Everywhere Holy: Seeing Beauty, Remembering Your Identity, and Finding God Right Where You Are

Introduction

A Thousand Windows

Oh, these vast, calm, measureless mountain days . . . Days in whose light everything seems equally divine, opening a thousand windows to show us God.

—JOHN MUIR, MY FIRST

SUMMER IN THE SIERRA

When I was a little girl, I felt God’s presence when I was in nature, especially at my childhood home in the Allegheny Mountains of Pennsylvania in the Appalachian mountain range. My favorite spot was the clearing in the woods behind our house. I haven’t been to the clearing in over two decades, but in my memory, it is wild, magical, all moss-covered rock and glittering light. The ground and the mountains surrounding it, with their peaks and valleys, were where I belonged. Like Anne of Green Gables said in my favorite childhood book, "I’d look up into the sky—up—up—up . . . and then I’d just feel a prayer."¹ My soul was home. But as it is in life, I grew and changed, my parents and I moved, and I dreamed bigger. I eventually forgot the clearing, the filtered light, and what it felt like to be there.

Years later, as a college student studying abroad in England, I visited Salisbury Cathedral and was struck by how strongly I felt God there. It was the first time I had ever been in a cathedral like it, so I spent some time alone in silence, kneeling in supplication. God was there; I knew it. I was only twenty years old and his whisper was there, his window was there, and I was afraid I wouldn’t hear it or see it again if I left. I have never told anyone about that day because the holiness there seemed almost too holy to talk about; it seemed unreal. I had felt God in that church as I had in nature, but I hadn’t considered that I could meet him everywhere and anywhere if I’d only look. And never did I consider that holy moments were occurring in my everyday life. I didn’t yet know that the art of noticing beauty is a spiritual discipline—the best form of prayer I’ve found yet, the best way to find gratitude—and that life, in and of itself, is holy.

I recently had lunch with a friend I hadn’t seen in a while, and she asked me how I knew if I was doing the right thing. I confessed that most days, I don’t know. Many days, I’m pretty unsure. In the midst of the ordinary or in times of struggle, I think we all sometimes ask ourselves, What does it mean to feel good enough, whole enough, holy enough, right where I am? How can I even find beauty and honor it when my life feels so heavy? After very full days, we sometimes feel exhausted; many words are left unspoken; many things are left undone. We feel like we have messed up, misstepped, misspoken, fallen, but in the midst of it all, we want to feel grateful for what we have and the blessings that surround us. At the end of the day, we want to know how to focus on what lifts us up instead of all that weighs us down.

Looking for holiness all around and seeing that as a form of prayer has helped me. I invite you to join me, wherever or whoever you are, as we discover how to see holy everywhere, right in our own lives. I’ll share stories that have helped me see more holy in my own life; may they help you notice the same in yours. I believe that it is in giving recognition to our lives that we offer up one of the greatest forms of prayer. And as a result, I really think you’ll see your identity coming into focus, the realization of how you’re to work in the world, in all the ways I have. For me, this journey of identity has been one of self-acceptance, of me as I am and of the Spirit gifts I’ve been given.

I offer this piece of my heart, this book, to you with the hope that you’ll find yourself in these pages too. This book is for those who find themselves stumbling and faltering and even sometimes downright falling, facedown, right in the muck of a mud puddle on a rocky mountain trail. It’s for the one still in the mud and it’s for the one who has picked herself up, all muddied face and dirtied hair, and continued her walk, searching for that divine light. It’s for the one who has lent a hand, dirtying her own clothes to help the one who fell. It is for me. It is for you.

While I do share my own stories here, I’m absolutely no expert; I’m a work in progress and this is a story of my own journey. This is an I share with you, and we learn together type of book. We see better together. This is not a posture or a prescription, and I’m not a theologian. I’m a wife, mother, teacher, and writer, and I’m writing at my desk in my country house on the hill by the wood’s edge, surrounded by my people and animals. My desk has a view of the fields and all the hay is baled this time of year. That’s where I am.

Last year, right before I submitted title ideas for this book, Matt, my son, then age nine, said to me, Hey Mom, you can find God everywhere you are. Finally, I know that to be true. God’s windows are all around. It is my hope that we can do this together and you see God right where you are—right in the college classroom, if that’s where you are, or in your office at work, or on the bus. I hope you can see the holiness right in the bathroom as you bathe an old dog or a new, chubby baby, right in the garden as you tend to the tomatoes or the hydrangea, right in the city as you walk down a crowded street. That very perspective has helped me remember my own identity again and see the beauty and the holiness in this life.

Let’s journey together, crossing mountains and walking through valleys with the sun on our faces, although I can’t always promise bright skies. We’re sure to encounter some rocky terrain and rainy weather, but when the sun shines in the clearing, all flitting and perfect, windows of divine light, we’ll be all the more grateful. The path won’t always be straight or smooth and we might stumble, but it’s a journey worth taking. God’s there, watching. Holy is there, waiting.

CHAPTER 1

The Fog Rises

Memory’s fog is rising.

—EMILY DICKINSON

When life feels heavy, sometimes it’s hard to remember that eventually the fog rises and lifts over the mountains. I never paid much attention to the patterns of the fog until I embarked on what would become a life-changing and horrible bout with anxiety and depression that ultimately became a true reckoning in a coming-to-Jesus moment. It was a bending of the knee, a breaking of will that finally resulted in various forms of help, yet as hard as it was, in it I found the power of pain, recovery, and the promise of the sun peeking through the fog.

One day, when I was practicing one of my very favorite stilling practices to escape my own mind—walking through the fields across from our house—I prayed as I walked and begged for help, the fog only just lifting away from the grass. At one point, I felt a brief peace wash over me and a thought crossed my mind: the fog always rises. With those words, I have embraced how to live, despite the fact that I can’t control everything, especially the lifting of the fog and the eventual revelation of the sun. It seems simple, but so many of us try to control things that are simply beyond our control. Struggles actually can advance us on the path of seeing beauty again and finding God and, for me, discovering who I really am. Like the birds I listen to every morning, I have learned to sing, even during the difficult times. Sometimes, it’s by walking into that very mist that we grow in ways we never would have otherwise. Sometimes, it’s through what becomes the fog’s reprieve that we can appreciate the blaze of the sun.

A few years ago, in the depths of this struggle, there was only one place I wanted to go: to my childhood home and to the clearing behind it, wondering if the clearing was still the way I remembered it. My parents sold the house in 1996, but that didn’t stop me from driving the forty-five minutes from where I live with my own family now to the dirt road that house sits on and walking on the road in front of the house. My dream was to get to the clearing tucked back behind the house. I wondered what the clearing would look like to me, at that time, a woman in her late thirties.

I went to the back road by my old house whenever the opportunity presented itself, often even unexpected to me, and I walked up and down the road, stopping to pick up decaying black walnuts in green casings—stink bombs we used to call them. I marveled at the total silence, the memory of what it was to be a kid enshrouded by trees, and as I walked, I questioned if this was the place I could find myself: What is missing from my life? Maybe I can find God on this road, by this small creek, meeting me on these walks if I only allow him? Maybe I can get to the clearing again, if I could only gain the courage to? Maybe I can find myself? Maybe I can remember who I once was? And that’s what my walks became on those late summer days that turned into the frigid days of November—a place to meet God, a place I felt just a little bit okay, a place I could catch my breath, a place I could remember who I once was, a place that seemed to whisper, Yes, this is holy enough. I’ll meet you here. And God did meet me there, amid the dusty air of the breeze.

After these visits to the road by my old house, I would return, saying a prayer that I could be the mother my children deserved and would be able to get it together enough until they were fast asleep. Intermittently, I’d get relief. One day, after a horrible three weeks, I found myself singing, something I love to do and something my children have come to expect from me. I was singing and Matt smiled at me, surprised to hear it. When I saw his surprise and realized the sound was coming from my own mouth, I smiled back. And I knew, despite what happened, that I’d be okay. The song, coupled with the smile, was a brief reprieve from heartbreaking worry and soul-crushing fear. It was the confirmation that I could carry on—just like you, no matter what you are facing.

One day, I was walking outside with my daughter, Maggie, by then two, and realized I was able to focus on her for the first time in over a month. At first, I was sad and started to berate myself with thoughts of all I hadn’t done, hadn’t noticed, hadn’t been able to be, but then I just stood and stared at her, committed to notice now. Her ringlets had gotten longer and now fell past her shoulders. How? When? How hadn’t I noticed? When she held up a purple flower, the lavender of the flower complemented the hint of lavender in her blue eyes. She looks so pretty in purple, one of my most favorite colors to see. I knew it was confirmation of my calling to be her mother—to notice color, to breathe in the faces of my children like air. I tucked the flower in her hair, and she smiled at me and said, Mommy, do you want to run? She took off, her suddenly long curls bouncing as she ran. I chased her up the mountain, watching her curls against the backdrop of all the lush green of a fall not yet upon us.

Recently, I was with Matt at bedtime. He’s used to me being around as he drifts to sleep, and despite the fact that he is nine now and growing—all leggy, jawline appearing—he usually still wants me to lie down with him for a little bit each night. It has become a bit of a ritual, really, and each night, he tells me about his day, his triumphs, his worries, his insecurities, his pride. He talks and tells me he can’t sleep unless he does, so I listen, and after talking to me, he hugs me and closes his eyes. Often, I fall asleep myself because with him, I feel a calm I don’t feel around others. Next to him, I am quieted to a peace sleep actually can’t duplicate, recreate, or master. It’s the power of the still, really, the knowledge that I was chosen for this life, right there in the dark, right with the small boy beside me.

That night, as the stillness and warmth of the room overtook me, Matt said to me, Mom, sometimes small thoughts well up inside of me until I feel like I’m going to burst. Even one can take up so much room. That’s why I like talking to you each night. Then there’s more room. I pulled him to me, kissed his forehead, and told him what a great explanation that really was. I’m just like that, after all. He seemed content with that, his worries of the day disappearing into sleep. I’m lucky to be the person he can tell all to, the person he knows won’t judge him but will always help him. I’m his enough space. Maybe it will help for you to think about your enough space. Who is a way through for you? Who are you a way through for? Who helps you to make more room? In me, Matt sees a way through, and I know a lot about how important the way through is. He’s a way through for me too.

In the still of the mornings at our house, the fog lifts from the mountains in the most beautiful display, somber and holy. It’s quiet as it rises and drifts over the mountains, the yard, my driveway. It looks like a blanket, covering the earth and the mountains, and I try to see it for what it is: here, now, part of the morning, just like the anxiety is a part of me, part of who I am now. Yes, anxiety is like the fog, and like the mountain, I’m always waiting for it to lift and the sun to shine but doing my best to see the beauty it has shown, the blanket of it like the arms of my husband, the small-child hands in mine, the peace that comes with prayer.

The fog of one particular morning was thick and mimicked the anxiety that followed me. Both anxiety and depression can feel that way to me—like sunglasses after you’ve left the cold of a movie theater and head back into the summer sun and warmth outside the theater walls. Your glasses steam up and you can’t see well; you can’t see anything, really, and it’s so disorienting. You know the sun is there and a small hand is in yours, but the sunglasses—the fog on them—prevents you from truly enjoying any of it. Life is so distorted, and even faces are harder to see; lights are the hardest, but it’s the light you crave—such a dichotomous conflict, a walking oxymoron. Anxiety and depression are both like that—trying hard to see through a haze, the thickness of air sometimes makes it hard to catch your breath, the way the humidity felt that summer I went to Texas with a friend. Do you know the humidity that makes you catch your breath? We spent a few days in Texas and I still replay it as some of the best times I’ve spent with a friend.

That was before anxiety held my hand, all day every day. I’d try to let go and when I’d finally wrangle my hand free, it would hug me without permission. Actually, both anxiety and depression often feel like trespassers walking on posted land—land I’d claimed as mine, but they ignored the posted signs. It felt like a defeat at first, but it wasn’t that. The acceptance of them, the quiet acceptance of them as who I am now is one of my greatest victories. While I hope they leave me someday, I’m trying hard to focus on the gifts that have been revealed in their visit. The fog has become a symbol to me, the mist rising from the mountains, the sunshine