Have you ever had a piece of music pierce you in a place so deep within that it surprisingly brought a little sob into your throat? Have you ever been caught off guard by the rhythm of a song that you found yourself swaying and rocking in such a way that resembles a birthing woman? Have you felt your gut lurch with emotion in response to some crescendo in a song?

One Saturday morning, I was in the garden and realized I was running out of my wave runner petunias for my window boxes. So off to Home Depot I went. I popped in Ivan’s favorite classical CD—Beethoven’s 9th symphony. I turned it up really loud which was just slightly counter cultural since the majority in Waukegan blast their music in such way to cause other people’s cars to vibrate along with their own. But the slightly counter cultural part is that I was playing classical music instead of that tuba song the Latinos are addicted to right now at a decibel that was vibrating my very own body. As the music played and the warm wind whipped my hair around the edges of my sun hat, I felt the music tugging on me and before I knew it the soul of this piece of music had it’s hands around some braided core within me, yanking. There is a part in the 4th movement (not sure if that is the right musical terminology, but whatever) where the choir that has been standing there in anticipation of their part for a good forty five minutes is finally able to release their voices. It starts with a baritone singing in German a beautiful piece titled Ode to Joy, “Oh friends, not these tones! Let us raise our voices in more pleasing and more joyful sounds!” I, of course, don’t know the English interpretation of the German, but it still swells and tosses the water within me and I all of a sudden find myself wanting to heave with sobs. I was aware that what was being tossed around and pulled up by this powerful piece of music was wordless; but it was there. So I just let the music drag up that cord of woven emotion and wept.

I recently watched the movie, Once (I know, I am behind in the times and probably considered an old lady by most). I had an evening just to myself so I nestled into the couch and watched. What a powerful and moving movie. I had a similar response to the music found within this movie as I did to Beethoven where the music of the movie was stirring the waters and I felt all sort of emotion cresting to the top and brimming over. The music is so full of grief and loss and a tad bit of rage. It seemed applicable to where I am most days and gave language to the deeper wells of emotion that seemed locked up but raging within me. I wept through the entirety of the movie, finding it extremely cathartic.

So I find my heart cresting with powerful pieces of music and the wildflowers found within the woods. And I ride the wave, so to speak, letting my feet get picked up off the river bed floor and swept up into the current of God’s mercy moving through the inner chambers of my heart where only beauty can penetrate and speak comfort.

This happens regularly.

I introduce myself to a newly diagnosed breast cancer patient. I take her to her room to receive chemotherapy. I explain that I am going to access her port (an implanted intravenous device). I start cleaning her skin attempting to distract her with questions about her life. I prepare her for what the poke is going to feel like, “a pinch and then some pressure”. I count to three and poke with the quickness of throwing a dart. “Are you okay?”, I ask her. She nods her head. I tell her, “That is the worst part of today and it is all over,” smiling at her distraught face. I start to draw blood samples and then I look into her eyes and I see the underground river emerging, gushing forth.

This happens more often than not and I see it occur in my life experiences as well. You stub your toe, something foul comes out of your mouth like the word f*ck (at least my mouth has that problem) and then the tears come. You are crying and you don’t know exactly why. But you all of a sudden are overcome with emotion—-sadness, old grief, anxiety and fear, despair.

And this is what happens to my breast cancer patients. They walk around in disbelief and partial denial that this is even happening to them. Young, beautiful women, some with small children and adoring husbands. And then I go and poke ‘em and it all comes rushing out. I get down on my haunches and look them more deeply in the eyes and just cry with them.

And then I reassure them they are normal, hoping to break through their embarrasment and shame of losing it in front of a complete stranger. For they really are normal. And for that matter, I am normal too. My underground river rages these days; little things release the mounting waters deep within me. And in a lot of ways, I welcome it. I guess physical pain is a form of God’s mercy. It allows us to tap into something we normally push way down and out of sight.

Memory: I am standing in the door frame of a large warehouse in Murray, Kentucky, with my feet planted and twisting my upper torso to relieve the tension in my back. I am working at a candy company, one of those that makes gift baskets of chocolate covered pretzels and toffee and ships them off at Christmas time to people. I am working for a man who isn’t exactly easy to work for; that is putting it nicely. All of a sudden he says to me with irritation in his voice, “Shanel, why are you always sighing?”

Hmmm. I didn’t know I sighed that much.

In retrospect, I can see clearly. My family and I had just moved from northern California to Murray, Kentucky. Quite a change in scenery in more ways than one. We had come hoping to find some financial relief from the struggle of living in pricey California. We got there and we had no place to live, no place to put all our stuff, no jobs, no schools. It was probably one of the hardest times in my family’s life. We were overwhelmed with heat and thick southern humidity. We were terrified of every bug we saw. We were confused by all the people that would wave at us as we drove down the road thinking they were all quite crazy when really they were just doing their southern hospitality thing. Thunder storms were a spectacular show to us. We were stunned by the fact that we were living in one of the few remaining “dry” counties where they did not permit alcohol. And it was the South and we were from the west coast–the cultural and societal differences were, let’s just say so as to be polite, quite astronomically different.

My dad barely saved my ass by somehow working miracles to get me into the local university for my freshman year of college, after I had written multiple variations of my social security number on all my applications, confusing everyone and thus stalling my admittance to the school. Thinking about it now, I wonder if my dad hadn’t been so persistent and determined, as he is known to be, would I have ever gone to college? With the extreme stress we were under with the transition of moving to a very foreign place away from all that was familiar and home, I could easily see my self just giving up all together on the hope of going to college. I may have never become a nurse. I could have possibly never been a part of InterVarsity where my life was radically changed by the Scriptures and being in community with an amazing group of believers. Things would have turned out so differently. I don’t know if I would have ended up in Chicago. And then there would be no Ivan, no Martens’ clan, no Audrey Anne. I probably would have just moved back to California after that first year if I hadn’t done the college thing and resumed life there in the Coastlands church. Who would I have become? Isn’t it amazing how many roads we can walk down but we choose specific ones and some just open up for us as the only way to go seemingly. I am realizing this is completely tangential to my main point. Sighs.

My frequent sighing continued on for many years and over time, as Jesus brought “vents”, so to speak, to let out my internal angst, sorrow and fear, I sighed less. It wasn’t until I moved to Chicago, after being here a year or two, that the sighing stopped all together. Sighing has always signaled to me that something is askew and turbulent within me. Often, I don’t have much access to understanding or knowing what the turbulence is all about, but I am conscious that it is there.

Lately, I have been sighing more. Something is up. I long for long periods of quiet where I can just breathe, listen, be still and reflect. It’s hard to do that with a lil’ Audrey Anne in your house and trying to juggle three jobs. But I am resourceful. I have had a tradition or discipline of sorts of doing regular retreats of silence. I think it is time for another one. Anyone sighing a lot and want to come with me?

A few months ago, I was part of a small group that met for eight weeks. At the conclusion of our group, the leader had each of us reflect on words of encouragement and affirmation for each of the women in our group. We had grown deep with one another revealing some of the most shameful things of our past and our current situations. We were the essence of real and they saw the inner core of me. All broken, messy and tangled up. We went around the room and each person shared their words with the one person. My turn came and it became very apparent quickly that a reoccurring theme was emerging. They were seeing in me something. And it was kind of shocking that this is what they sifted out from all the muck, sin, pain, disappointment and fear that I shared with them week after week.

They repeatedly saw strength and beauty within me. One after the next repeated it without talking with each other for we had all prepared ahead of time what we were going to share writing it on little cards.

As I have reflected on this, I think that their words are true. I don’t say this to make myself look amazing and drop dead gorgeous. I acknowledge the truth of their words for God has done a marvelous and great work within me despite all the muck of my past and the sin and weakness I carry within myself. Somehow I turned out strong and beautiful. It is quite stunning actually–God’s work within me.

I’ll be honest, I don’t feel strong all the time. Actually these last few months I have felt weaker than ever and am incapable of very much. My stamina and gumption is almost nonexistent. Most of the time, I feel really low. I am learning though that in the midst of feeling my weakness, seeing my sin always before me and being surrounded with suffering and the effects of being fallen creatures, I know more deeply of His grace that flows from His cross into my weak body and faint spirit. His grace truly is enough for me. And then begins the strength rising within me making me feel like a pioneer woman out on the prairie with a determined jaw and strong set eyes on the road ahead. I have my eyes set on heaven.

There has been a strength growing within me since I was a little girl, a strength born out of enduring hard times and having faith in God that he will bring me through to the other side. I also feel that there is a generational inheritance that was given to me from my mom and her mom and her mom after that, an inheritance of strength. It often looks like raw determination to survive and to “be the first ones to jump into the canoes and row down the river shouting to our friend, ‘Come on!’ and then realizing we don’t know how to row canoes”. Not much beats us down and each time we get up we are more voluptuous, busty and stocky in strength of spirit.

And for the beauty part…

Long ago, I went to a Leanne Payne conference and my feminine identity began to heal and then blossom. It wasn’t instant and it still is not complete. But over the years I have felt myself opening up like an intricately designed orchid and beauty resides in that place of healed and complimentary feminine identity. I stopped wearing sports bras (after a certain someone suggested I accentuate my curves). I began to realize I don’t need to fight for respect from men and prove that I am worth something. I started learning how to just be, to linger. I grew in my ability to nurture and at the same time I pressed myself to overcome some of my struggles with intimacy in relationships. And as all that was emerging, I fell in love with Ivan. I came into a full bloom of sorts in that falling in love season of my life. And as time has gone on in our marriage, I have experienced what some authors talk about, an exchange of sorts happening between my femininity and his masculinity. The more my feminine identity is alive, blessed and being nurtured, the more I will bless Ivan’s ability to be relational, to linger and be, to nurture. And vice a versa. Ivan’s masculinity brings a place of protection, provision, pro activity and initiation that calls forth places of strength, leadership and initiative within me. Quite wonderful.

I have learned to love pink (believe it or not, I used to wear all blue clothes in college). I love dressing up–most weddings we go to we are highly overdressed because I can’t pass up a chance to wear a gown, adorning jewelry and a fur. I am a junkie for pashminas, wraps, and any kind of shawl. I have a lot of fun wearing make-up. And I grew my hair out for my husband that loves long flowing hair. {Now, I am not saying that this is how every woman experiences beauty or these are the things that make a woman beautiful. No, I am saying that this is what makes ME beautiful, makes me feel pretty and lovely. And these are some of the markers in my mind’s eye that reveal an inner transformation of beauty within myself.}

I have also become a lover of beauty over the years. Woods in the winter, the green waters of the lake on an overcast day, the little buds poking out on a spring tree, the smallness of Audrey’s hand in my mine, the blooming of a stubborn orchid, the red flesh of a fresh picked off the vine tomato, the beauty of watching a person surrender to the work of the Spirit within them, blue sapphires, water glistening as sunlight catches in it glistening on skin, thunderstorms, stunning prose that takes your breath away, the scent of lilacs in full bloom, the moon over you on a summer evening, the first sip of a cold, cold beer, the texture of super soft yarn on my cheek. And I could go on and on (well, maybe I already did).

The point is this: the more beauty I take in and enjoy and relish, the more I feel beautiful. Somehow. Not sure how.

I leave you with the words of a wise and prophetic woman who wrote these words down for me,

“When I think of you Shanel, I see you as this stately queen. As the bride of Christ. I see you wearing much gold jewelry–bangles on your arms, pierced earrings with gem stones. Flowing, delicate, feminine garments. And of course a rich, luxurious robe. In your hands are signs of the authority and power you have: a scepter and a ball the size that fits into your hand. You walk tall, stand tall, even sleep tall–not with rigidness but with knowing dignity of who you are in Christ. You reign in life. You fall down, or get blind sided, or out of sheer weariness and disappointment fall over and find your self sitting in the mud. Then Jesus (always right next to you) whispers in your ear and heart of hearts and your turn to him and he takes you by the hand and pulls you up. He washes you, pulls out the darts in your mind and heart and neutralizes the poison. Then you take his hand and walk on…in truth and beauty and grace and enjoying tremendously who you are.” Read the rest of this entry »