Meno
Two Weeks
Is it the headlines? The headspace? The habit?
Before yesterday carried my sister to the hospital, we had an encouraging exchange about intake and intercession—about the balance between what we consume and what we carry. Are our souls meant to hold the weight of the entire world? What is the health of our soul if we aren’t heartbroken by what we see? I keep circling back to the idea that maybe we are only meant to take in as much as we can pray for. Beyond that, it’s too much. Too much to process, too much to sustain. To be able to disconnect from the constant stream is such a privilege. She reminded me that disconnecting from the onslaught is not abandonment. It is a way of protecting the nervous system, of preserving the capacity to act with love instead of paralysis. First regulate, then respond.
I haven’t had much to say. The airwaves are thick with the clamor and shouting as it is. Maybe that’s where the trouble with writing comes in: a refusal to be exposed or add to the cacophony. Here I feel a bit callow, as though I don’t know how to show up. But when you have no idea what you are doing, you are, therefore, invincible.
More Good Things
The little shifts of focus always help. Views of the river and a soothing voice cleared the air, leaving me with softer eyes. That afternoon, as I biked with my son, we stumbled across a Little Free Library, hand-painted in bright primary colors with black-eyed-susans climbing the roofline. He immediately spotted an obscure paperback and recognized it as part of his best friend’s favorite series. When we got home, he wrapped it carefully and wrote a note before gifting it. Such thoughtfulness from someone usually so aloof felt like a small miracle.
On Thursday, when I left work, the rain was pouring heavily. My impending long walk to the parking lot on Portland has no cover, and of course I’d worn white. The mugshot mensch went out of his way to offer me his umbrella, sparing me what would have been a miserable drenching.
And on Friday, I became an “aunt” again. Health and grace abound - praise God. Another reminder that faith, hope, and love still root us in the present. (But does “the present” exist? More to come on that another time…)
Meno
I listened to a sermon this week. It said that love, in its purest form, means with. Life is filled with demands and activities, work and errands, career and obligation. In the end, it is not our lists or our accomplishments that matter, but the people we spent our lives with. Meno.
Discipleship is not about proving or achieving, but about remaining—staying with the one who promises to stay with us. It is a state of permanence. Love is presence. It means showing up, even when there’s nothing to say. It also means allowing yourself to be held, especially when everything feels like it’s falling apart. Meno.
“The Good Shepherd came and found you before you even knew that you were lost. He renamed you when all you had ever known was holding together a fragile identity of your own making. His gaze upon you, and the nakedness of your vulnerability, did not destroy you, but somehow made you feel known like you had never been known.”
Discipleship begins with receiving love. The call is to hold fast to that love, to keep returning to it again and again. This is the work set before us—the beautiful, lifelong battle of remaining. And so the task is clear: to give one another the gift of presence, again and again. To remember that to love is to be present, and that presence is everything. Meno.