Posted by: karanoel | April 8, 2020

Help

Hi friends. How are you? We are settling into a rhythm with this new, temporary “normal” of having John and Chase home. I’ve been less tempted to saturate myself in the news and am feeling more settled. Hopefully, I’ll soon get the chance to write down some of the posts that have been floating around in my head for a while. For now, here is another assignment from my writing workshop (which is sadly almost over). The topic was triumph. I’m also including an audio recording in case you prefer to listen…

Triumph isn’t always displayed by steadfast feet planted on a mountain top and outstretched hands declaring their victory to the sky; a great feat conquered once and for all. If it were, what hope would belong to others who find their strength failing lifetimes away from the peek they yearn to climb? When the doubts of quivering hearts far overwhelm any hint of confidence in their ability to make it one more step forward upon shaking legs and blistered feet as they tread on unknown terrain?

No, triumph is often found in a crumpled form, no longer able to stand let alone conquer, as the reality of what “is” pelts like freezing rain and violent wind against the expectations of what was “supposed to be.” It is here, in a frailty that always existed but is only now realized, with nothing left to lose and the burdensome armor of bravado finally cast aside, that a dry, cracked mouth whispers, “help.”

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It is a word as brave, as humble, as any ever spoken. It holds in its fragile hands a primal fear of being left in the muddy shame of weakness, alone and abandoned. But in those same trembling palms sits a small, piercing hope that someone will hear and though all seems lost, that rescue will come. And so it does. It always does. For the poor, the desperate, the lonely, the broken who dare to utter “help.”

There will be no magical transport to the lofty peeks cloaked in clouds. What joy would there be in that kind of victory? Nor will there be aid to crawl back down the brutal, rocky path in defeat. Instead, still collapsed on the filthy ground that marks the shattering moment of disappointment or failure, comfort comes as the longing soul finds itself no longer alone. Something has floated into the heart, carried by a wind of hope, unseen but deeply felt. A Presence who has come in response to the humble plea for help, bearing with it a tinge of warmth to ease the bracing pain of loneliness and a sliver of light to hold back the darkness. Despair, a moment before consuming all hope, is pushed back a step, as if retreating by force. 

Earthy fragrances rise from the ground, enter the lungs, tickle the senses. Had they been there all along? The crumpled form straightens, lifts a hanging head and downcast eyes, seeing for the first time through the disappointment, beyond the pain to the textured faces of mighty cliffs, the vibrant, water-laden leaves of surrounding trees, the rocky path leading out of sight. The path. It continues. “Could I?,” the soul questions. 

And so the form rises, still weak, still bruised, but now able to stand. A step is taken – slow, unsure, stumbling. Not back down in the direction of known locations but up, to the unknown, to carry on the journey already begun. More steps will follow, some fumbling, some with greater ease than ever before. And more trouble will inevitably arise. But each time it does, recognizing weakness will come more quickly. “Help” will become a triumphant battlecry, forging trust in every instance, bringing strength born of dependence on Someone greater. And so, one day, on the top of the mountain those feet will stand, but the humble soul will know with joy that victory was won long before. 

view from the top

photo by Ani Dimi

Posted by: karanoel | April 4, 2020

Touching base

For the first time in at least three weeks, I’m sitting in my sweet little shed, with free time to write. The sun is in and out today, infusing the humidity with its stuffy warmth when it breaks through the thick clouds. Next door, there is a pickleball match going on, filling the air with the hollow smack of the ball off the racquet and wild bursts of enthusiasm after what was presumably a great shot. John continues to build a chicken coop behind the shed, the humming and buzzing of his power tools broken up by gaps of silence as he lays out materials or studies his plans. Chase is inside, happily playing Legos via facetime with his cousin in Washington. From the feel of things this peaceful day, you’d never know there was a global pandemic going on. 

But make no mistake, life has gotten turned upside down. Some are enduring sickness, exhaustion, financial devastation or even the death of someone they love; this virus leaving a mark they won’t soon forget. For us, it has been an inconvenience. Nothing more. So far, anyway. I need to remember that when I’m feeling squeezed; entitled to things I used to enjoy; yearning for space and freedom I don’t currently possess. It’s not that I disagree with boundaries set for the greater good. It just doesn’t mean it’s easy.

And yet there are things I know to savor that have come as a direct result of this plague; things I know I will miss when life goes back to normal and time starts again… extra time to bond with Chase as we push through schoolwork or find yet more objects to race down the slide at recess, seeing if they can beat the current champ (can’t remember if it’s the gray rock or the green hot wheels)… having John around, a presence I love; getting to witness and more deeply appreciate the work he does for the nonprofit that employs him… our time together as a family, taking walks and bike rides amidst more families than I’ve ever seen out together, performing this strange choreography of distancing from others as we draw ever closer to each other.. and yet a greater sense of community blossoming as we all walk through this together. It is almost as if we are remembering something, like a sweet dream from long ago, that was lost or maybe just forgotten. 

I don’t know exactly what you are going through right now, but I pray with all my heart that hope would rise up in the very place you stand. That fear would flee as light floods the darkness. That healing grace would overcome all sickness. That joy would rise up and declare through every cell in your being that this is a new day for you. A day not determined by a virus, the news or any assumptions of what the future holds, but one formed by the hand of a God who loves you with unfathomable passion and longs to establish you in these hard places until trust grows so strong, fear and hopelessness lose their grip. So I pray we can rejoice in this day. Not because of what we see going on in the world or what we feel, but because of who He is. Much love, Kara

Flower in Rock

Posted by: karanoel | March 22, 2020

Kidnapped

Having already written about most of the eventful parts of my life, I decided to tackle the time I was kidnapped for my writing workshop last week. So here it is!

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“This must have been the worst day of your life,” my dad said with conviction. “Not even close,” I honestly replied. Although it certainly wasn’t my best either. I don’t think being abducted tops anyone’s list of good times.

As a reckless 18 year-old living in Hollywood, I think “drama” is the word that best describes my life at that time. With the extreme choices I was making on a daily basis, the consequences were equally so. On this particular night, my roommate, Allison, and I had decided to go to a club. Or maybe it was a rave. All I remember was that it looked like nothing more than a warehouse dressed up like a school gym for senior prom. When we entered, music was pumping a sudden, abrasive affront to our ears, as flashing lights revealed glimpses of color and people; a forced effort to set a mood that we were far too sober to enjoy. We stood there in the slight awkwardness of a young night, greeting a few people we recognized with flirtatious glances or words that couldn’t be heard, before pounding a few drinks, maybe dancing a little and then heading to a line that snaked like a river to the bathroom.

In front of us were three young guys who seemed too clean-cut for this place – more like college students than rave goers, I thought, as I took in their crisp button-downs, brightly contrasting their deep brown skin and tight, tamed curls. When they turned around to talk to us, we realized it wasn’t just conversation they were offering, but a line of coke. Heck yeah! Who in their right mind would turn down free drugs? So eventually we crowded into the restroom and did our lines before Allison and I headed off toward the music, tossing a quick “thanks” over our shoulders.

Upon our return, the stiff school dance atmosphere had morphed into something alive; sophisticated; welcoming. We belonged there, not like wallflowers watching the scene unfold, but in the middle of it all, dancing with newfound energy, reveling in the power of our youthful beauty as our long locks whipped wildly to the strong beat thumping through our young, immortal bodies.

The rest of the night is a blur. A swirling mass of faces, so recently foreign, now warm and familiar. Music that went on endlessly. Did the song even change? It could go on forever, for all I cared. I was lost in pleasure. There was more alcohol, I think; more cocaine. From those same guys? I don’t know. I didn’t care. As long as it kept coming. This was living. I was alive.

I don’t know how all the hours passed, but we didn’t leave that used up warehouse until late morning. The daylight felt harsh. My power, like a vampire’s, was drained by it. I was tired. So very tired. All I wanted to do was sleep in a dark room where day could not lord itself over me. But we had to stop at the record store, Allison said, because she needed to buy concert tickets. “Fine,” I replied. “But I’m staying in the car.”

Sitting alone, with the key in the ignition so music could mask the silence, I realized that my head was heavy. Far too heavy to keep perched atop my long, wearied neck. How nice it would feel to drop the weight; to rest. The suggestion was tantalizing. My tangled mass of curls bobbled in indecision for a split second before yielding wholly to the suggestion, tumbling with a thump onto the headrest behind. Oh yes, I sighed, with slow, deep breaths. But how heavy my eyelids now seemed. How nice it would be to close them – just for a moment. I wouldn’t lock the door, though. Just in case. Sleep fell hard on me, this I knew. No, I would leave it unlocked so Allison could get back in. “Yes, just in case…”

The sweet sensation of sleep was interrupted by the abrupt opening of my car door and the sound of hurried voices. Not Allison’s somewhat high, nasal voice like I would have expected, but the deeper, hushed sound of men’s voices. Drowsy and confused, I squinted up to see a couple guys standing above me. Before I could respond, one roughly pushed me over into the passenger seat and quickly slipped behind the wheel while another jumped into the back. Doors slammed, the engine came to life and we were gone in a moment. Something felt disjointed; wrong. But my mind was too fuzzy to identify what it was. 

Recognition came as my brain fired through the haze. “The bathroom. The coke. The guys from last night.” “Yes, I remember them.” That brought relief. “We must be meeting Allison somewhere,” I concluded before yielding again to the drugged exhaustion. Unsettled sleep wove itself between thickly fogged wakefulness, one barely discernible from the other, forming a dreamlike tapestry of jumbled colors and pictures. On we drove like this, in and out, light and shadows, for so long it seemed. But where were we going?

The car stopped, startling me with its searing silence. I sat up, suddenly sober, and looked out the window. Another parking lot, this one smaller, off a busy road, I thought. Was it a motel? Yes. But not one that looked familiar. I was ushered out of my car, escorted up a set of stairs into a room; an abandoned room, it seemed. Things were out of place, the toilet torn from the floor. I was set on the bed, not roughly, and offered another line of coke. Oh God, yes. The familiar warmth returned, chasing away the reality that was starting to settle in.

The third guy entered the room, having driven a separate car. It was the smart one, I think; the leader of this unlikely trio who had apparently followed us to the record store and taken me to wherever it was we now were. When the big one tried to get frisky with me, I swatted him away like I would any other guy with an unwelcome advance. This was not the time and I was definitely not in the mood. He took the hint and backed off. More lines of coke were offered and voraciously received. Time passed. Was it hours? I don’t know. 

There were some hushed discussions before the smart one left. My insides were getting restless. I was over the drugs. Over the experience. The hotel room. These guys. I wanted to be done now. But as the fog lifted, I was jolted into a sober awareness of my very vulnerable position. Allison wasn’t meeting us here. These guys had kidnapped me. I had no idea where I was. And neither did anyone else. 

“I need air,” I panted. “The balcony. I need to go outside.” A feigned panic attack – or was it real? After a moment’s hesitation, wishing I’m sure that his leader was there, the big one said “okay” and opened the slider, lurking just inside as he let me out. I drew in a deep breath – of fresh air and car fumes – that felt years in coming. I couldn’t go back into that room. The truth of that fact pulsed through me with every growing surge of adrenaline. It was time to get the hell out of here. And fast. Without time to plan the details, I flung my body over the rail. There were no stairs, but protruding objects – columns or a planter? – that kept me from falling too far or too hard. My feet touched ground. It felt like freedom. But it didn’t count yet. It wouldn’t go unchallenged. My car was gone. So I ran. Faster than I’ve ever run. Like my life depended on it. 

The sidewalk that caught each footfall was going opposite traffic which was fortunate because not long into my race, I saw a small blue car carrying my captors. It drove along the other side of the boulevard, watching me keenly, following at my pace. I scrambled over fences, behind dumpsters, trying to keep unseen but in motion; an animal of prey frantically trying to escape a pursuing predator. My heart beat wildly. Finally, with my legs and lungs on fire, hope appeared ahead in the shape of a gas station. I would have to risk crossing the street, to their side of the road. But I had no other choice. 

My last bit of adrenaline shot me across traffic into the parking lot, an Arco I think, where I gasped for air and let my tears freely flow. The blue car appeared just a moment later, but passed by with distinct frustration; deterred from pulling in, I’m guessing, by the inhabited police car that just happened to be sitting there. Relief. Exhaustion. 

The policeman looked at me, concerned, and asked, “Are you okay?” “Yes. I’m fine,” I replied as I walked away. It didn’t dawn on me to share my story, so full of my own wrongs, to report the abduction or ask him for help. I had no car, no purse, no money. I just wanted to be home. So I walked over to the pay phone and called my roommate collect, pleading for an answer. The ringing stopped almost immediately as Allison shouted into the phone, “Kara! Kara! Where are you???” “Arco. On Van Nuys Boulevard, I think. They have my car. I can’t get home. Please come get me.” She would come right away, she said. I needed to stay put.

I wandered over to the side of the gas station, unloading a flood of emotion, when a redneck sort of guy in a white t-shirt and an old blue pickup opened his window and kindly asked if I was okay. “No, I’m not,” I replied as I poured out the whole tumultuous story before him. “Do you want a line of speed?,” he queried. As if I were completely incapable of learning from my mistakes, I responded with a very relieved, “Yes. Thank you.” So I sat in the passenger seat of this stranger’s truck and did a line of speed on his dashboard. He offered to go to the motel and get my car back. It didn’t seem likely but it was a generous gesture, deeply appreciated in the moment, so I left him with my parents’ phone number and my genuine gratitude for the listening ear – and the speed – before saying goodbye.

Not too much later, my roommate arrived with emotional fanfare. She’d seen them drive off with me, she said, and had no idea where I’d been all this time. My parents had called, right after she’d gotten a ride home, wanting to talk to me. “They took her!,” she blurted out. She was worried for them; worried for me. She called the police but felt impotent to help. Her relief at seeing me was possibly even greater than mine. 

The news team had come too, interviewing me right there in the gas station parking lot, preserving my identity by facing me away from the camera and calling me “Linda.” I’m pretty sure the whole interview was completely incoherent, but they played at least part of it. I saw it that night on the 6:00 news, from the safety of my apartment after what, in the end, was just another day in the life.

I’d like to say that the experience was potent enough to change my course of recklessness, but it wasn’t. I’d always been stubborn; strong-willed. It would take time yet. More hard things. A near-fatal overdose on heroin just a week later. A very rough marriage a year later. And countless other precarious situations along the way. But I would come to value my life; to treasure and inhabit it instead of trying to escape or destroy it. I would become a mom and my whole world would change. I would start making wise choices and surrounding myself with truth and goodness. The drugs would fall away, unwanted and unneeded. I would marry a kind man; a loving man. My life would become beyond beautiful.

I am so grateful to the God who spared my life, probably more times than I know, so this would be nothing more than an insignificant side note in my history. My dad said that after they learned I was missing that day, he got a mental image while praying for me. It was of God’s hand reaching into a giant bowl of prayers that had been sent up on my behalf, over many years I imagine, grabbing some to cover me and keep me safe once again. I would be okay, he knew then, and I would come to know that too. I am more than okay and, yes, so very grateful.

Ps. Do you remember the kind guy in the blue pickup? Well, he went back to the motel room I described – with a lead pipe, he said – and got my car back, delivering it to my parents’ home and receiving a small reward. Because sometimes God can use even our outright foolish decisions for good. 

Posted by: karanoel | March 19, 2020

Finding joy in the funk

You guys, how crazy is life right now?! My feelings during this pandemic have been all over the place, like a fish flopping around on the dock, trying to find my comfort zone  and breathe deeply again. An initial vague awareness of the disruption – a novel corona virus – turned into legitimate research to determine whether or not to cancel our trip to visit our sweet, high-risk Grammie. The mixed-information overload that followed stirred confusion and anxiety, which then morphed into fearless joy through prayer (when I remembered that anxiety is the result of trying to control what’s beyond my paygrade). In the end, wisdom, not fear, dictated the cancellation of our trip and I felt like I was back to normal, happy me. Phew! 

So we bought a little extra food and settled in as the silver-lining part of myself anticipated school closures like it was a global snow day, providing us time to play with all our friends. Until growing restrictions – and the wisdom of flattening the curve – said differently. And more people were getting sick. And dying. And companies, including my husband’s, were taking major hits. And there was hardly anything left on store shelves. On top of all that, Chase and I had been non-pandemic-sick for what seemed like forever. Would we ever get better? And why wouldn’t the forecast stop with all this freaking rain??? We live in Southern California for heaven’s sake! Could it get any more oppressive?

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local store

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my backyard

In the midst of the chaos, news and restrictions, it was hard not to notice all the beauty taking place. My neighborhood rallied to cover needs and extend community to each other, from six feet away, with a big heart and a sense of oneness. I gleefully read of money being raised for those whose workplaces had been closed down; of people in Italy singing from their balconies; of friends or even strangers offering to run errands for more vulnerable populations; of families spending unprecedented time together with no clock to race against. Light shines brightest in the darkness, doesn’t it?

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my amazing neighbors

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play doh playtime with my boy

Even so, a slight funk settled over me. I didn’t curl up in bed with the shades down or anything, but I was having trouble feeling settled in the upheaval, with my rhythm knocked off and the limitations of favorite indulgences (like, ironically, alone time). Life returning to normal would bring relief (and, believe me, I would welcome it!), but I know it’s not what I actually need. As said by Sam Storm, “Joy is not necessarily the absence of suffering. It is the presence of God.” Yep, it’s the presence of God I need. That’s where the unfailing joy is… always. And, honestly, there’s no better way to realize this than through difficult times, uncertainty, upheavals, suffering.

I don’t need to look beyond my own life for proof. This year has brought an overwhelming sense of joy. I can hardly contain it sometimes. It’s also brought the new and thrilling freedom of finally appreciating who God made me to be and of wanting to whole-heartedly engage in this beautiful life I’ve been given. I’ve told John, “It feels like my life is just beginning!” This really makes no sense in light of losing my son. You’d think I’d just have to grind it out for the rest of my years. But here is the truth. This joy and freedom has not come in spite of my suffering, but because of it. Why? Because the immense pain revealed my desperate and immediate need for the Lord. I couldn’t survive without Him. This I knew. And I don’t just mean a sweet little moment with Him to start my day, but for His presence to dwell in me, every moment, to overwhelm the hurt and bring comfort; to wrap me up in love and speak the truth I thirsted for. It required an intimate relationship of invitation and trust. I did it for survival. Joy just happened to be the ridiculously enjoyable, life-changing byproduct. 

While these current circumstances look insignificant in comparison, I’m finding myself thirsty for His presence. So I cried out to Him yesterday to enter into my funk with me. I blared worship music in the car, singing along off key, with a voice still husky and crackling from my cold. And do you know what? My heart was already lighter this morning. So I will keep on seeking His presence, His heart and His purposes for this season. I’m guessing that the seeds planted as He responds to this invitation (as He always does with all His people) are going to further establish my joy, completely independent of the fickle beast of circumstances, and produce the most beautiful, life-changing things on the other side. 

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If you have felt the weight of these current times too, would you join me in seeking Him?

Posted by: karanoel | March 11, 2020

The infamous craigslist puppy purchase

In light of my recent post about waiting for our potential puppy, as well as another about trying to satisfy a need with an ill-fitting solution, I’d like to share a story from a handful of years ago…

Chase had turned three a couple months before and I’d been in baby craving mode for a while. The problem was that we had already decided against having more (biological) babies and sealed it with surgery. It didn’t seem like the biggest deal at the time because we were most certainly going to adopt. But that plan had gone sideways and I was left with a craving I couldn’t satisfy.

Meanwhile, my mother-in-law who had lost her husband of nearly 50 years, very understandably decided to get a dog as a companion. I’m not exactly sure of my logic, especially since she lives across the country, but I appointed myself as her personal puppy finder. One day, during one of my internet searches, I came across a listing on Craigslist with a photo of some seriously cute puppies. It didn’t include much information like, say, what breed they were, which would determine their temperament, size, lifespan and other superfluous knowledge. But it did say that they were 8 weeks old, only $70 and available immediately. Only a 20 minute drive on that very day and I could be cradling one of these little fluffballs like my own newborn babe? It was all I needed to know. Oh, my mother-in-law? She could find her own dog.

I texted John a link to the listing with the question, “I shouldn’t go see these, right?” John, who was still under the impression that I was an actual grownup with fully developed judgment and self-control, responded, “Sure, go see them but then let’s talk.” Knowing about myself what John didn’t yet, I invited my cousin along, believing this would help prevent an impulsive decision, which I may have been known to make on occasion. “What incredibly mature planning,” I thought. “I really should give myself more credit.” Except that my cousin got delayed at a Bible study and didn’t return in time to make it for what was, in hindsight, probably a very flexible appointment time. Still, I think we can all agree that what follows is probably her fault for being so spiritual.

With only my toddler in tow, I pulled up to a small house on a modest street in Garden Grove and was greeted by a kind Vietnamese couple who spoke very little English and were unable to answer my questions. They did grasp my request to see the mama dog as evidenced by the appearance of a scruffy looking beast with a hand tightly wrapped around her collar, but my attempts to draw near to pet her were strongly rebuked. So all that was left to do was to avert my eyes from all the red flags waving wildly before me and sit on the concrete in front of the house, snuggling the soft, sweet little creatures of questionable origin. 

Although John’s memory omits the call I made while petting the puppies, I’m pretty sure it actually happened. But with no new information, all I could say was that they were really cute.  “Okay,” he reiterated, “we can talk about it.” By that, I think he meant later. You know, me walking away empty handed, like a responsible adult, and making an informed decision in partnership with my husband and, I don’t know, maybe some facts. But it couldn’t be done. There was no way. The empty spot in my heart had to be filled. That very day. I just couldn’t bear it otherwise.

A few minutes later, John received a photo by text. Of a puppy. On my lap. In my car. Where I was sitting with the tiny two-toned creature and a deep sense of regret. Instead of going home, which seemed like it would sigal acceptance of a really poor decision, I went to see my cousin who had since returned from Bible study. Sitting in the wicker chairs of her kitchen, stewing in the juices of my own foolishness, a lightbulb moment occurred. I could just take the thing back and erase all evidence, just like the impulsively purchased decor I regularly return to TJ Maxx. With a wave of relief, I texted the seller that my landlord said no to a dog; I had to bring it back. In reality, I hadn’t even asked my landlord. Shame on me for that and for lying. But desperate times call for desperate measures. The seller – understandably – didn’t respond.

So eventually I had to go home and, as they say, face the music. Can I just applaud my husband here? After his initial confusion of who this dog was actually purchased for, seeing as though I was technically shopping for his mom, he settled fairly easily into the new reality of the Lukers as puppy owners. Confusion arose, though, as to my unhappiness. “You wanted a dog and now you have one.” He’s very logical that way. But the truth is that I wanted a baby and now I had a dog. One that I’d committed to for 15 years (or however long cute, breedless dogs birthed by scraggly beasts live). 

Darkness fell as my denial raged. John finally convinced me of the need to purchase some basic supplies for this creature: Our dog. Which I reluctantly did, before putting the nameless thing to bed in a crate outside our bedroom. My sleeplessness that night was a result, not primarily of the constant whines emitted by the lonely animal, but of regret. One piece of knowledge rang through the circus in my head… instead of waiting on the Lord to meet my needs or direct my actions, I had taken it upon myself and botched the whole thing. Gosh darnit. 

The sun rose, finally, and I called every friend who might possibly want this delightful little nugget as their forever dog. To no avail. I then texted the seller again, with no response. Resignation began to settle in my soul, until the middle of a phone conversation with my mom when a thrilling thought emerged: “I know where he lives!” After hatching a simple scheme, my mom showed up at my house and we grabbed the clueless pup, latched Chase into his car seat and headed off toward Garden Grove. My mother-in-law, having been informed of the whole wacky thing, just happened to call as we set off. She tried to talk, but all I remember is her laughter tumbling out of my car speakers; every attempt at speech collapsing, over and over again, like waves breaking into the rolling whitewash of uncontrollable laughter. Our efforts to make the situation appear less absurd than it actually was drew only greater waves and whitewash that went on for miles. It was the perfect soundtrack to our Lucille Ball-esque performance.

We arrived at the humble home just as the seller pulled his minivan into the driveway. This was our chance. My heart raced as I grabbed the puppy from the backseat, giving Chase no time to say goodbye, gripped it like a football and ran like my life depended on it. I nearly tackled the slight man, who was now walking the short distance to his door, thrusting the puppy at him, breathlessly explaining that I couldn’t keep it. “You ask friend,” he suggested. “I already asked my friends. I’m sorry. I can’t keep it.” There was a moment of stillness. “I don’t need my money back,” I said. His demeanor changed. With a nod of acquiescence, he reached out his arms and collected his goods. What he did after that, I’ll never know, because I hopped into my car quicker than a bank robber and zipped away, probably shouting, “Freeeeeeeedom!!!”

Chase has no memory of our 24 hour, $70 dog rental. It was a pretty good deal if you ask me. The only evidence that remains are a few adorable photos and the story itself, which I will never live down. The experience has, I believe, spared me from a good many impulsive decisions, providing a haunting, ghost-like voice in crucial moments: “Remember the doooog… remember the dooooog…”

That was my last experience with a puppy. Makes you rethink my qualifications for the one we’re getting this summer, doesn’t it? Me too 🙂 

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Posted by: karanoel | March 5, 2020

Waiting

Is it cheating if I using assignments from my writing workshop as blog posts?? I didn’t follow the instructions anyway, since it was supposed to be a short 1-2 paragraph story about a photo. Oops. Got a little carried away. Anyway, here it is…

Celeste

Celeste, the sheepdog

A litter of puppies is growing in the belly of this dog, one of which will become part of our family. After years of waiting for the right time and months of research, we gave a deposit to a breeder in the hope of a future litter, waiting on something we couldn’t control. With excitement, we learned of this future mama’s successful pregnancy and now have a timeline. But it is early and there is still much waiting to be done… several weeks until she gives birth, several more until we know which one will be ours and more time yet until we bring him home. 

For an instant gratification girl living in an instant gratification world, waiting has never been something I’ve valued and certainly not enjoyed. But I’m learning the richness of anticipation and the satisfaction that comes as a result. A hunger quickly sated with something easy is never savored in the same way as one that has been made to wait while teased with the hissing of onions in the pan; the intoxicating fragrances of meat bathing in its juices, escaping from the oven, taunting the senses; the sound of knives in their rhythm of chopping, of pots and pans clanging, of plates knocking against each other as they are pulled from the cupboard. It is through this time of expectant waiting that desire becomes ready to be deeply satisfied.

It is with this expectancy, having done all I can to prepare for our puppy, that I wait. Just as I did for 16 years before an incredible man arrived on my scene, and as I did for a year before our wedding date. Just as I did during nine months of my two pregnancies, desperately wanting to hold and know my babies right away, but watching my love and desire grow bigger than my belly until my waiting was rewarded with their warm, wiggling bodies in my arms and their sweet, goat-like cries in my ears. It is with this same expectancy that I wait to see my older son again, wanting so much to be with him now; to hold him here. But there is something growing in the anticipation, as love rumbles with hungry desire and sweet memories tease my senses, that will make our reunion in heaven more richly satisfying than any we could have had more immediately here. So I will embrace this time between, trusting in its value, waiting in expectancy for its fulfillment, when I hold my boy again. This time, I don’t anticipate infant cries from a wiggling body, but contagious laughter from his gentle presence as those smiling eyes light up the sky. It will be so worth the wait as my desire is overwhelmingly satisfied.

Posted by: karanoel | March 3, 2020

A goodbye

I’m taking a memoir writing workshop at a local library and was given the homework of writing a single page about a time I said goodbye to someone (or something). I’m not sure if this is my final version, but it’s probably pretty close. The nerve wracking part is that, though not required, we are asked to read our writing aloud to the rest of the class. So I’m practicing with you, my safe people, and including an audio of the post in case you want to listen instead of read. As always, thanks for reading! (Or listening!)

You were never my friend. In the true sense, anyway. Someone who had my back, who would sacrifice for my good. So why was it so hard to say goodbye?

We’d done life together for so long, I couldn’t remember a time we hadn’t been connected at the hip; bonded like kindred spirits; inseparable, really. I relied on your perspective and believed the way you framed each situation. You had my best at heart, you said, sparing me the humiliation of being myself: uncovered, unedited, unwanted. That would never do. Because I wasn’t enough and I never would be. It wasn’t a judgment; just a fact. You were simply keeping me from further failure; public failure. 

Your misguided wisdom nearly cost me my life, you know. Did you even once lift a finger to ease my pain? Did you comfort me in my blackest moments of torment and fear? You didn’t even care about the overdose, did you? No, you made me think it would have been better if I had died. Self-hatred: Saying goodbye to you was the best thing I ever did. 

Oh yes, it was tenuous at first. I felt hollow without you; untethered; without identity. I’d often let you right back in when you came around hoping to regain my trust, detailing my every offense so I could intimately feel the shame and once again lean into you. It was convincing, no doubt. Far more than the feeble evidence I’d gathered in my defense; a single truth that I feared would collapse beneath the weight of my guilt. But that truth, a new friend, proved itself stronger than even the most virulent accusations you could bring against me. 

It was love. Redemptive love. A friend that covered my failures instead of exposing them. Not looking down on me from the edge of my pit, shaming me for being there without lending a hand to help, but entering in with me, filling the cold, lonely places with the warm breath of compassion, with the quiet voice of hope. Imparting truth that at first I didn’t believe; I couldn’t believe. I am loved. I belong. I have purpose. But as I was led, hand in hand, through the tormented darkness into the freedom of light, my heart came to know His truth; found rest in this redeemed identity I could only once have dreamed of. Not because I’d gotten it right, like you said I had to, but because the failures you’d used to condemn me were transformed into things of life and beauty, like a phoenix from the ashes, settling once and for all the case for my shame; rendering all evidence irrelevant. And now I know that there is no depth of pain or shame that He is not willing to go deeper yet, to lay His life down to lead me out. Who could stand in the presence of this Love, at once so gentle and so powerful, and not be changed? And not bid farewell to anything less? Not I.

Of course you still swing by, trying to garner an invitation back into my home, or stand by my open window, calling; hoping that I’ll listen, if only for a moment, and be lured back. But it’s not gonna happen. Because you’re not my friend and you never were. I can see that clearly now.

Self-hatred, I’m glad I said goodbye. Can’t say I’m gonna miss you.

See ya

Posted by: karanoel | February 25, 2020

Origami & the Holy Spirit

Last week, John brought a hand-me-down origami kit home from work. It had been opened but apart from a few strategically creased squares of specialty paper from an abandoned project, it looked pretty much untouched. Chase was thrilled by all the possibilities presented in the kit… fanciful animals, colorful flowers, geometric shapes. And despite my general ineptitude at following instructions, so was I. 

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We flipped to the dolphin page – a good place to start, we figured – and picked a blue square of paper that looked like water swirled with reflected light. Beginning with step one, we followed the instructions, carefully folding, creasing well, unfolding, flipping over, lining up corners and the like. We did smashingly well…. for a whole 3 steps or so. And then it just didn’t make sense anymore. The words were in English and there was even a picture to accompany them, but I just couldn’t make the paper do what it was supposed to. So, drawing upon my resourceful nature, I came up with a brilliant idea. I would simply ignore the gibberish disguised as instructions and focus instead on the picture, doing my best to make our shape resemble it. This felt like divine inspiration… until step 4, which could not be accomplished after the improvised methods I’d devised for step 3. Apparently origami has a specific order to things, like baking. This is why I don’t bake.

Fortunately, John was on hand. He is the logical half of our partnership, capable of heroic tasks like managing multi-million dollar projects and putting together Ikea furniture. With his linear thinking abilities and perseverance, I was sure we would be well on our way to paper dolphin glory. But after reading and rereading the instructions, then unfolding everything and starting from scratch, even he was stumped.

After realizing that we may have chosen a particularly hard one, I picked another and launched into it with the same wholehearted vigor. This time, the fourth step was my undoing. It was something about swinging the bottom point on the underside of the figure up, rotating it 90 degrees to the left and folding the figure in half by bringing the bottom section up behind the figure. Is this even English? The picture that went along with this collection of words was equally incoherent. No wonder this failure-inducing craft had been rejected by John’s workplace.

Chase and John moved onto more fruitful tasks and I was about to retire our newfound hobby, but I was really bummed about it, having really wanting to successfully create at least one of the beautiful origami shapes pictured in the book. Then I remembered the included DVD that initially seemed like an unnecessary hassle. I grabbed it and sat on the guest room floor with a small piece of specialty paper, determination and remote in hand. The same instructions were given, except this time instead of being accompanied by a 2D drawing with dotted lines and confusing arrows, there was an actual person leading me through each step, bringing them to life – showing me how to do it. Such a simple process, it was hard to imagine how daunting it had once seemed. Just a few minutes later, I was living and breathing paper dolphin glory. You would have thought I had invented a life-saving device by my enthusiastic cheers as I ran to show Chase and John. Chase quickly joined me (and the DVD) to make the butterfly. I don’t mean to brag, but it is beautiful. The sea turtle is up next and I’m pretty confident, with our new resource in hand, we can make it happen.

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The Lord showed me something through this. His Word paints a picture of His beautiful heart and all the ways our lives can be shaped by it. We are eager to see this transformation, so we do our best to follow His instructions to accomplish it. But at times, what we see in our lives doesn’t line up with what we see in the “manual.” Things just don’t make sense. We get tangled up and confused or discouraged and frustrated. Maybe we keep repeating the same thing – folding, unfolding, starting over – hoping the results will be different. Or maybe we pick a different area of our lives to work on, only to run into the same problems. If we don’t give up, we might be tempted to improvise the steps we don’t grasp, trying to bend, fold and crease ourselves into appearing like we are loving or joyful or free and hope it’s enough to carry us to the next step. But like I experienced, it won’t be. Because God has so much more: The glory of who we were meant to be. This requires one step built upon another, ordered according to His perfect wisdom.

So how do we bridge this gap between God’s vision of us laid out in the Bible and our inability to get there? It is through the Holy Spirit, the “Helper” Jesus sent. Jesus actually said it was better that He left so the Holy Spirit could come. Why? Because the Holy Spirit would be the indwelling presence of God in us, illuminating His instructions, one by one, until we are formed into the very shape we have yearned to be. He doesn’t lead impersonally like my origami DVD – a one-size-fits-all approach – but by entering our tangled mess with us and with an intimate awareness of where our structure stands strong and where it has been improvised or compromised. We don’t need to worry about figuring out those details though because He will lead us; we only need to trust and follow. We will find that what seemed so daunting, complicated or downright impossible becomes as simple and joyful as sheep following a shepherd. We will want to jump in again and again, partnering with Him in this miraculous shaping of our lives, trusting that He will never leave our side until we are walking in the full glory of what we were created for. 

But the Helper, the Holy Spirit, whom the Father will send in my name, he will teach you all things and bring to your remembrance all that I have said to you. John 14:6

Now the Lord is the Spirit, and where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom. 2 Corinthians 3:17

My sheep listen to my voice; I know them, and they follow me. John 10:27

 

Posted by: karanoel | February 15, 2020

Oh to be satisfied

When I was in my 20’s, I had the privilege of spending six months in Central and South America with a group called Youth With a Mission. I toted along my then-four-year-old son, Cole, and lived, learned and served with a group of other young folks from several different states and countries. Rita, who hailed from Colorado and was the only other mom in the group (one brave enough to bring a toddler and three-month-old on our adventure), quickly became a close and lasting friend. Her humor entertained me nonstop and her loyalty made me feel secure. [Except, perhaps, for the night she pushed me toward the alligator lurking on the swampy hotel grounds to save herself. Fortunately it turned out to be a statue, but I made a mental note to avoid wild animals in her company – or to be quicker on the draw, and no damage was done to the friendship.]

One day, when I verbalized an intense craving for fruit, it became clear how well Rita had come to know me. She looked me in the eyes and said “Kara, you’re thirsty. Drink some water.” Apparently, I had regularly tried to quench my thirst by eating fruit. Probably because I like to eat. It’s more fun than drinking. And also probably because my body and I have always had issues communicating with each other, making it extremely difficult for me to identify actual needs and offer relevant solutions. We are still working out the kinks. Anyway, Rita perceived what I couldn’t. Per her suggestion, I drank and was satisfied…. far more than I would have been with the moisture squeezed out of some cantaloupe.

waterIn addition to the misunderstandings I’ve had with my body, I have also been known to misinterpret emotional needs as physical ones. This explains my misguided choices to put things in my body – food, alcohol, drugs, caffeine, etc. – to make myself feel better… without much success, as you might imagine, because emotional needs cannot be met with physical solutions. I’ve had similar results with my attempts to control or distract my way into feeling better, once again misunderstanding what would meet the actual need.

With the Holy Spirit acting as my Rita, I have been getting better at identifying and addressing these things. I am trying to make sure my body has food when it’s hungry and water when it’s thirsty (Rita would be so proud!). I have been earnestly acknowledging my emotions, bringing them to the Lord and trusted friends, getting feedback and prayer as needed. I’ve even scheduled a counseling appointment to make sure that this process is moving forward in a healthy way. And since the soul is comprised of the mind and will in addition to emotions, I have been continuing to take thoughts captive that don’t line up with what God says is true and to humble myself before Him by yielding my (very strong) will.

And yet, I’ve been hungry lately. A restless, insatiable kind of hunger that is not responding to the physical or soul-related solutions I’ve proffered. This is, I believe, because it’s a spiritual need; one that can only be satisfied with a spiritual solution. I got a clue to this in a book called Becoming Mama, given to me by my dear friend, Sue. The author, Yvrose, ends up finding a very apparent and deep satisfaction in the most unlikely of places (poverty-stricken Haiti) and the most unlikely of roles (as a mom to 30+ adopted children, founder of multiple schools for local children and all-around helper for people in need). The satisfaction came because she sought, found and followed God’s will for her life. It was the only thing that could fulfill her spiritual hunger… a hunger that trumped all others.

When the disciples tried to give a hungry, tired Jesus some food, He said “My food is to do what the one who sent me wants me to do and to finish the work he has given me.” That is the kind of food I need right now. I haven’t always felt this hunger or maybe just didn’t recognize it since all my appetites were such a jumble, but it’s now starting to gnaw at my belly. So I’m seeking, knowing that I’ll find God as I do. He promises this. And in finding who He is, I always find more of who I am. Wrapped up in this relational connectedness, driven by need and desire, a “becoming” happens. Abram became Abraham. Jacob became Israel. Simon became Peter. Yvrose became Mama. And from this becoming, born of the Spirit, purpose emerges. Like stirrings of a rumbling tummy that demand to be satisfied, this spiritual hunger will continue until is produces something of eternal value. And I’m pretty sure we can never be fully satisfied until it does.

I’m not talking about searching for significance – yuck to that – or any level of striving. I’m talking about a simple response to spiritual hunger by feeding on spiritual food… spending time with the Lord, talking with Him and hearing His heart, filling up on His truth; letting Him lead us forward. We can thank God for our hunger and thirst because, much like a baby’s cry, they provoke a response to satisfy needs that will cause us to thrive and grow into the fullness of what we’ve been created for. We may worry that He will ask us to do something impossible like move to Haiti and adopt dozens of children or just give up the comfort we are clinging to (is that just me?), but assurance is growing every day that He can and will bridge the gap between our fear and limitations and the amazing plans He has for us. Nothing less will satisfy because it’s what we were made for.

So I’m pressing in and joining the many who have gone before me. If you’re not already on this journey, I warmly invite you to come. Let’s feast together on His goodness and “do the good works which God prepared in advance for us to do.” (Eph 2:10)

A couple questions to leave with you: Has there been any confusion in the way you are identifying or addressing your needs? Is it possible that a hunger you haven’t been able to satisfy is a spiritual need gnawing inside, beckoning you to come and feast?

Food

Come, all you who are thirsty,
come to the waters;
and you who have no money,
come, buy and eat!
Come, buy wine and milk
without money and without cost.
Why spend money on what is not bread,
and your labor on what does not satisfy?
Listen, listen to me, and eat what is good,
and you will delight in the richest of fare.
Give ear and come to me;
listen, that you may live. Isaiah 55:1-3

If anyone thirsts, let him come to Me and drink. He who believes into Me, as the Scripture said, out of his innermost being shall flow rivers of living water. John 7:37

Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you. For everyone who asks receives; he who seeks finds; and to him who knocks, the door will be opened. John 7:7-8

Posted by: karanoel | February 6, 2020

What is in your hand?

MosesFor the past month or so, I’ve had 5 words stuck in my head. They are from a conversation in Exodus after God has revealed Himself to Moses through the burning bush and is explaining how He will use this Israelite-baby-turned-Egyptian-prince-turned-Midianite-shepherd to free the suffering Israelites from bondage to the Egyptians. There’s a bit of back and forth between the two, with Moses asking very reasonable questions like, “Who am I that I should do this thing?” God seems more interested in repeating who He is and emphasizing that He will be with Moses, rather than listing any particular qualifications His very insecure human friend may possess.

When they get to the part where Moses asks God what to do if the Israelites don’t believe He was sent by God, he gets this response… the one that has been echoing in my mind… “What is in your hand?” As you probably know, it’s nothing impressive like a magic wand or even courage. It’s an ordinary shepherd’s staff. Under normal circumstances, that is. But under God’s power, it becomes a snake that serves as a sign that Moses has indeed been with God.

God provides a few other signs to use, but Moses is not convinced. He has some serious concerns because of a deficiency in his ability to communicate, by which he thoroughly disqualifies himself and pleads with God to choose someone else. God immediately re-qualifies him with this rather strong response,  “Who gave human beings their mouths? Who makes them deaf or mute? Who gives them sight or makes them blind? Is it not I, the Lord? Now go; I will help you speak and will teach you what to say.” But Moses will not have it, so his brother Aaron is sent to accompany him as a mouthpiece.

There are so many things going on here I would love to chat about, like what would have happened if Moses had trusted God to help him speak? But let’s just leave that part of the conversation with my immense gratitude for a God who understands our fear and our weakness, and will use us in whatever capacity we are willing. Which leads me right back to those 5 words: What is in your hand?

I was on a hike this morning thinking about that question. My heart has been tender to the touch lately, hurting over Cole, so I said, “Grief is in my hand.” “I can use that,” was His quick response. And I sensed deeply that it would have been the same with any answer I gave:

“A love of writing is in my hand.”
“I can use that.”
“Fear is in my hand.”
“I can use that.”
“A desire for community is in my hand.”
“I can use that.”
“Passion is in my hand.”
“I can use that.”

I think that we tend to qualify – or disqualify – ourselves for God’s use, just as Moses did, based on how we see ourselves and what we hold in our mortal hands. And I think we tend to believe that He can only use the parts of our lives we consider to be assets. But God doesn’t see it that way. He’s not looking through our self-assessment filter and He’s not interested in combing through a list of our qualifications. He sees who He is. He says that He will be with us. He knows that whatever is in our hands will be transformed for His glory; that these ordinary lives will be used for His perfect purposes… if we will entrust them to Him who is able. It will be the proof that we have been with Him, that we have been sent by Him, that we are His. So I will leave you with this question: What is in your hand? 

When they saw the courage of Peter and John and realized that they were unschooled, ordinary men, they were astonished and they took note that these men had been with Jesus. Acts 4:13

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