True and Beautiful

Jennifer and Jeremy explore the explosion that rocked their marriage.

For a Long, Long Time

I was

Unwilling to believe

You were telling me the truth

That you loved

Were thinking of me

Selfish was the word I thought you were

Like all the rest, I’d heard

Greedy and self-serving

Out for power

Out for over

I lay it all down

I apologize

Don’t let it be too late

To know you love me

To know you’ve loved me

For a long, long time

Wave the magic wand

Tug hard, ‘til the walls come down

I want to see outside

Want to soak in the horizon

Want to run

Without slamming into stone

Want to fly away

With you

So I lay it all down

Hold my hands high, apologize

Don’t let it be too late

To know you love me

To know you’ve loved me

For a long, long time

I see you now

I see you

I believe

Help my un-love

Disappear

Melt into the dust

Wash away in the flood

As I lay it all down

Lay myself down

I know it’s not too late

To know you love me

To know you’ve loved me

For a long, long time.

You have loved me

For a long, long time.

Jennifer Boynton 2023

Join us as we dive into the third installment of Jeremy and Jennifer's story, as mediated by Jacob!

The Slow Dawning

This is the way of it, I think

How life and breath is meant to happen

It’s like Emily Dickinson said— “Tell the truth

But tell it slant

Or every man be blind.”

And so God deals

Kindly and patiently with us humans

Who are on the hunt

For the real

It’s even better than the Matrix

And much more full of heart

And blood

And joy

And beauty

And if.

What will the flower-opening reveal

Today?

Something so unique and personal and stunning

And now

That it’s painful to keep my eyes

On it.

But it is not possible to look away.

And so I want

To live

Eyes and heart

Agape.

Jennifer Boynton 08/01/2020

Maybe that’s why I crave the sunrise. Because when my eyes soak in the dawning, I can see what it looks like inside my heart, my mind, my spirit. All life long.

So much to learn. The whole way. Until the end. How exciting and delicious and satisfying. One feast of beauty and knowing after another.

Fed continually.

So interesting that Jesus calls himself the Bread of Life. If one comes to him, he said, then—What?! How?—never hungry again.

Fed continually.

Today's episode is the first part of a conversation between Jacob

(our producer), Jeremy, and myself that unearths and establishes the

environment we grew up in, specifically the conservative, fundamental

church and school we attended. We’ll look at some of the things we were

taught and how we absorbed it. Laying down this groundwork will allow us

to explore our relationship in later episodes - none of it makes sense

without this context. 

This unearthing has been a years-long

effort - and I know we’re not done discovering. But here we are looking

across the table at each other, amazed at who we are. We’re different

than we were. The word metamorphosis comes to mind. I know we’re not done changing. It’s just time to tell the story.

Jeremy

and I renovated our house and are in the process of moving back in.

Talk about work. External change is such a laborious process. Internal

too. Connecting the dots, from past to present. Figuring out that some

things don’t fit. Figuring out how who and where you used to be affects

who are now. What walls are now moved? What pathways don’t exist

anymore? What new pathways beckon into a new and open space? Re-learning

is the work of a lifetime. But I’m finding Help and Strength all along

the way.

Right now, I’m laughing at myself.

I

try to get out of (or through) transitions as quickly as possible. Have

I learned nothing from these true and beautiful stories? Haven’t I

waxed poetic about the need to press myself into discomfort and how

important that is for growth?

Yet… here I am just really

needing things to get back to normal. My family and I are in transition

again, and I just want the CHAOS GONE. Transitions are so messy and sticky and full of discomfort and the unfamiliar.

We

moved back to our house the week before Thanksgiving. It is fantastic

to be home and back in our neighborhood. The only thing is… that home

doesn’t feel like home yet. Jeremy has walked into my new closet a

couple of times expecting to find the bathroom. My daughter bumped into a

wall upstairs because she took a wrong turn. The old pathways don’t

exist anymore. It’s a new space. Everything is different. Everything has

to be relearned.

That takes energy and time that I don’t want to

give. I just want the dust gone and curtains hung and boxes empty and

everything in its place right now. It’s frustrating that I have to wait.

And work toward re-homing this restored place.

I have a hard time

holding a heart of gratitude and a feeling of discontent at the same

time. I think, “How can both be true?” I struggle with wanting to deny

the feelings of dissatisfaction that surface.

I think, “How could I dare to be anything but grateful? This house is a gorgeous gift. How could I be cranky about anything?” 

I

am learning to acknowledge - It IS difficult to learn a new space. It

IS difficult to cope when things aren’t working right or are unfinished–

that’s an important step. (And acknowledging that truth doesn’t negate my gratitude).

When I’m honest with myself about my emotions, I can then begin to figure out how to address my needs.

What

can I do to care for myself during this transition? For instance, at

one point what I needed was to leave the house and the noise and the

workers and find a place of quiet. I got into my car and closed the

door. The unexpected and sudden stillness was sublime.

Shortly

after we moved in, Jeremy said, “Babe, you're going to have to change

your expectations. One month. It’ll take a month to feel settled.” And

that helped, actually. To hear that my expectations were not reasonable.

Because then I changed them. Or at least reminded myself that I needed

to. 

That’s all life is, really. One change after another. Or

maybe even several things changing at the same time. I find it

fascinating that, seeing that this is our reality, God offers himself as

someone who doesn’t change.  “I am the same yesterday, today, and

always,”  he says. And that feels like a rock-solid place to put my

feet. It helps, too, to have your people around you to help navigate the

maze. My sister was here and helped me organize my new bookshelves. She

made breakfasts for me. She gave really great hugs. My son said one

day, “Mom, you’re doing great,” and held me close for a second. Those

beautiful acts of love helped lift me back up so I could keep going.

They helped my spirit breathe.

And sometimes we just need someone to put their face six inches from ours and remind us to “breathe.”

It’s 12:45pm and I’m sitting in my bedroom, typing this.

I can see the back and side of the house next door out of my window.

Beyond and above is something that catches my heart and gives me such joy. The color of sharp blue autumn sky creates an infinite canvas for the trees. Their leaves are gold now, and the breeze pulls them down one by one.

Gold against the sky’s blue is one of my favorite color combinations.

It is simply so breathtaking.

What aches my heart is that this beauty is as full as it can possibly be - even though it is only here for a short time. Even now, the light is changing.

I’ve known Mary since before I was aware of that knowing. Our parents met when we were toddling around on tiny feet and baby legs, when thoughts were beginning to form into words. When we were just making our acquaintance with the world.

That length and strength of connection is a total gift. Right now, right this second, I am thanking God.

I appreciate Mary. The fact that she is so herself. She runs on a different kind of motor than I do.

She’ll say her life is busy. And it is. Not a lot of down time. But she uses her down time. She reads. She thinks. She plans. She gathers people. She connects. There is a fullness there that makes me think–

1) How does she do it?

2) Can I? Do I have my own version of “fullness” too?

What you see when you meet Mary is total engagement. She spends her time, her days, her talents, her passions, her heart.

–from Pilgrim at Tinker Creek by Annie Dillard

Pam’s story has given me so much. The chain of events that brought her to her current space and career inspire me in so many ways.

I wouldn’t have guessed the fear that she battled to chase her dreams of becoming a therapist.

My own courage is fortified because I know she’s done it that way and under those circumstances.

So, perhaps, I can, too.

Pam gave some things permission to exist – things that I have been trying to tackle lately.

Longtime longings, fear, a one-step-at-a-time kind of method.

You know, it just might be okay to do it that way. I don’t really need to know the outcome at the starting line, do I? I mean, who knows what the future holds?

The idea of a “stepping life” paints a good picture for me of a faith-led life. 

I knew that I couldn’t do that alone. Now I know it again. Pam reminds me that it’s worth the risk. Trying, even in the face of fear.

Because – look at the joy, the fulfillment, the everyday impact on you and on the beautiful humans that benefit when you are fully yourself.

What a wonderful thing – sharing your life and light in that way.

I have begun to realize how much the culture of my upbringing has affected my view of self.

Might this be universal and inevitable?

Know that I am speaking only for myself - from what I’ve heard and how I’ve absorbed it. My hope is that for anyone reading this who can relate, to whatever degree, the following thoughts will be a source of strength to you.

In the context of my deeply religious upbringing, beauty, as it relates to the self, was looked upon as wrong. It was wrong to look in the mirror for too long. To like what you see. To beautify. To feel lovely.

Too much time, effort, or thought about self = pride. So, zero was best. Negative was even better. Humility in extremis. The only being worthy of thought, of noticing, of beauty, was God himself. The humans he created – their rightful place was down.

Way down.

Unworthy, I think, is a good word for it. Debased, depraved, un-beautiful.

I absorbed something interesting and horrible. It was almost, if not exactly, a gnostic way of thinking. Everything spiritual was sacred. Everything material was secular/not sacred/not holy.

Everything material was unholy. Including myself.

That was hard because we are here - in bodies that are, without a doubt, very physical. This gnostic strain settled down in me as a truth. So now I am fighting my way out of this cave called shame. It is a war worth waging, I believe. It is important.

What I believe God thinks of me, how I believe he sees me, is critical. Absolutely critical.

Because – what about my purpose and reason for being? For existing in my body? And what about my daughter?

Because – my beliefs about the identity of God seep and ooze into every crack and crevice of each moment of every day. So what do my mind and heart believe? What will I choose to believe?

And then - what does he say?

The fight, the battle, is to recognize the thoughts soaked in shame. The ones that whisper–

You are unlovely.

You are unlovable.

You are of little value.

See what you did?

See who you really are?

You will never change.

You will never be enough.

These are not the thoughts that my God thinks of me.

Let’s change gears for a second - let’s discuss delight.

The delight of a father in his child.

I recently read a beautiful book (actually, I listened on Audible) called Tattoos on the Heart by Father Gregory Boyle. He is a Jesuit priest who lives to love the residents of the barrios, the neighborhoods, of Los Angeles. In Tattoos, he tells gorgeous, heart-breaking stories of his neighbors.

In one part, he is musing on the way that God loves.

He speaks of a friend, a priest, who takes a sabbatical to care for his dying father. This friend recounts to Father Gregory the daily routines of caring, of his long days nurturing and giving.

To help his father fall asleep, the priest, tired as he might have been, would sit next to the bed and read aloud to his dad. His dad would start off, lying under the covers, eyes closed, ready for sleep to come. But inevitably - he would open his eyes and watch his son read beside him, with a smile on his face.

“Dad, you are supposed to be falling asleep.”

And the old man would close his eyes once more. But it wouldn’t be long before his eyes opened again, peaking out from beneath the covers and watching his son read aloud.

After his dad passed away, Father Gregory’s friend, the priest, said that he finally realized what his dad’s reluctance to sleep was all about. It was about a dad who couldn’t take his eyes off his son.

Delight. Pure delight.

I believe that God views his children the same way.

You know that feeling of extraordinary realization? One morning a few weeks ago, while I was on vacation, it hit me.

“No way!” I thought. Oh. My. Word. 

Let me draw for you some of the surprising connections between Heleine Kaha, who shared part of her story in the last two episodes, and Gretchen Beck. I didn’t see these gorgeous similarities until that morning.

These two conversations are separated by a gulf of about 6 months, with Gretchen’s recorded in May of last year, and Heleine’s in December. My conversation with Gretchen took place before I had even met Heleine. In August, when we decided on the episode order for this first season and Gretchen’s story followed Heleine’s, there the connections were, staring me right in the face.

How can such different women, who have had such different life experiences, so passionately share the same spirit?

It’s such a gift to be able to witness the common threads between my two wonderful friends.

I think that it’s at least partly why this podcast is such important work - to showcase the life threads that exist between people whose stories are so different. We ARE different; yet, we ARE the same. I didn’t put these stories together because I saw the connections. It’s just that when the stories stood side by side, I saw their elements of sameness. And it was nothing short of a gift.

And maybe that happens more than we think, if we are willing to keep our eyes open, stay on the lookout…

I mean - I knew that both of these women spoke French. Both are in groups (not the same one) that speak and celebrate French.

But, oh my goodness, the deeper connections took me by surprise. They are so beautiful.

Heleine grew up in Cameroon.

Gretchen has ties to West Africa, too, that have shaped her deeply. She lived in Niger, just north of Cameroon from 1992 to 1995, when she was in the Peace Corps. She came to love the Nigerien people. As you’ll hear in her story, this experience profoundly changed her and shaped the future of her work as an artist.

Remember how important, how impactful color is in Heleine’s life? Heleine wears the same colors that Gretchen uses in her art.

The bold, moving, living, vibrant, shocking colors and combinations of color that reflect and express Heleine’s spirit of life and joy - those are the same ones that reflect and express Gretchen’s connection and soulful nterpretation of the Nigerien people, their landscape, and their life. 

I could not believe it. What an intersection! I had no hand in making those connections happen.

I did not do that on purpose. I do, however, get to observe that it has happened.

I’m still smiling at the gift :)

Link to Gretchen’s Artist Site

Gretchen Herself <3

After listening to this week’s episode, Heleine texted me her reaction,

“Yes, a lot of crying, but also joy and praises. Crying… laughing… cry/laughing – like life,” she said. How true that is.

“And here comes God,” she texted, “with more stories like what I am going through now.”

Heleine is, unfortunately, in a season of tears again. She lost a friend and

neighbor to the fire that razed her building.  I talked to her just a

bit ago, and she was allowed to see her condo today. It’s a huge, wet

mess. But her clothes and wardrobe, although damp, are not destroyed.

And her writings, the product of years, are intact. Awesome news!! She

can’t retrieve them yet. But, she knows that day will come. So, she’s

making it, one day at a time. And she's still smiling, even though it’s

hard in the in-between..

Even now, her focus is on the families and children who also lost their homes, on her friend who lost her life. She is busy finding opportunities to comfort them, however she is able.

She’s riding the wave, staying close to those who love her, reaching out to those who need her. Practicing thankfulness–for a place to stay. For the miracles that happen every day.

After the fire, that same day, Heleine and Mom Jane(the woman from church who has been

Heleine’s adopted mom for the last 17 years) got a call from the police saying that she had 20 minutes to get back to the apartment to take what she could. Do you know what she grabbed? 

A picture of Mom Sarah.

And her nursing certificates and diplomas that lined her hallway wall, so

artfully framed and hung with love by friends from Heleine’s church.

She said she’ll make it through, she’s not worried. Just waiting. And THAT is hard. Talk about resilience and trust.

In this episode, Heleine’s story continues. She handles significant troubles, the legacy of an incredible mother, and a big dream that would not die. This episode is difficult and searing in a few places. One particular part surprised me, and will probably surprise you. I wasn’t expecting the rawness that Heleine brought into our conversation.

These moments made clear to me the sacredness of the space that Heleine and I built for one another. Like something way bigger was happening. Heleine has since given a name to that sacred thing. It’s called is healing.

Mom Sarah’s legacy is alive and well, I think. I’m watching it happen, right in front of my eyes.

This week, we’re listening to Heleine Kaha.

Heleine came to the US - by herself - from Cameroon, in November of 2001.

The first time I spent time Heleine, we talked for three hours. I can only describe it as an intended intersection. We knew we were sisters and were meant to walk together. Our stories were meant to collide.

She honored me by telling parts of her story; telling me her life as a child and young woman; telling me her hurts and her dreams. She has struggled and fought and climbed and cried and despaired and waited patiently.