In my tall boots, raking out whatever lands in front of me

From D.W.: It's not winter, yet. Certainly not in Houston. But it's coming. And after that comes Spring. Eventually Spring. I like these two pieces from Rachel building on a motif she leaned upon often, written nearly a decade apart. We have to remind ourselves to be grateful when we're lost in the bleakness of Winter and trust that the Spring will bring renewal. The work is never easy, but she believed it was worth it.

Sister Sally Says. May 27th .2011

Sally Tells A Convent Story, Episode #1

I remember the backyard of the DC house vividly. The lattice work on the left-hand side and the bench seat where I sat and read for a solid afternoon… the steps where I would sit in silence and solitude…the little patches of grass on either side of the sidewalk…the abrupt blacktop parking lot that took over from the yard, just ten feet away from the porch…the brave tiger lilies that bloomed and bloomed and bloomed and bloomed…that backyard seems close enough to touch. It seems strange to me that I should remember a place I only lived for a year with such detail. But on a no-name night in late February 2001, still a bare seven months before the world changed forever, I stood in that yard and felt spring months before it really started.

It was a long, cold winter, and learning to live in a community with total strangers, thousands of miles away from my family, with no money was a profoundly challenging experience. I felt myself growing smaller and smaller, tighter and tighter, colder and colder as I was swaddled by Washington, my work, my angst, and that strange emotion I now think of as “growing pains”. By the time February rolled around, I knew I had to go home: back to my mother, back to Texas, back home…nothing was worth going this crazy. I became utterly convinced that the rest of my life was going to be grey, cold, and stinky—just like my walk to work at the convent offices. I would sit in my office, which had been some old nun’s bedroom, and stare at the blinking light on top of the Washington Monument for hours, wishing I was anywhere but at that desk, in that convent, in that city.

We had a huge Mardi Gras party the Saturday before Ash Wednesday at the house, and invited everyone we knew from the neighborhood and our workplaces. There was still some snow on the ground, and it was cold enough that we didn’t even have to ice down the keg that we ordered and stored on the porch, for the party. The house was full. At some point, I remember Bruce Springsteen blasting through the speakers in the living room, and Sister Christian dancing like a dervish on top of a coffee table, while two twenty-something Lutheran volunteers looked on in mute amazement. The next day and late afternoon were sort of a blur of cleaning up and headache-y daze, and winter was back, in full force…and it was Lent…in a community house…full of nuns…

I stepped outside later that night (after the cleanup was done, and Monday morning had started to loom in my consciousness) to steel myself for the week ahead…for more winter…for Ash Wednesday. I remember sitting on the lowest step on the wide porch, and just sitting with my head between my knees, smelling the detergent on my sweatshirt and wishing that I could just wake up in a different place. And from nowhere, this freshening wind blew sideways through the yard, carrying the smell of green and growing things: of flowers that were still asleep, trees that were just beginning to wake up, lambs about to be born, and tombs that were about to be emptied. The breeze blew in and out in a matter of seconds, but I knew one thing for certain. Winter could not last forever. Spring was on her way, and nothing could stop that. Knowing that was true was enough to get me to summer. Thanks be to God.

Love,
Sally

Facebook. April 19th. 2020

Dear Jesus,  

Hi. Things are still weird. We’re trying really hard, most of us. I think. Thank you for helping us do good well. And thanks for loving us, especially when we don’t know how to love ourselves.  

Last week was really hard. Maybe the hardest week yet. Thank you for pulling me through it, for showing up in the voices and faces I love best, for making more, for keeping us well. I’m nervous about next week. And yes, I know what you’re always saying about the lilies and the fields and I thought about that last evening while the yellow meadowlarks and tiny blue birds played in the yard. I’ve been thinking about those outside stories so much. And the Moses ones, too. When I think I might be about to crack up, water always comes from the rock. And all I have to do is ask—I don’t have to whack it or beg or stomp my feet. Thank you for the reminders.  

Please help me to remember that April showers and plenty of chickenshit help the flowers grow. I know that too much of both can kill us. It’s been raining for what feels like seventeen years. Also: We sure do have a lot of chickenshit around here lately—and monumentally more bullshit than I smelled the last time I was in Lubbock on a windy day—so I know you must be planning quite the doings this spring and summer.  

I’m happy to help in any way I can. I’ll even make pies or salsa or address envelopes or even shave my legs or whatever. I rage bought a cute new dress that would be perfect for practically any event between now and Labor Day, but you already knew that.  

So, I’ll just be here at the house...in my tall boots, raking out whatever lands in front of me. The peonies look like they will have another good season. They have been such good teachers about grace. Thank you.  

Please keep me sweet.  

Thank you for my friends. I love you.  

Amen.