her life and a girl always yearning to be a better Christian. I was a teenager who had devotions every single day, sometimes twice a day. I was probably a better Christian than most teenagers are. Yet it wasn’t enough. There was always a deeper blessing or understanding I grasped at, or a special word of God I was waiting to hear, or the need to ask His forgiveness for not thinking about Him 24-7.

A counselor once asked me if I had ever been angry at my parents when I was a teenager. I said no. She asked if I’d ever rebelled as a teenager. I said no. And then she very gently told me that I wasn’t normal. That it was normal for teenagers to rebel and push the limits and sometimes be raging made at their parents. But not me. I had to be perfect.

In the Nazarene Church, there is a second work of grace after salvation: sanctification, or holiness. I’ve heard many different descriptions of sanctification and will not try to explain it here, but I strove for that second thing I had to achieve, which seemed like perfection. I probably prayed six or seven different times to get sanctified. I thought you weren’t supposed to sin at all after you got sanctified, so when I did, I just thought that the most recent time I’d prayed for sanctification wasn’t real enough or meaningful enough or heartfelt enough. So, out of guilt, I prayed for it again.

One of my Nazarene relatives, who is probably the most selfless person I know, was gung-ho on all the holiness stuff. She made me feel guilty for everything from staying out until midnight (which isn’t really late for a college student) to taking a nap. There was a high emphasis on “what it might look like” to other people. You always had to act in way that made people think you were a good Christian. I say this not because I still carry a grudge – I love this person very much and let me tell you, she has mellowed a lot – but to show you that the Nazarene message of the 1950s and 60s was alive and well when I was growing up. The message of perfection and works righteousness probably fit in great back when my parents were growing up. But that message is not relevant anymore.

When I first got married, I felt guilty about having sex because sex had always only been something that was wrong.

I used to feel guilty about leaving my kids to have a girls’ night out.

I still feel a little guilty about drinking alcohol.

I still feel a little guilty if I skip church on Sunday.

I still often feel like I need to be perfect and I need everyone around me to be perfect.

Even the parts of my manuscript about Orthodoxy are wrought with guilt. And Orthodoxy does not represent guilt to me. Yet there it is, right smack in the middle of all of my writings about how true and mystical and beautiful Orthodoxy is. I have a chapter that is all about me feeling guilty for missing a Holy Week service because Ephraim was 2 and needed a nap in the afternoon. Really? I ask myself. I have heard Fr. Stephen tell the young mothers, “Come to the services you can during Holy Week, and stay as long as you can. If you need to leave early because of the children, leave early, but come when you can, and both you and God will receive a blessing.” Even my priest gets that young kids (and their weary mothers) can’t make it through the umpteen services of Holy Week. Yet me? I’m guilty.

Let me say it: Guilt can no longer be my reason for believing in God and living a Christian life.

I am not saying that guilt has no place in the church; certainly, the Holy Spirit convicts us of times we have hurt ourselves or others and urges us to make all things right. But guilt can no longer be my motivator. Guilt has spent years chewing me up and spitting me out and convincing me that I am unworthy. Guilt has made me always scared that I will be judged and rejected. In some ways, guilt has made me turn my eyes toward others in judgment and demand perfection from them. Because I could never bear to turn my eyes inward and accept myself.

I recently shared with my mother a definition of faith she gave me back in 1999 that I had written in my journal: “A Christian is a person who loves God totally, wholly, and completely. A Christian is a person who choses to live a life of righteousness no matter what, no matter what anyone thinks or does. A Christian is a person of surrender.”

I thought that it seemed like a very old-timey Nazarene type of answer. I thought that my mother might have a different answer now, so I asked her how she might define Christian faith now. Here is some of what she said:

“What is faith? Faith is screaming at God for not intervening when my baby was killed. Faith is questioning whether all those Scriptures and promises that I had read, quoted and taught are true or a bunch of bunk. Faith is wrestling with a God of silence and mystery who seems to leave you to struggle alone with the questions and the pain. Faith is acknowledging that God is God, and I am not, and God really doesn’t owe me anything. Faith is believing that the Resurrection story is real, and my baby boy is in God’s presence, healed and knows nothing but joy . . . A Christian is someone who has decided to follow Jesus and chooses to live her/his life in a supportive community of faith as a disciple – living, learning, sharing, giving, becoming, resting and trusting in the God who loved us enough to sacrifice His only begotten Son for us. A healthy community of faith is welcoming and affirming. It is a place where you can take off your mask and be who you are. Your brothers and sisters in Christ will be your church family, and you can trust them with your life story and your faith story. They will never give up on you. They will enrich your faith, and you will enrich theirs. You will walk toward the Cross together.”

Can you see the stark difference between these two definitions of faith?

The first is the expected answer of a Nazarene missionary.

The second is the answer of a woman who has gone to hell and back and still believes.

The first is saying the right thing.

The second is telling the truth.

The first is guilt-driven.

The second is truth-driven.

And I’d take the second over a hundred firsts any day. Because it’s real. My mom is the strongest woman I know, folks.

I haven’t talked to my dad as much about the Nazarene Church, but I know that he has his own wounds, too. The truth is, none of us attend a Nazarene Church anymore. My mom attends a Methodist church. To be honest, I’m not sure what church my dad goes to or if he even goes to church every Sunday. And I don’t judge him for that. I’d rather him seek God on his own terms than show up at church just to please somebody or put on a show. We’re all on a spiritual journey, and the going gets rough sometimes.

I don’t know if the Nazarene Church just couldn’t embrace us when we most needed it, or if maybe it tried to and we turned our backs on it. I don’t know if it still represents that 1950s holiness perfection or not. I know there are some very sincere and loving Nazarene people who may not represent the works-based, guilt-ridden faith I see in my journals. All I know is that among all the messages it gave me, I have to let go of the one about being guilty.

I have to cling to God’s message that He loves me always. I want love to be my motivator.

I leave you with a quote from Henri Nouwen:

“The great spiritual task facing me is to so fully trust that I belong to God that I can be free in the world–free to speak even when my words are not received; free to act even when my actions are criticized, ridiculed, or considered useless…. I am convinced that I will truly be able to love the world when I fully believe that I am loved far beyond its boundaries.”

I pray this for me and my parents. I pray this for all of us. Love on, people.

Sometimes I am scared that I will forget your face. Or your voice. Or how exactly you sounded when you said, “Hey, Kris.”

Sometimes I am scared of forgetting how beautiful your life was.

Sometimes I am scared of a world that goes on when you are gone.

I am scared of the eighteenth year, which means it will all be equal – the amount of time you lived, the amount of time you’ve been gone.

I am scared of my wavering belief in God, in Good, in Hope.

Here’s what we put on your tombstone:

“I carried you on eagles’ wings and brought you to myself.” – Exodus 19:4

Here’s what you might say to me, to calm my fears and give me peace:

“I come home from the soaring

in which I lost myself. 

I was song, and the refrain which is God

is still roaring in my ears.

Now I am still 

and plain:

no more words.

To the others I was like a wind:

I made them shake. 

I’d gone very far, as far as the angels, 

and high, where light thins into nothing.

But deep in the darkness is God . . . .” 

(Rainer Maria Rilke, Love Poems to God)

I love and miss you, Will!

2. Use a half-ass system of marking quotations you might want to use. (See below.)

3. Forget to cite the quotations as you write the book.

4. Go back after the book is finished to add all the citations. (Which also means occasionally scanning over page after page of some book to find the page your quote was on.)

5. Read through dozens of old journals to find that that one entry about that one experience when you were 12.

6. Wait until the end to come up with a title.

7. Do absolutely no market research ahead of time.

8. Make 4:00 AM your writing hour.

9. Make 7:00 PM (aka the kids’ TV time) your second writing hour when you failed to get up for the first one.

10. Check Facebook 10 times during your writing hour.

Despite doing it all wrong, I have to tell ya: I FINISHED THE FIRST DRAFT!!

Draft printed!! Thanks to everyone for all your title suggestions. I went with a suggestion from my friend Marianne Robbins. Transfigured Faith seemed to be the best “hat” for my book.

Look how thick this sucker is! 183 pages. Can’t believe I wrote all that.

I am SO thrilled that this part, at least, is done, and I am so thankful for all the friends and family who have encouraged me! (That means you, reader!)

Now, on to revising. Which I have a feeling will be harder than the first draft.

But for today (or maybe for a few days, who knows), I’m gonna let myself celebrate!

This is me freaking out.

Ninjago weapons for a Scavenger Hunt with clues

We did a paper lantern craft and had them decorate their own ninja headbands (Ace bandages and Sharpies)

I bought Ninjago eyes on Etsy and taped them to balloons to look like ninjas

This poster was already in Ephraim’s room, so we just moved it downstairs and tacked it to the fireplace.

Ninjago face cake made by yours truly (and I won’t show you the pic of cake #1 that fell apart!)

Scavenger Hunt – one weapon was in the fridge!

Chopstick relay

Tornado game – we split into teams and used streamers to turn a team member into a Spinjitsu Tornado!

The birthday boy with his cake!

Ephraim enjoyed his party and I think the little boys had fun. That said, I am staying away from Pinterest for a while. Too much pressure to put on a presentation and make your party a “show.” I get way too stressed about putting these parties together. It should be a relaxed time to celebrate the birthday kid, not a time to impress everyone!

A few days later, this happened:

Kindergarten graduate!

He had a solo

Got his diploma!

Seeing my son graduate from kindergarten was bittersweet. When I saw him up there in his little cap and gown with all his friends, I teared up with a mother’s pride, and also with a mother’s fear. My chubby baby boy has grown up and learned so much! I love his gentle heart, his boyish mischief, and his wild abandon.

But I still remember the night my parents and Will’s body came home from Thailand, and Will’s high school graduation gown was hanging in the doorway of his old room. He died four days after he graduated. I will never be able to completely lose the fear that something will happen to my children. Most days, it is kept at bay, somewhere in the back of my mind, ignored. But sometimes, it swells up and pushes itself into my thoughts.

I hope and pray that my children will always be safe, healthy, and happy. I am so very proud of them both.

“Really, all I wanted, even more than any gift or party is for just one day to pass without anyone needing anything from me . . . I curled up in the corner of a crowded restaurant on Mother’s Day, alone, and I read an Oprah Magazine and ate carbs until I felt like a person again.”

Like Sarah, all I really wanted was ONE DAY in which I did not have to take care of ANYTHING. Because I am always taking care of someone and something. I wanted one day in which somebody else did it all. I have to admit that Steven did most of the somethings on Mother’s Day. He got up with the kids when they woke up and got them both dressed for church and drove both to and from church (it’s a 50 minute drive, so we always take turns). He took me out to eat for lunch so I wouldn’t have to worry about dishes and sandwich crusts and straws in the Capri Suns. He picked up the house and loaded the dishwasher. And I am thankful.

But I also have to admit that the night before I’d warned him that he better have a card or something for me (even though I’d previously told him not to get me anything) or that I’d be very upset, and that at the end of Mother’s Day I sulked because I still had to do laundry and help the kids with baths that night.

And Sarah said, “The tinies threw me a homemade party when I came home an hour later . . I was spinning in our tiny pink kitchen, with a baby on my hip, and this is still my favourite thing in the world to be their mother.”

And yes, on Mother’s Day I opened a book Ephraim made just for me at school and a card Madeleine spent a lot of time on and I spent an entire meal at P.F. Chang’s sitting in the sun, laughing and talking with my 3 special people without rushing so we could get to school or ball practice or whatever. And it was joy and loveliness and everything to be thankful for. I am a mother. I am their mother. I am their main encourager and listener and problem solver. I am their lunch-maker and hair-rinser and laundry-folder. And as much as I push for feminism and equality and gender-free roles, I know that I need my children and they need me. I know that under all the frustration and resentment that creep in sometimes, I love being their mother.

Sarah went on, “I confessed to you that sometimes I get so mad at the Inklings . .  C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien and all these other writers, real writers, had luxuries like housekeepers and pubs and colleagues, they had creature comforts and every time the Muse arrived, they didn’t have to shush her, plead with her to come back later because, right now, Muse, can’t you see? preschool, supper, diapers, bath times, and everything wonderful in my life needs my attention.”

Amen! I tend to wonder why it seems like others (by others I gotta admit I mostly mean men) can put domestic life on hold for their work and passions, while I am trying to fit in writing here and there, wherever I can. I can’t stop my life for writing.

But then I wonder about that Motherlove that wanted just one more, the one in my womb, the one I call Ember because that’s what I wanted to name her if it was a girl, the one that hardly grew at all and then she was gone. And the Motherlove that wanted the baby from Thailand, which was once my home, and how that may or may not happen now. And the Motherlove that speaks a language all its own, that keeps me up at night after a bad dream about my child, and that warms me each morning when my son kisses me goodbye, that whispers to me how fragile my children are and that I only get one chance at this.

And I wonder about all the women who aren’t mothers and want to be, and how Mother’s Day is difficult for them. The friend who waits, month after month, for a positive pregnancy test. The friend who was a guardian-but-really-a-mother to a family member, but is no longer that. The friend who hopes to get a foster child soon. The friend who lost her baby at nine weeks pregnant. And the women who have chosen not to be mothers, and are vilified for it.

I don’t know the answers, and I don’t have something lovely and poetic to say. I wonder, I grieve, I love, and I ask your forgiveness.

I am ALMOST done first drafting . . . it’s kinda sad to think that I’m only almost done with the FIRST draft when technically I’ve been working on this thing for 3 years. But I’ve really only worked REGULARLY on it for about 10 months, plus my life is already pretty hectic. It’s rough finding the time and sanity to write when you’re working full time and parenting 2 kids. Anyway, I have a goal to be done with the first draft by June 1st, and I think I’m gonna make it!!! P.F. Chang’s thinks so, too, based on the fortune they gave me yesterday:

Anyway, I have adjusted my outline a bit and now have four sections: Believing, Questioning, Becoming, and Looking Back (that last section may have a title change yet), with each section having 13,000 – 18,000 words. The sections are (roughly) divided into chapters. I have already finished the first section, Believing, and am working through the second section by adding a little new material and revising a little.

But here’s the thing: I need a title. The best title I’ve come up with is (TA-DA!) “Conversion.” I know. BORRRRR-ING. Seriously. I’m a writer. Can’t I come up with something better than that?

No. I can’t. Seriously. The muses have failed me here. “Metamorphosis” is too cheesy, “Journey” is too common, and “Why The Hell Did You Leave The Nazarene Church?” is too crazy. And it has the word Hell in it. This is where YOU come in! My story is about a Nazarene missionary kid – turned Orthodox Christian. That’s it in a nutshell. I know, that sounds a little – yawn – boring, too, but I promise (I hope) it’s not. When are you going to get Buddhist monks, treacherous trips up mountains, outhouses, Coke in Sunday School (the soft drink kind, of course), and Orthodox liturgy all in one book? And what would you name that book??? I promise that whoever comes up with the name I end up using will get a thank you in the acknowledgments if the book ever gets published. Okay, peeps! Give my book a hat!

Then I got pregnant.

We asked our agency to put us on hold in the adoption process. In some ways, I was disappointed about the pregnancy, because I knew that Thailand won’t let you adopt from there if you have 3 biological children. But eventually I came to get excited about a new baby. The pregnancy symptoms set in: exhaustion and nausea. I went in for an 8 week checkup and everything was fine. By this point we had told our children and our parents. I went in two weeks later for the first ultrasound.

There was no baby. There was an empty sac. He saw the amniotic sac, but no “fetal pole.” Which means baby. In addition, it was showing me at only 7.5 weeks instead of 10 weeks. My doctor tried to be hopeful and told me we would wait a week and have another ultrasound to see if there had been any growth.

It was a difficult week. A week that I waited to find out if my baby lived or died.

At the second ultrasound, there was still no baby. I had initially been pregnant, but the baby had died very early on, before it was big enough to be seen on an ultrasound. I remembered seeing Ephraim’s heartbeat on an ultrasound at 6 weeks pregnant, so I knew it had probably stopped growing before 6 weeks.

The next day, I had a D & C.

It was heartbreaking to have to tell our children that there was no baby. They had begun to get excited about having a sibling.

It was heartbreaking to feel like my womb had become a tomb.

I felt like I’d been on an emotional rollercoaster all winter.

After all of it, it was my writing that saved me. Of course, my family and the few friends we’d told showed support and love, but it was writing that helped me process it all and carried me through. Maybe one day I will share some of that writing with you.

So where does all this leave us? Do we try again? Do we go back to the adoption process? For a while I really wanted to forget about ever trying to get pregnant again and just go back to the adoption. But due to several recent unexpected expenses, we feel like we are not financially ready to dive back into the adoption process. I don’t know that we are emotionally ready, either. Yet I don’t know that I can handle getting pregnant again and losing it again. When I think of all our options right now, I feel like what we need to do is wait. I don’t know what for or how long.

So we have asked our adoption agency to continue to keep us on hold. They can do so for up to a year without us having to reapply. (If we do not re-enter the process soon, we will return all of our adoption donations – thank you to those of you who have given.) For now, we wait. For now, I keep loving the children that I have. For now, I keep praying for the children that I have lost. For now, I live one day at a time, I find things to be thankful for, and I look for God’s grace.

The Bier of Christ

A friend of mine made the statement on facebook, ” Coming home with Christ still on the cross is a lot tougher than going to a passion play where you get to experience the joy of the Resurrection five minutes after the Crucifixion.” She’s right. Orthodox Christians don’t relive the last week of Christ in a 45 minute choir special. On Sunday, Jesus enters Jerusalem. On Thursday, he gets nailed to the cross (literally – a lifesize icon of Jesus gets nailed to the cross). On Friday, he dies, and we bury him. Friday night, we go to his funeral. Saturday, we wait in darkness and mourning. And finally, in the early hours of Sunday morning, he rises again.

Last night was the Lamentations Service of Holy Week. It’s my favorite Holy Week service (other than Pascha, of course.) It is basically a funeral for Jesus. We sing dirges. We lament. The little girls toss ross petals across his Bier and among us. The priest sprinkles us with rosewater, just as the myrrh-bearing women brought myrrh and spices for Jesus’ body. Here are a few of the many lamentations we sang last night:

O my sweet Lord Jesus, my Salvation my Light: How art Thou now hidden within a dark sepulcher? Lo, Thy burial surpasseth human speech.

All the earth was troubled and did tremble with fear, and the morning star, O Word hid its brilliant rays, when they hid Thee in the earth, O Most Great Light. 

Songs of lamentation poured from Thy pure Mother, when Thou, O Word, was slaughtered. 

All the hosts of heaven stood with fear, confounded, beholding Thy dead body. 

Weeping and lamenting, Thy most holy Mother doth mourn the, my slain Savior. 

Minds must tremble seeing, O Maker of Creation, Thy strange and dire entombment. 

Last night was the first time I’d been there for the procession with the Bier. There have been years I haven’t even made it to the Lamentations Service; other years, we’ve left early because of the kids. But last night, they lifted up the Bier on their shoulders, and we all fell into a funeral procession. We exited the church and were met by a light rain. There were rose petals on the sidewalk that had fallen from the Bier. I grabbed my daughter’s hand because I needed something to hang on to. I was overcome, and the tears flowed.

I wasn’t sad for my dead brother, or my dead grandparents, or my dead friends.

I was sad for my dead Jesus. 

My Jesus, who I’d pinned my hopes on, who I’d given my life to, was gone.

I was his Mother Mary and I was Mary Magdalene and I was every disciple. I was broken, bewildered, and grieving.

Today is Saturday. The rain pours; the world is gray. There is no joy today.

Christ the Bridegroom Icon

This week is Orthodox Holy Week. On Friday, Jesus will be crucified. On Saturday, we will quietly mourn. On Sunday, he will rise again.

Last night the kids and I went to the second Bridegroom Matins service of the week. This service likens Orthodox believers to the ten virgins who waited for the bridegroom to come in the middle of the night. It is a time of waiting and repentance. During Bridegroom Matins, a reader reads or chants six Psalms. One of them is Psalm 37  (Psalm 38 in Protestant Bibles). These lines stood out to me:

I am feeble and sore broken; I have roared by reason of the disquietness of my heart. Lord, all my desire is before thee; and my groaning is not hid from thee.

I have roared. Wow. Most Bibles translate that as groaned instead of roared. But I like roared. I can hear the anger and anguish behind that word. I can hear the urgency: See me! Hear me! I roar! 

It makes me think of these words from Ursula K. LeGuin: “We are all volcanoes. When we women offer our experience as our truth, all the maps change. There are new mountains. That’s what I want – to hear you erupting.”

That’s what I want, too – to erupt, to roar, to have a voice, to break open the ground I’ve always walked on.

I roar because I am imperfect.

I roar because I am broken.

I roar because I am selfish.

I roar because I am searching.

I roar because I am hurting.

I roar because I am sorry.

I roar because I want to be strong.

I roar because I want to be saved.

I roar because I want to be found.

I roar because I want joy.

I roar because I want God.

As the reader read the Six Psalms, Father Stephen was not sitting idly by the altar. He was working, too. He was praying the twelve Orthros prayers – mostly in front of the icon of Christ. I watched my priest stand before Jesus with his head bowed, praying for all of us. Here are just the first phrases of a few of these twelve prayers:

We give thanks unto thee

Out of the night our spirit awaketh at dawn unto thee

O Master God, holy and unsearchable

O Treasury of good things, Fountain eternal

Illumine our hearts

O Lord our God, who hast granted unto men pardon

I roar, and I hope. I hope that He hears me. And finds me. And saves me. And us all.