Author: gabrielereplogle Page 2 of 4

Like a large log pulled from a raging brush pile, I felt my faith fall from the fire.  A fire that I no longer wanted to be a part of.  One that seemed bent on spreading like the wind and wreaking havoc on the world around it, rather than its intended purpose of life giving warmth, hope and security.  My fire was hot and for a while, my embers glowed and burned, but alone in a damp cold world there was seemingly no way to keep them lit. My deep blue flame and hot orange flickers slowly cooled to a glowing red ember, and white ash.  Charred from my time in the fire.  I was spent.  Used and seemingly unuseful.  I could no longer light or produce flame.  

I lay there disheartened. Cold. Forgetting for a while what my purpose was.  Confused, perhaps I was never intended to burn anyway.  Perhaps the fire was no place for a log like me.  And yet, I wanted to burn, I longed for the flame, but I was wary of contributing to a fire that was more destruction than in granting life.  I wanted to be a lit with possibilities for a future, a flame where those who found themselves near it were welcomed, invited to take shelter from the harshness of the world.  Perhaps a fire to use it for cooking sustenance to carry on their rambling journey.  Or maybe just to enjoy it for its inherent beauty and warmth.  To sit. To ponder. To watch and just be.

Yet my log, now alone,  was too large, too strong, too forceful to be reckoned with.  I was not a twig for the flame, but a thick trunk to be used for the long burn.  The wind was still howling or not present at all, providing no hope to light again. The dampness of the earth provided no hope for kindle and I had no desire to roll back to the raging fire I had fallen from. 

My only hope was to start again. Somehow on my own now, with the skills I knew of what was needed for a flame.  And so I began the arduous task of chopping my log into pieces. Dissecting it into sizes that could catch spark.  Painful, but necessary if I wanted to burn again.  I had to deconstruct to be made to burn. Finding kindling to add hidden in unusual places, where I hadn’t looked before.  I would never again be what I was, but I had the potential to be what I wanted to be.  

I was no longer engulfed with smoke and overcome with the cackling roar of an uncontrolled blaze that was almost unaware of it’s destruction and oblivious to the cloud of ash in it’s wake.  I dared to be a light, a place of warmth.  A spot where one could rest, and find solace and cheer amidst the storms of life.  A place where others could also be lit without being burned by an uncontrolled rage.  A fire where there was space to gather around and find fellow friends.  A fire that beckoned one to  sit, to gaze into the flame in wonder, or a spot to stargaze and hear the night groans of the forest.  A fire for all.

Oh, I forgot,

I am only supposed to love a neighbor who looks like me,

and a foreigner with the same theology,

and only those with power who can favor me,

and screw the sick with their infirmities,

and love the money and not those who labor for me,

and scream for liberty and condone shooting sprees,

and chant to lock up those who disagree with me,

and snuff out lives of black and brown bodies

and lock children in cages to separate families,

and spread lies and mistrust on life-saving vaccines,

and spread my virus freely with all the songs I sing,

and deny entrance of those who look different based on my comfortability,

and protect at all costs the patriarchy,

I’m sorry, I forgot, please forgive me.

I forgot this “real” version of Christianity,

Power, fear of strangers, guns and blasphemy.

I never feel ready to make New Year’s resolutions on Jan 1st.  Somehow the week between Christmas and the turning of a calendar doesn’t seem to be enough time to evaluate and create actual goals for a whole other year.  The non-stop insanity of costuming, creativity and curating of holidays that start at the end of October, with additional demands on parenting that only stops at the end of December, leave very little brain space left for making a path forward.  My sugar comma from the holidays is barely lifted and sure, I could promise I’d lose those pandemic/holiday pounds, but should I?  They seem perfectly content with being my companion for my book reading, instagram scrolling, meal-fixing, laundry-folding, child-tending self. I’m not preparing for the Olympics, people! Do I really need to shame myself for hibernating for the long winter? I’m a mammal doing my thing.  

Sure, I can make some better choices, or try what hibernating animals are doing and actually fast at the end of my feasting (& maybe I will try intermittent fasting, sounds like a blast…don’t eat while sleeping -done!), but let me just encourage you all out there, it’s maybe OK to be OK with where you are.  The just TRY HARDER approach only works for some and for the rest of us it’s just a crock. You can try harder and just be on a spinning wheel.  And sometimes we are trying harder on things that should just be accepted as hard and move on. I have a middle aged body and I will look middle aged. Apart from some miracle skin cream or injecting myself with freezing toxins– my wrinkles will remain and deepen with laughter and grimaces as the years progress.  And yet again in February we are reminded to once again turn the page as the Lunar New Year is celebrated worldwide.  Another gentle nudge of washing up and setting right things for the future, to put on our new clothes to welcome what is to come.

I love the statement I saw online where someone said they don’t try and make their bodies fit clothes, but buy their clothes to fit their bodies. This also isn’t a post shaming those who are trying. Props to those who are trying different things, loving their bodies by tending them, or moving them or giving them different fuel for the fire.  It’s not wrong to have a goal, to set achievable accomplishments and feel good about getting there.  But let’s be kind with ourselves.  The path to happiness may not be pants that are a different size, but may be the little affirmations along the way that we are worth the time to tend to ourselves, worth the time for tasty good for us food, worth the time for playing and doing things that bring us energy and life.

My inability to lose weight while not currently doing any of the things that count as “trying”, may not be a surprise, as apparently just thinking it would be ‘nice’ to lose some pounds doesn’t equate magically waking up to my former 20 year old self. I’m in a debate with myself. Do I set a goal to lose weight and fail, or do I not set a goal and just let time and life take its course? Or, do I set a goal of intentions on how I move and how I do my day and how I feed my body well and let the chips fall where they may?  How do I do a post about weight and being a woman with intentions and not cause a shame filled, guilt trip, or simplistic approach to the gravity of our identities which involves loving & caring for ourselves?

A friend a long time ago said “excuses are like armpits, they all stink.”  But maybe that’s not true.  What if excuses are like armpits and they’re all natural and we shouldn’t be using aluminum deodorant anyway and maybe should just get used to our natural aroma?  Or maybe we need to find natural methods that help us with the root of our problem rather than masking and blocking the right answer for a healthy sweet smelling body? What if the excuse is just a sign that we don’t have the tools we need yet?  What if the excuse is because we are conditioned for a certain outcome that maybe we need a permission slip to just accept?  What if part of the journey is learning what to accept, when to accept it, what to challenge, when to challenge it, what to infuse with our life giving energy and what to release?  And that just can’t be figured out by January 1, but is a lifelong, yearly challenge, a day by day journey, of moments by moments of mysterious moods and mindfulness that get us from who we are now to who we soon will be, whether our pant size changes or not.

Strong, resilient, defiant- our tree next to our house always seems to be the last tree standing clothed.  Others gave up their fancy robes and are now baring their branches to the sky. 

Not our gal, she remains clothed in splendor, unwilling to give up her orange robe–either afraid to shiver longer through the winter months, or protected from the winds that have stripped the other neighborhood trees. She scoffs at the others who have been chastened to move on to the next thing.  She laughs at the days to come. 

The leaves cling to her branches. Browning now. Shriveled. Dejected. Unyielding, they hang on. 

I can’t tell if it’s pure tenacity keeping them attached, or if it’s the deep care and love and nutrients provided for them, that have kept them from their inevitable release.  

For a few brief moments in time leaves clutter the yard filling it with color and texture, begging rakes and leaf jumpers. Inviting play, inviting work.

Wet, sloppy fodder for the master builders of all things winter. Little critters prepare their dens. Little children prepare their piles. Little humans prepare their plan of attack. 

The unfortunate ones who’ve scattered too close to our front have found themselves blown, chopped, mulched and bagged for another foreign land.  They are forced to bring nutrients and life to a place that has never known their beauty. 

Others will remain next to us, until the parks mower man arrives to do it’s best to help them onto their next death, their next life, their next mission, their next meal for the million of a critters who we can’t see beneath our feet– providing all things for us tirelessly and without glory.

She knows it’s coming. The cold. The wind. The bright blue skies more visible through her barren branches.  Blinding sun. Frigid temps. Wet. White. Snow. Providing the best blanket winter can offer to her until the world invites her offerings of green once more. 

She’s been here before.  She’s seen these days come and go.  “‘Tis a season,” they say.  As if a season can’t be long and unrelenting- a million moments in every day, hundreds of hours every week, and weeks that seem to stretch for miles before the promised light at the end of the tunnel arrives. 

She braces for this journey.  Is she ready? It’s lonely but for the few brave souls who have found a home in her branches, thanking her for the gift of safety for the days to come.

She is. It’s time. One. Last. Drop. Welcome Winter.

You come as an inevitable guest. Not always invited, but inescapable, predictable and necessary nonetheless.   She welcomes you- season of hardship, of stark contrasts, of monotones and maker of ear-muff days. 

I welcome you because you too are part of my journey. A companion to my life. An environment for my… good…despite or maybe even in it’s pain.

This fall has been a time of reflection for me.  A chance when life has slowed down enough with more kids in school, and a friend watching my littles once a week, I finally have a little space for myself.  I’m dubbing it my “Sabbatical Year of Self Care.”   While I do have hopes of writing more and getting research done during this time, it’s also a time for me to just focus on my emotional, physical, and spiritual needs rather than looking to constantly caregive for others.  I’ve needed this space and this space needed me- a carved out nook in time and space where I can focus on just being.

It’s been a space for grief.  A space for joy.  A space for wonder. A space for anger. A space for friendship.  A space for others to look after me. 

Fall break last year in 2020 had been such a gift- it was a burning fire of glory in a full on pandemic. The trees had never been so beautiful, all peaking at the same time on my parents farm.  It was nature in a healing way that sometimes only experience outside can provide.  It was connection with my family after isolation and lockdowns. I had just started taking an author class to learn how to try and do this thing called ‘writing’ professionally. It had been a time of hope and dreaming of the future.

This year I was able to go back and enjoy the farm once again.  It was a strange parallel from last year.   This year it was rainy, gloomy, the trees were green and resilient to change due to the warmer summer.  My recollection of starting my author school and commitment to writing left me somewhat discouraged that a whole year had passed and yet still I had nothing ‘major’ accomplished.  My time with family was just as nice and despite the dreary weather the kids had found fun rainy day activities like performing plays in the barn loft and swinging from the rope swing.  And ironically while the year before had been so bright and beautiful the constant sunshine had made it more difficult to capture the beauty of the trees.  It’s the gray skies that allow the richness of colors to pop and come alive to our eyes.

I had to remind myself, that although a year had passed and nothing major to show for it, I had lots of little things to show.  I had rejoined social media and broadened my circles, joining new communities online.  I had deeper friendships with people I had spent time with and reconnected.  I had started reading again, enjoying the words of others.  I had even started a blog and website.  While those weren’t necessarily the accomplishments that felt like a giant pat on the back, it’s a realization that they are the stepping stones that added together are a big deal. The idiom: “Rome wasn’t built in a day”, brings me some solace.

While disappointed that the trees wouldn’t show their vibrancy while I was there, I had to recognize, they too were at the whims of the climate around them.  The warmer summer, the humidity in the air all factoring in.  They are forced to adjust and peak when it is their time, when the environment has assisted in this spectacular task of losing their chlorophyll in preparation for the winter, some producing anthocyanin -red pigment, an antioxidant protecting it for what is to come. (The carotenoid produces the yellow in leaves, anthocyanin and carotenoids- orange, anthocyanin and chlorophyll produce brown.) I’m encouraged, that like scientists who until recently thought there was leaves were merely being unmasked, that now we know anthocyanin is made. A reminder that even in preparation for death there is work to do.

In my life I may not understand why my peak is taking longer and what these deaths are in preparation for, but that doesn’t mean my soil isn’t richer because of it and next year conditions might permit an even fuller display of glory and growth.

I let my just turned nine year old shred some cheese and she took a little chunk out of her finger.  “How’s it going to heal?” she asks me, the one whom the children go to with all their medical questions. “Well,” I reply,” it will heal in time, but that was a ‘good one’ you really got yourself.”  “Why is it worse than a skinned knee?”she ponders. To which I answer,
“Because the cut is deeper, you damaged more layers of skin.”

I’ve had my share of skinned knee disagreements with church, but it feels like the wounds lately have ‘drawn blood’.  The inability of most Midwestern evangelical churches to follow simple health guidelines for the safety of our children and others- the unwillingness to inconvenience those who just don’t want to, or have little concern of safety, or understanding of their individual/communal actions which create a domino effect–is just a wound too deep to brush off.  I don’t want to hear one more time that they ‘care’, their faith without action is dead to me.

I’m tired of it. I’m tired of arguing. I’m tired of speaking to ears who don’t seem to hear.  What other choice do we have other than to pack up, bandage ourselves and let the scar form?

And today I got a call from the Red Cross, they need blood- to save lives- perhaps the very lives of those who are in need of life saving help due to a pandemic.  Patients who are now waiting more hours, some unable to be seen, some who are injured, or in surgery and in need of blood.  And I am asked to give my blood for theirs.  It seems fitting.

For most of my adult life I’ve been unable to give blood, my veins were too small, and then I was pregnant or breastfeeding for the last 10 years.  But not now. Sign me up. Take my blood.  I’m tired of cheap words, “what can I do to help?” MASK. Get vaccinated if you are able. Stop acting as if there isn’t a pandemic.  For me, I can give my actual blood.  In their facility I’ll be around other masked individuals who will take my health seriously and the well being of others as one of their number one priorities.  It might even feel like going to church.

Arguing with a five year old is usually futile.  Trust me.  There is only so much their little brains can handle, and sometimes you just have to shake your head and laugh, and know that one day they will grow up and you won’t have to argue with them anymore (well at least about that thing!).  Yesterday, my child assured me that I was not a woman, I was just a mom.  It was my identity and I couldn’t be both.  For some reason dad could also be ‘a man’, but not me. Just ‘a mom.’ 

For some people maybe that would be enough.  Motherhood subsists as their whole identity.  But I can assure you, there was a time before they were ‘mother’ and I promise, there are things that they can do beyond ‘motherhood.’  It is not my (or their) all encompassing identity.  Of course, for most of us we realize this truth. We find ways to nurture that aspect of our person- finding ways to give, serve, teach, lead, work, etc. apart from our children. And as our children grow, their brains mature, they understand their identities apart from themselves. And yet, in some tangible way until they go through parenting themselves, it is hard for them to understand the innate struggle of roles vs. personhood.

Which brings me to the point.  If God has revealed himself to us as Father, and as we know since God is not male (but spirit and both male and female were created in God’s image) then Father is not the entirety of God’s personhood God is Mother too.  God does things outside of parenting Her children. God is both nurturing and providing in ways that may or may not fit our gender norms that we know in our culture.  But needless to say whether or not we are comfortable calling God “Mother”, we can confidently say God is more than just a Father.  There was a point before anything was created, and God existed.  God probably did things, maybe lots of things, and is likely continuing to do ‘lots of things’ that are lost on our childlike finite brains.  

We truly cannot comprehend all that God is and does, it (as mere ‘children’) is beyond our scope of understanding.  But it does help to admit that we may not be able to fit God neatly in a box.  God is not “Just our Father in Heaven”, and while our relationship with Him (child to parent) is often the most fitting posture we take– God is also so many other things.  The breadth of Scripture is a story of 6,000 years of dealing with God’s children in various forms and stories.  Our understanding of who God is as creator, and artist, as lover, as nurturer, as the one who sees us is all beautiful and the more expansive our understanding the better.  With humility, we should also admit that there is more to God that can be discovered.  There is more to the Divine’s ways that will be made clear. We do God justice by admitting the lack of knowing, the desire to know, and the faith that there is an infinite more to discover.

Ahhhhh, is it time for
Sleepy summer days
Lazy hammock breezy days
          Catching rays and catching waves
          Flying flags and big parades
               Crickets chirp and birds serenade
               Grills are lighted and friendships made

Busy nights, busy days
Busy bees with bills to pay
Holidays and dream vacas
          Boredom, doldrums, lemonade
          TV, TV, DVD me, catching up on all my streaming
               Nothing to do, nothing to say
               This break is too long the parents complain

Busy bees it’s time to rest
Nowhere to go, nothing to do
Hibernate til summer’s through
          Too hot to move, too hot to rest
          Summer summer at its best
               Sipping drinks and garden flowers
               Mowing neighbors wave and talk for hours

Cooler nights and cooler days
Back to school commercials rave
          Get your deals and get them fast
          Summer days won’t always last.
               Frenzied frantic, almost done
               Summer days, and exhausted fun.
               Summer’s here and summer’s gone.

Gabriele Replogle originally posted on Commonway Blog June 29.2019

I know God must also be a woman, because no man would listen to your same problems a hundred times without sending you a not so subtle “how to fix this” billboard after hearing it more than two times.

People warn you, nothing can prepare you for parenting. No book, no manual, no amount of babysitting.  This is because never in a hundred years would you imagine your bedtime routine would be watching your 5 year old son wrestle with the 20 snap buttons on the onesie pajamas (which you had to shop for in the baby department) on his stuffie Pooh-bear and if you touch any part of these pajamas during this exercise all buttons are undone because he can and must “do it himself.”  Bedtimes with children are pure insanity. The child who had no words for you all day, who wanted to never sit for a book, or play a game with you, now has UNTOLD hours to waste.  One more song. One more tuck.  One more stuffie to snuggle. One more drink.  All needs that have been apparently unmet from the day have come like a dump truck and offloaded onto your waning patience.  It is the same child who interrupted your sleep at 3 am, who wanted to sleep at your feet, on your floor, anywhere but his bed, that now feels the pains of ‘lack of parental attention’ at 8pm.And for some reason, at this point of your sleep deprived day, your “cup does not runneth over.”

Children are curious creatures. Stubborn, independent, yet needy and as sweet as soft and moldable as butter on a hot day and I love my little buttercups.  But what’s frustrating is how simple the command to be patient has shamed untold generations of people who have untold problems that are unsolved.  “Love is patient, love is kind.”  What if that passage was more a definitive statement about what love feels like, rather than a command on doing the right thing? I can assure you, I cannot command myself to be more patient.  Have you ever tried this on any human?  “Now be patient. Your time will come!”  As if the mere logic will subdue the anguish of unresolved anticipation!  Of course, it would be absolutely fabulous if my children (or myself) could learn greater patience, but I can assure, it will not be from me quoting a bible verse or shaming them into submission.

Children learn patience, when they know that you see their need and know their need will be met.  They learn patience, when they have trust in you, the provider, the parent to work all things for their good.  They do not learn patience when they feel unheard, unseen and belittled for their true and inner desires.

When wise grandparents assure you that “this too shall pass”, in the end it is never comforting because you are not looking for relief in the future, you are looking for guidance now.  You don’t care that your 13 year old will unlikely try to cut her hair with cat nail clippers. You are concerned that she will do so again at the age of 3 after already mutilating her goldilocks weeks before her preschool photos.  And of course if vanity weren’t your only concern, her lack of remorse or understanding that this isn’t allowed is a bit appalling. Can’t she do “all things through Christ who gives her strength?”  I jest.  

Parenting as they say, “is not for the faint of heart.”  Of course, you know all of this, but for me the reality didn’t set in until I looked in the mirror and my first time pregnant body wasn’t modelesque but looked more akin to batman’s rival “The Penguin ” all tummy and a distinct waddle. And then my water birth plan was thrown out the window.  Apparently, even my 15 years of babysitting and nannying couldn’t prepare my body for the onslaught of high blood pressure and the trauma of birthing a 4 lb baby who needed to be in a NICU for 9 days, and who was nearly impossible to teach how to breastfeed.  With constant weight check ins, and lactation consultant appointments, and an infant who showed no sleep signals, my intro to babydom was an initial four months of chronic sleep deprivation for both of us– we were fragile and nearing exhaustion. 

For most of us parenting patiently becomes what feels like a thousand deaths a day. This newborn insanity of needs upon needs that rolls in like the tide without concern if we are anchored or ready is the beginning of the storm that will onslaught our delicate sensibilities, our own needs for sleep and tests us to our core.  Add another needy child or toddler to the mix and you got the makings of sainthood. And so it is no wonder that Mother God is the most patient of people, for she has birthed millions, she has cared for us all hours of everyday and has raised us and sustained us all. She’s carried the weight of our worries, shushed us to sleep and granted us one more cup of water until we lay our heads down to our final rest

And somewhere along the way we too gather endurance we didn’t think possible, abilities to function without 7 uninterrupted hours of sleep. Our hearts start to grow with love for something other than ourselves.  We gain an inner strength- and a core that allows us to surf the never ending tide of parenting responsibilities and surf them with skills that on occasion, make it look like a cakewalk.  But that doesn’t mean we don’t crash off the board from time to time or feel the endless paddling with waves unending or tidal waves that we can’t surmount. 

But our Mother God has shown us the way.  Parenting patiently doesn’t mean subduing our emotions and numbing them but in releasing them and learning to surf.  Patience isn’t the opposite of desire, it is the riding of a wave of desire to its final destination.  

This too shall pass isn’t patience, it’s grin your teeth and bare it– I want to ride it like the wave it is. I tally up some more daily deaths and I offer an ear, another cuddle, time for tucking in- sometimes with an eye roll or a sigh. I do my best to cut the toddlers hair into something resembling normal. Not ignoring the hard and the pure insanity of their needs or shaming my frustration. Maybe as a wise mother I too will put boundaries in place- this is your last request and then you’re on your own. Well not on your own, safe in the arms of your Mother God.

I’ve got this thing with strawberries.  This love/hate relationship.  I wait all year till they are “in season” and then I go slay me some strawberries and come home with the whole cardboard carrier each time.  I mean when they are good, they’re good. And luckily no one is allergic in our house and they freeze and everything is just groovy. 

Except when I get distracted or there’s that stinkin’ moldy one in the middle of the carton spreading it’s filth to the rest of them.  And you don’t know that as soon as you reach in to get a tasty red strawberry it’s going to implode on you and get it’s red guts all over the place.  Some of you might be concerned with my binging fruit purchasing habits (and don’t worry my husband is too), but I just can’t help myself. I have one kid who can plow through a whole carton in a morning.  And when they’re cheap, it’s like… why not?! Even if some go bad– it’s still worth it. They’re healthy and strawberry season comes once a year.

And don’t get me started on the whole fake strawberry industry.  Somehow they’ve genetically engineered some of the suckers to look like they’re ripe, but really they are completely white on the inside.  I call these “painted strawberries.”  You gotta test a few– see if they are actually real.  My mother, bless her, always kept her strawberries in the fridge, always.  Which means we probably never ate a ripe strawberry in our young life.  I REFUSE. Absolutely refuse to put any strawberry in the fridge. Is it ripe? Eat it or freeze it.  If it’s not, I’d rather let it ROT. 

Anyway, yesterday was one of the rotten days when time had gotten away from my strawberry sleuthing and practically a whole carton was worthless. What a disappointment. I like to think I’m somehow nourishing the soil by putting them down my garbage disposal since I gave up on composting, but I know better.

I feel like these last few weeks have been like that stinkin rotten strawberry carton. We’ve had some trauma, some disappointing heartache, and I’m just like- seriously?! This whole carton is wasted?  This whole thing– flippin- TRASH!?! It’s so disheartening and disillusioning.  

The sad part is our little trauma was like, perhaps the tip of the iceberg of someone else’s life altering trauma.  And I’m just MAD about it. I’m just fed up. Strawberries are supposed to be ripe, delicious and eaten.  Kids are supposed to be safe, loved, protected and cared for.  This moldy sneaky rotten whatevers that take what’s good and taint it. They make me mad. They make me fed up.  They make me disillusioned, helpless and just don’t even want to be reminded any more. 

Take the strawberries away and flush them down the sink. Take the trauma and stuff it. I don’t want it.  But I know I can’t do it.  My strawberries may not ruin the whole waterway system, but I can’t not deal with this hurt, this problem.  I can’t bury it.  I have to find its proper place. 

I have to go buy the flippin compost and stop wasting these fuzzy strawberries.  I have to use the destructors against themselves and bury it and then turn it over like 5 items. And then sift through it again and then use it to grow something new.  But it’s work, And I’m tired. And sometimes I just want to throw it in the plastic trash and pretend it’s not biodegradable.  

You know? “Do the work.” 

It feels so overwhelming. 

It’s so helpful when in trauma people throw you a life line. They say. Here, call this number#. Here talk to this person. I am HERE, if you need me.  You can do this. “I can do this.”  I can learn to compost. Someone send me the bucket. <I CAN DO HARD THINGS.>