She unrolled the print of Michael Sowa's "Kholer's Pig" she'd found tucked away in adark basement corner.
"Mom, you are this pig," she said. "You've been pushed off the dock. But you're going to land in that water and it's going to be really refreshing."
She's right. A lake lush with trees, reeds and lily pads. Humidity softening the horizon. It's gotta feel great in the water. That pig's no fool.
Leave it God to use my love of whimsy, plus my tendency to procrastinate (never did get around to framing the print for my office), plus my teenage daughter's wise insight to speak a recurring theme to me.
Freedom.
I wrote about freedom here, but I'm feeling it more and more these days. Maybe it's the early spring with new flowers emerging by the minute and grass so green it makes the heart ache. Windows open, verdant evening air, coats left in closets. The sheer pleasantness of it all.
My husband and I have mostly tried to buffer our kids from the recent painful events. We've shared a few details with them, but not a lot. They know we've been disappointed and sad, and they too have experienced transition pains. But we've tried to shelter them from the brunt of it all. We don't need them to carry the load for us, or even with us.
Still, they're rooting for me. Sweet, kind, encouraging comments. Like calling me a pig.
It's true. I am that pig. I recognize the initial shock, fear, panic of the jump. The increasing exuberance of flying through the air, weightless, worry-free for the moment. The anticipation of entering the water, slightly anxious while also hoping to make a big glorious splash.
Yes, the water is indeed refreshing.
And if you listen closely, you might just hear me suppressing a squeal.
A prominent theme for me this past year has been freedom. I hadn't anticipated it being a theme. If I were to select one myself, I'd probably choose a character trait needing improvement -- something like patience, peace, compassion. This freedom thing seems to be God's idea.
I first noticed the theme at a retreat in March. A friend read Psalm 63 from Eugene Peterson's The Message translation. These words jumped out to me:
"Because you've always stood up for me, I'm free to run and play."
Upon hearing that line, I knew it was meant for me. I reflected on how carefully I tend to tread through life, trying to step wisely, trying to not make mistakes, trying to be not just above reproach, but above all criticism. This creates a life that is intentional, yes, but one often accompanied by a clenched jaw and a sour stomach. One that doesn't allow much time to run and play.
The retreat was in the Colorado Rockies. I love the mountains. Across the street were hiking paths and foothills, perfect for bouldering, for scrambling around like a kid, for savoring broad panoramic views. During the free time after hearing that verse, I hiked alone, literally running and bounding and playing. (At least until my lungs protested the thin air.)
The view atop one of the boulders.
Later, a friend who'd been sitting high on a boulder told me she had watched me at play. Normally I would have felt highly embarrassed to discover someone was watching. But she expressed such joy at witnessing my playfulness I realized God too had noticed and watched and enjoyed.
Free to run and play.
Because you've always stood up for me...
The rough situation I've experienced these past few weeks makes me want to defend myself. Misunderstanding, misinterpretation, misrepresentation. They all burn deeply. I want to lash out in anger and vindication to protect myself. I want to set the record straight. I want to warn others, or at least to drop little watch-out-this-could-happen-to-you hints.
I've heard God is my defender, but frankly, he seems to have been asleep on the job here. Even a good friend who did step up and strongly defend me was reprimanded, shamed, misunderstood.
That was one of the lowest points for me, for my husband, for some of my friends. The realization that this is actually happening and there's no turning back now. Lines have been drawn. Bridges have been burned. Ultimatums have been issued. Reconciliation, if it occurs at all, will be a long, arduous process.
The next morning, when I checked email, I found a Noisetrade link to the album "Now You're Free" by Matthew Mayfield.
Now you're free. Indeed.
At the time, I smirked. Part of me took it as a message from God. The cynical part of me just took it as interesting timing. A few days later, I actually listened to the song (lyrics here, scroll down on the page).
"Don't let the wave push and pull you away
Now you're free and it sets you apart."
I'm realizing through this song, through the Psalm 63 passage, through countless other recent hints and nudges, that I am free, that God has set me free -- not just in a meta, life-encompassing sense, but in this specific situation. His mercy is sometimes severe, but it is indeed merciful. He is being merciful to me.
When I feel despairing about the situation, I'm trying to focus on the sheer freedom that comes with it. This calms my anxious heart and helps me to trust, sleep, smile. It helps me to imagine a day very soon when I might run and play with more freedom and bounce in my step.
Last night, my daughter said, "Mom, you seem awfully sprightly tonight." My son asked her what that meant and she explained. He looked at me, cocked his head and said, "Yeah, she is looking sprightly." Perhaps it is true.
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As I was looking through my Colorado retreat photos to chose one to insert in this post, I discovered one other retreat pic I had forgotten.
An American friend who lives in what used to be Eastern Germany brought the picture. He said it represents a common theme in his life the previous few months. I asked him for a copy because translated into English, this sign says... Freedom.
