Faith (R)Evolution

~ Lisa Ancona-Roach ~ Leave a comment

As a child, my faith was simple and unconflicted. As I grew, it became less so, but I knew that was alright because I have always believed that faith without questioning isn’t really faith at all. So I question, but I believe.

These last several years, though, have really affected how I feel about organized religion–particularly Christianity. And not for the better. Far from it. In fact, I’m pretty sure some of my early Christian education instructors would be rolling over in their graves if I told them about my faith’s evolution. How it has evolved to include all the people that we were taught needed to change who they were or they couldn’t be a part of the club. How I believe so many people in the club should be slapped upside the head and made to see that their actions are the hypocritical opposite of what Jesus taught us. (You know–Jesus, the brown-skinned, undocumented immigrant who believed in paying taxes…) How I believe that the man-made church is built on a patriarchal system designed to deny equality and manipulate scripture to retain power. Or how… well, you get the idea. My faith is no longer that of a six-year-old.

The truth is, if it wasn’t for my current church, I’m not sure I would still be attending one anymore. I am grateful for the people in it and the open heart and mind that shapes all that our church does. So when my pastor asked me if I would write and share a perspective of mine “from the pews” for our church blog, I did.

I’m sharing it here in case you might be interested in taking a peek. It’s just a simple little story of how my family has literally left our mark on the church!

2023: Folding in the Cheese

~ Lisa Ancona-Roach ~ 2 Comments

Have you ever had a thread hanging from a sleeve that someone thought they would “help” by pulling, but it didn’t break off and just kept pulling? And when you were able to take a closer look you realized that if you continued pulling it, the entire sleeve would come off?

This is what the last several years have felt like for me. How about you?

The great unraveling.

I feel the national/global version of it—where rights we thought were carved in stone have been shattered into rubble, hates we thought we grew beyond were revealed to be as ugly as ever, and a disrespect for the world we are leaving our children is counted in billion-dollar profits.

Day after day feeling like Apollo Creed getting mortally pummeled by Ivan Drago.

It’s personal, too. The word I keep returning to for how I’ve felt these last several years is “untethered.” The feeling of overwhelm has resulted in a disconnect that has me floating around in a surreal, slow-motion 3D-pinball game. A game I am not winning.

And if I haven’t mixed enough metaphors/similes for you yet, here’s one more: I feel like I have been working to swim to a shore that I cannot see—and don’t know if I am getting closer or farther from land.

Even choosing a word of the year for 2023 has had me scratching my head. Normally, the word truly “appears” to me with little thought, but this year—unless the word “huh?” qualifies—I have been grappling. I was tempted to forego it—and if it hadn’t been a years-long tradition, I probably would have—but I didn’t. I’m holding myself accountable. (Though in reading this rambling post, perhaps you are wishing I wouldn’t have.)

I need to feel more grounded. I need to feel a little less lost and a little more found, and so it is with this yearning that I share the word I have ultimately chosen for 2023: integrate.

Merriam Webster defines integrate as “to form, coordinate, or blend into a functioning or unified whole.” While there are variations of the meaning—like the societal application—for my purposes, the understanding that I am embracing is the idea of working toward a personal “unified whole.”

Should take me just a few more days.

Or a lifetime.

Give or take.

The problem is that there’s no pause button to hit on life—the pages of the calendar fill up and get ripped off without missing a beat—no matter what you have going on. And working on anything, let alone a “unified whole,” too often gets buried under life’s responsibilities.

But in 2023 that is all going to magically change for me.

Okay, maybe not. But putting a name to it and seeing it for what it is matters, and the pursuit of wholeness should not continue to be relegated to the bottom drawer of my mind’s file cabinet. This year I am going to do my best to make it top drawer.

Though I am not sure of what integration looks or feels like for me, I know it involves the whole smash: body, mind, and soul. A team effort. I know that, like most of us complicated beings, I have some parts that have broken down or were maybe never put together properly to begin with, and so I am striving to both repair and build anew—and hopefully find true wholeheartedness along the way.

Fun fact: a welded joint, when using the right materials and process, is stronger than the original metal. I like that. Maybe there’s some welding involved in this integration that will result in even greater strength.

Other verbs I know factor into this goal include focus, listen, learn, rest, heal, play, connect, feel…and more. I sense, too, that it is not a destination but a practice, just as when I hit the yoga mat and must remember to breathe and pay attention.

Have I convinced you yet that I absolutely don’t know what I’m talking about regarding my very own “word of the year”? I’ve certainly convinced myself.

In thinking about it, though, I can’t help but remember a scene from one of my favorite shows…

Folding in the cheese is a way of integrating a part into a whole, after all. Maybe I just need to figure out what needs folding and where.

What I do know is that the swirly-ballooned-3D-pinball experience needs to be game over. Please. Before I float away all together. I could end up like one of those balloons we used to release when we were kids (before we knew how bad that was) with our address attached to the string hoping someone might find it and write us from some exotic land. (Does Beloit, Wisconsin qualify as exotic? If so, I think our hopes were fulfilled.)

Lots of thoughts. No clear plan. Sounds about right.

But here we go, 2023…Hoping for “into great.”

FraGEElay x 11

~ Lisa Ancona-Roach ~ 8 Comments

Over the years—ten previous ones, to be exact—I have written a Christmas Eve fraGEElay* post that reflects on life’s fragilities and how this season is a good time to take care of one another and be mindful of life’s precarious nature.

This year, I want to share a personal reality to help drive this point home.

When I was a kid, a rift in my extended family happened that resulted in my immediate family disconnecting from pretty much everyone else. We kids didn’t really understand or know why, but it happened, and we just had to deal with it. And so we did. For…decades.

My dad died when I was 21 and took his answers with him. My mom—well, that’s a whole other story—but she expected/demanded our loyalty and kept her answers to herself, as well—until she, too, died.

And in the wisdom that sometimes comes with age, my sister and brother and I decided that regardless of what those answers were, we needed to seek reconnection with those we missed out on for so many years.

In our seeking, we have met with family and learned that the origin of the issue was small and petty. And unless there is more to the story that we have yet to learn, this little incident stood—and hurt feelings built up until a wall divided loved ones—and way too many people died with that wall separating us from one another.

My family missed out on decades of relationships and memories with our extended family over a stupid spat. In fact, the people who were the ones with the issue have long since died.

The ripple effect of loss is far-reaching and life-changing. Such fragility.

But now we are working to move forward. We can’t make up for lost time, but we are striving to make new memories together.

But.

There is a plaque that hangs in my kitchen that says,

The clock of life is wound but once,
and no man has the power
to tell just when the hands will stop
at late or early hour.
Now is the only time you own,
Live, love, toil with a will,
Place no faith in “tomorrow,” for
The clock may then be still.

In November, we were fortunate to reconnect with our aunt and several cousins. It was so much fun, and we all were genuinely delighted to spend time together. None of us could even understand why we had fallen away from each other. We felt the love and warmth and knew it was the beginning of a new chapter.

We made plans for another gathering to spend more time with my aunt. To just be with her and listen to her stories. She was the last person from my parents’ generation who could still share memories with us, and I yearned to hear the stories of long ago.

A few days before our get together, my cousin reached out to postpone because a couple people in the family were sick, and she didn’t want her mom to get sick, too.

Eight days after we were supposed to get together, my aunt was gone.

People. Life is fragile.

Yesterday—on a day with ridiculously frigid temps and dangerous winds, not to mention the day before Christmas Eve—was my aunt’s visitation. The place was filled. This was a testament to who she was, as well as the family she raised. While a few minutes outside could result in frostbite, a few minutes inside, and you could feel the warmth and love.

The outpouring of that love was beautiful—but also a stark reminder of what my sister, brother, and I missed out on. Many people shared stories about sitting at my aunt’s table—of her feeding them, sharing stories and laughter…

Had it not been for choices made by people long ago to hang onto slights rather than talk them through, we would have been at that table, too.

And so, my friends, as you gather with family this Christmas and holiday season, remember that life is indeed fraGEElay, but conflicts—big or small—do not have to result in long-lasting brokenness.

If you are dealing with an issue where hurt feelings exist, please consider planting your feet in vulnerability and reaching out. While it does risk more hurt, it also offers the hope of fresh air, warm hearts, and a seat at the table that will leave you full of both delicious food—and love.

I wish you a peaceful, safe, and love-filled Christmas and New Year. Happy Holidays to all—and may we seek and find a way of being better to one another…in our homes, our communities, our nation, and our world.

*If you are unfamiliar with this reference, it comes from the beloved movie “A Christmas Story.” I can no longer see the word “fragile” and pronounce it in any way other than fraGEElay. That must be Italian.

2022—A Year to Begin Closing a Gaping Agape Hole?

~ Lisa Ancona-Roach ~ Leave a comment

My faith needs bolstering these days. In general, it feels like Rocky after a few rounds with Clubber Lang…taking quite a few hits and finding itself on the ropes, hoping for the bell to ring to end the round and catch its breath before it keels over.

It is primarily my faith in people that is so wounded, after these last years of division and vitriol. We have siloed ourselves and shouted in echo chambers and across social media platforms to tear each other apart with little thought of impact or consequences.

“Us” and “them” is deeply rooted in our psyches, and I am weary from it all.

In those initial, scary weeks when the pandemic struck, I hoped that maybe a tiny positive byproduct of it would be its common enemy status—that we would come together to fight this invisible villain in order to save lives.

We did not.

While we may rise to the occasion…we fall to the everyday.

Yes, people come together in times of crisis. When Harvey ravaged Houston and people drove around in boats rescuing anyone they could find, they noted how it didn’t matter what your politics were—just get in the boat. Moments of coming together? Sure. Continued, concerted everyday efforts? Well, that’s unfortunately a different story.

Consequently, my faith is wobbly from the heart punches it has sustained and the loss it has witnessed…and I long for a way to renew it. I think that is why, as I wondered if a word for 2022 would find me, as it has for the last several years, the word “faith” was knocking on my heart.

But then bell hooks passed. And Archbishop Desmond Tutu joined her. And as I looked for my next thing to listen to while I do my morning exercises, Bishop Michael Curry’s Love Is the Way presented itself to me on my audiobook playlist. In listening to his Morgan Freeman-esque voice, my word for the year fell right into my heart: Love…It must be. Because it is only through love that my faith can regrow in the fertile soil of agape, and not just for me alone.

Agape, one of the seven words to describe love in the Greek language, is defined by Bishop Curry as a “sacrificial love that seeks the good and well-being of others, of society, of the world.” And in our current times, it feels like there is a gaping hole where agape love should be firmly established.

what the world needs now…

People like Curry and hooks and Tutu have lived lives dedicated to teaching that love is THE gamechanger. It is a verb—an action—that, heals, redeems, and brings about true change. It is a choice we make daily. It is what Jesus made plain: My command is this: Love each other as I have loved you. Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one’s life for one’s friends. (John 15:12-13)

So…with love determining itself to be my word of the year—what exactly does this mean for me? After all, it’s not exactly a newsflash. I know love is the way.

It feels more like it is to be a recommitment.

And since agape is manifested in action, I will need to recommit to…act more. Learn. Listen. Serve. Share. Pray. Give. And more that I have yet to know.

But please do not see this as a New Year’s resolution. I am in no way thinking that with this guidance for the year—and my life—that I just need to keep at it like any other “goal.” Oh, no, no, no, no…no. This is a reminder for me to continue to wrestle with the call to love one another and live a life of love. It’s a biggie. There are those who are easy to love, and then there are those who…are not easy to love. And the call is to love the whole smash. And live it out in action. A tall order. Something that I must practice day in and day out.

And in my wearied state of wobbly faith, I don’t approach it glibly. But I do know that love wins, so even in my weariness, I must recommit to doing my best to live that love. Because otherwise? Otherwise, not only love and faith are at risk but hope, too. And where do I go from there?

I do not want to know.

So here is to 2022 being a year that plants seeds of love that develop into generous, thriving gardens of faith, hope…and more and more love.  

To love, my brothers and sisters, does not mean we have to agree. But maybe agreeing to love is the greatest agreement. And the only one that ultimately matters, because it makes a future possible.
―Michael B. Curry, Love Is the Way: Holding on to Hope in Troubling Times

The choice to love is a choice to connect―to find ourselves in the other.
―bell hooks, all about love

Your ordinary acts of love and hope point to the extraordinary promise that every human life is of inestimable value.
―Desmond Tutu

A new commandment I give to you, that you love one another: just as I have loved you, you also are to love one another.
―John 13:34

And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.
―1 Corinthians 13:13

The FraGEElay Nature of Life: How $2.50 Saved an Entire Town

~ Lisa Ancona-Roach ~ Leave a comment

For my tenth annual iteration of my Christmas Eve(ish) FraGEElay* post, I find my heart dwelling on another Christmas classic: It’s a Wonderful Life. It is my favorite movie, and I have seen it over 100 times. But my viewing of it the other night brought me a new understanding and insight.

The film (for those living in a sad “I haven’t watched IAWL” world) is about George Bailey being shown the impact he has had on his hometown, Bedford Falls, to prove to him in his darkest hour that his town—and the world—need him. But what I realized this last viewing is that the same could be said about the character of Mrs. Davis. Who is Mrs. Davis, you ask? Well, besides growing up to become Grandma Walton, she is the young woman who asks for $17.50 to tide her over until the bank re-opens (during the scene of the bank run of the Great Depression).

Others in the scene ask for $20 (not to mention $242, Tom), and if Mrs. Davis had done the same, there would have been no “mama dollar and papa dollar” left for George to hold in his hands until the final second of the business day. Instead, they would have been 50¢ short and had to close early, which—according to Mr. Potter—meant that they would never reopen. (Yes, I know this calculation doesn’t account for the possibility of others adjusting what they asked for—perhaps the last person would have seen they were going to run out of money and asked accordingly—but the movie is rife with these kinds of “ifs,” so let’s just go with it.)

The defaulting of the Building and Loan would have meant that Potter would own all of Bedford Falls—and people would no longer have the option to borrow money from a company that has a heart and knows and cares for people. They would only be dealing with a wealthy kingpin who has no regard for the “rabble” of his town (sound familiar?)

Yes, yes, yes—of course George matters to the survival of Bedford Falls, but so does Mrs. Davis. That single, small choice—to ask for $2.50 less than the others—resulted in Potter’s being thwarted in amassing more from those who have less (again…sound familiar??) Pottersville be damned.

Life is fragile in so many ways. We continue to deal with a tenacious virus that has now claimed over 800,000 American lives. (When I wrote last year’s post, the number was “only” 334,000.) And beyond its physical death toll, it has revealed and underscored the depths of the disease of polarization, where minorly inconvenient ways to mitigate the spread of the virus turn into majorly appalling actions like threatening the lives of school board members…over a mask mandate. What the holy fahrvergnugen?  

In my estimation, the world is more fragile than ever. From climate change to the weakening of democracy to systemic “isms” that damage and destroy innumerous lives daily, we need to find a way to examine our problems, learn how to fix them, and then take care of business. Cancers don’t go away by refusing to address them or merely casting blame, and neither will any one of the challenges plaguing our fragile world today.

Sure. Okay. I’ll get right on that.

Rather than taking action, though, I find myself untethered and in an overwhelming (and I mean Brené Brown’s “I’m blown” definition of the word) wave of anxiety that comes from thinking about how to even begin to address these problems. What can I possibly do? Is it too late? Is there time? Will anything truly change?

I don’t really know. What I do know, though, is that sometimes, even something as small as Mrs. Davis’ choice can make a big difference. We may not understand it at the time, but it matters.

It matters a great deal.

Life is fraGEElay.

$2.50 saved Bedford Falls.

All hope is not lost.

I wish you a peaceful, safe, and love-filled Christmas and New Year. May we seek and find a way of being better to one another…in our homes, our communities, our nation, and our world.

*If you are unfamiliar with this reference, it comes from the beloved movie “A Christmas Story.” I can no longer see the word “fragile” and pronounce it in any way other than fraGEElay. That must be Italian.

Time Marches On…(and The Juggle Struggle Is 9)

~ Lisa Ancona-Roach ~ 7 Comments

I am both happy and sad when people ask me why The Juggle Struggle rarely sees a new post these days. Happy that anyone cares…sad that I am not writing like I used to. The truth is that I have a lot that I want to write, but my focus and discipline have hitched a ride out of town. I haven’t completely given up, though, and I am compelled to write a little now to mark the ninth anniversary of this blog.

On October 18, 2012, I wrote my first post. The ol’ girl’s been around for a while and seen many changes over the years…the blog, me…the world. So much is so very different. But one thing is always constant: There are 24 hours in a day, and the days just keep getting logged into the book of life.

My church is currently studying No Cure for Being Human, by Kate Bowler, and today we discussed the idea of “spending” time–as the currency that it truly is–and what it means about the choices we make. This perspective of time as a finite entity makes me think of something I came across a few years ago via Tim Urban’s Wait But Why site. He does some wonderful things with numbers, and one spin of his really drives home the point about our time on this planet. Below is what a 90-year lifespan looks like in weeks…and the blue line is where I am…

Image courtesy of Tim Urban’s Wait But Why)

…well past the half-way mark…IF I make it to 90. That’s a lot to take in.

And in taking a peek back on this anniversary at some of my previous posts, I remembered the one that I am sharing below. I wrote it when my son was 10–and it speaks to how much time we had left before he turned 18. Well, guess what? That milestone was reached earlier this year. Reading what I wrote then is obviously poignant to me now.

It happened in a mere blink.

What will the next blink bring? How many blinks do I have left?

Time marches on…

So…happy anniversary, The Juggle Struggle! I am grateful to have the words to string together that can sometimes matter to people. And I am grateful for every reader who gives me a few minutes of their precious time to read those words–I appreciate you more than you know!

And now, if you care to read on, I offer you the post that I wrote eight years ago…thinking about the time that I am actually facing now. A blink indeed.

936 and Counting

Originally posted September 30, 2013

Time flies. We all know this. The only case where time does NOT fly is instances like when you’re stuck in a boring workshop where they have the thermostat set so cold it just may crack off a body part and all you can think about is lunch. Then it’s slow. But typically, another week comes and goes and it feels like a blip on the radar.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

Recently, I had a 1-2 punch that was the kind of coincidence that makes me stop and think. I saw a framed graphic at a family member’s house that said something along the lines of “940. The number of Saturdays until your child reaches 18.” Me being me, I checked the math (52×18=936) and wondered why they added the extra month. Googling it, 940 is the number used again and again, but I like the number 936 better than 940 anyway, so I’m sticking with that. (Why the extra four? Can you guess?)

The very next day I was speaking to a friend, and she said her pastor’s message that Sunday was on pretty much the exact same thing. He had a jar of marbles that visually represented how many weeks were left before his daughter turned 18. The emphasis being, of course, that we use our time together wisely. It is fleeting.

So there I was, with two totally different avenues leading me to the same wakeup call: we only have so much time with our children before they are off and running in the world.

Of course, I know this. But when you put a finite number around it, it drives it home even further. Tick…tock…and another week is gone. Another marble leaves the jar.

I have issues with time management. I just do. I aspire to knock the hell out of each day, and before I know it, I’m brushing my teeth before bed.

But the clock of life is wound but once…

My son had his feet resting on my lap the other day, and…they were huge. What happened to the teeny ones that I nibbled on and made him giggle?

He was just sharing with me his fascination with the circulatory system that he’s learning about in science class. Only yesterday he was learning the alphabet.

I tell him—like my dad always told me—there will always be room on my lap for him. But the last time he tried it, we laughed together at how comical we must have looked.

936.

If my math is right, we’ve had 541 Saturdays together…and only 395 left before he turns 18.

395. 3-9-5. Holy crimony.

Thankfully, I am wise enough to know that these days do not need to be chock full and supercharged to be meaningful. I think back to my own childhood, and I realize that while there are some “big” memories of trips and special events—the real things that stick are the small things. The moments. It didn’t have to be anything special—just a time where I felt that I mattered. I don’t even think those thoughts typically cross our minds when they are happening—it’s like they just go into a special reservoir of love, where for some reason, we feel it and cherish it.

So, before I “lose my marbles” with my son, I need to remind myself that the moments count. That just because we may not be able to carve out the better part of a day to do something significant, I can still get out and play touch football with him and his dad.

I can genuinely listen to him catch me up on the first part of the “Full House” episode that I am sitting down to watch the rest of with him.

I can make time for a bike ride on a beautiful fall day, even if deadlines are looming.

I can share in his joy at the occasional 49¢ McDonald’s ice cream cone.

While we still do need to hit the “big” things and make those memories, it’s important to remind myself in the swirl of the day that not all is lost as long as we remember the moments, too.

Because that is what he will remember. The moments.

936 down to 395.

It’s not about us putting more stress on ourselves because who needs more of that? What it is about is keeping the perspective that we do have a finite time with our children, and it does matter—to them and to us—and it is all a blessing of unknown impact and meaning.

So amidst the flurry and chaos of everyday life, I’m going to strive to remember to jump in the leaves. Even if it means we have to rake them all over again.