Dear friend: a invitation from the middle of the night on my bathroom floor

2 simple practices helping me bless my needs & sickness in December

Dear friend,

I don’t know what these days between Christmas & New Year’s feels like for you. While you may feel grateful for sweet moments and connections, I also know how special days can highlight our grief and longing in a tender way. Whether you’re finding yourself aching or savoring the joy or somewhere in between, I wanted to pause and invite you to extend gentleness and grace to your heart in whatever state it may be in today. There’s space for all of you here.

I usually like to picture where we’re sitting as I share my heart with you, and this time is no different. I’m holding my mug of echinacea tea and am snuggled under this cozy grey blanket. This seems to match the fact that December held more sickness than I would have liked for our family, and I know we were not alone in that.

This month has held sore throats, fevers, antibiotics, aches & lots of tea and couch time. We’ve had so many days of cancelled plans, triaging needs and wondering when we’ll ever be well again. If this was you too, I’m sorry. Even as I write this, I’m fighting cold symptoms and the angst of more illness in such a short period of time. (And that’s also why there’s not an audio version this time around.) There’s such disappointment that comes from such stark limits at any time, but especially in the midst of days attached to the expectation of fun and seeing people.

In the midst of so much illness and days at home, there have been also gifts. I’m lamenting the cost of sickness even as I’m also making space to notice the grace that met us. Both/and, yet again. One of those gifts was this invitation from the middle of the night on my bathroom floor.

One December night, I was pulled from my warm bed by the sound of crying. Before I was even fully registering what was happening, I was in the bathroom with my son, helping him as he threw up. Once he was done, I held him as he cried. I held his scared, shaking body on the cold bathroom floor, with little thought to my own disheveled appearance or what time it was. I rocked him until he was calm and the urgency had passed, and tucked him back into bed.

The next morning, I was making a cozy place for him on our couch to spend the day resting and recovering, tucking him in with blankets and pillows. As he settled in, he asked me, “Mom, was it okay that I called you?”

I was confused for a moment, and had to clarify. “Are you talking about last night in the bathroom?” He was.

“Yes. Was it okay that I woke you up and called you to come to me?”

I smiled at his question. There have been recent days where my kids’ morning antics have woken me and my husband up before our normal morning rhythms, and we’ve chatted about what a good volume is when others are sleeping. I could tell he was wanting to make sure that he hadn’t broken a rule or done something wrong.

“I’m so glad you woke me up.” I told him. “You needed me and that is exactly what you should do when you need me. You called me, and I’m so glad I heard you and could be with you. You didn’t do anything wrong. In fact, you did just what you should have done!"

He sunk down into his nest of blankets, a quiet smile on his face, his hand in mine. But I took our conversation with me into my day, hearing an invitation for my own heart too.

How often have I ignored my own longings or needs, thinking that they might inconvenience others or the Lord? I’ve received the message time and time again that being needy was something to be avoided, that there was something wrong with having needs. I’ve unconsciously thought I should save up my prayers until the need was greater or an emergency. I’ve quietly dismissed my own needs, only crying out when I can’t hold it in any longer.

Dear one, I’m glad to be with you in your need, the Spirit whispered to my heart.

Just as you came as quickly as you could, with no thought to your appearance or the cost on your sleep, I come close when my child needs me. I am listening for your cries. I am glad to be called. I draw near when you cry. I want to help you when you have a need.

In the words of my friend, Summer Gross, “Your one job with the Lord is to cry out.”

Of course, for those of us who tried to get our needs met by diminishing our needs, it is quite the process of unlearning and receiving the awful-feeling gift of limits and the grace of being loved just as we are.

I want to acknowledge how much easier it is to be talking about limits and grace of them vs. the experience itself. It can feel so neat and tidy for me to write about bringing needs to the Lord or bumping into my limits, but is so messy to live. It’s one thing to have the head knowledge that my limits are welcome, but quite another for that to become an embodied belief.

If this is you too, here are two simple ways I’m creating space to believe my cry is my job & my limits are welcome.

I’ve been so grateful to have the liturgies of Every Moment Holy & Every Moment Holy: Volume 2 when words feel hard and I don’t know what to pray. If you don’t have a book of prayers to borrow words from, I’d recommend these volumes. I’ve been holding onto these couple of lines from The Liturgy for the Hardship of Holidays & Special Days (from Volume 2) this week in particular:

And today let me learn again how

your grace will be always

sufficient to my need; your comfort

sufficient to my sorrow; your presence

sufficient to my loss.

I’ve been returning to these words again and again when I’m in need of comfort.

I recently finished Krispin Mayfield’s beautiful book, Attached to God and these words have been a gift in helping my heart picture God as an attuned parent.

Every emotion has a logic to it, and when we can be curious about it, we can find the need that underlies it. Ours is a God who says, “Of course.” When we know that our painful human experiences will be met with softness, we can begin to melt into the arms of a God who longs to hold us like chicks underwing.

I’ve begun practicing telling myself, “Of course” when things are hard, as a way to practice how the Lord meets my aches with gentleness.

“Of course you’re sad. This matters to you.”

“Of course you’re having a hard time. You’re carrying so much.”

“Of course” feels like a way to quickly disarm my bootstrapping tendencies, showing myself a new way forward. I’m grateful for this language that helps me to receive the nurturing I’m craving.

I’m going to end with this beautiful benediction from this August post from KJ Ramsey:

May you practice naming your needs

for rest, medicine, movement, empathy, and therapy

as symbols of your significance

rather than signs of your shortcomings.

your needs never nullify your worth.

Dear friend, thank you for being here with me. It means so much that you want to read this letter. As always, I'd love to hear from you! Feel free to just hit "reply" to this email. Whether you want to share a prayer request, what is helping you on sick days or if my words brought up anything for you, I’d be so glad to know.

Warmly,

Alison