There was a day a few months ago that sucked the joy and energy from me. Nothing major happened, but I felt sad and lonely, things I don't feel very often, thankfully. My instinct was to stay in and luxuriate in my emotions, but I decided to get out and stick to my routine. The day was a Sunday, so I got up and got ready for church, even though I didn't want to go. As I got in my car, I realized the cord I use to listen to podcasts and music in my car was inside a different bag than the one I was carrying. I was running late, so I didn't have time to go back inside. I accepted that I'd be listening to whatever old CDs I happened to have stashed in my car's center console. My choices were a random mix of my favorite songs from 2014, or Nichole Nordeman's 2017 album, Every Mile Mattered. I chose the latter. Even though I was on my way to church, I hardly ever listen to Christian music, but Nordeman is a skilled songwriter whose catalog I still turn to now and then.
I was finally settled in my car, Nichole was singing to me, and I started my drive, even though all I wanted to do at that point was go back to bed. A few minutes into my journey, I saw one of my favorite sights: turkeys. I know the birds are a nuisance to some people, but I get ridiculously excited when I see turkeys. Each time, I'm as happy as the time before. I don’t understand why they delight me so much, but they do. I enjoyed getting a glimpse of the birds, and then I turned my attention to the lyrics of the song that was playing. In "You're Here," Nordeman sings of God:
You were at the altar, preacher's hand upon my head
You were in the water, when I came up clean instead
You're still in my story, when my tears fall on the dirt
You're there in the morning, wrapping grace around what hurts
You were in the questions, in the silence on the phone
You were paying cab fare, making sure I made it home
I believed in too far, I believed in my worst fear
But You were never moving closer, You were only always here
Despite growing up in church and faith being an important part of my life, belief has never been easy for me. I'm a skeptic in many ways and have never been good at prayer or meditation, but I felt overwhelming, supernatural love and tenderness come over me in the car as "You're Here" played and the turkeys walked down the street. Is this weird? Of course it is. Even so, I heard God saying, "I'm here, just like always, and I even brought these birds along today because they make you happy." I continued driving, and a few minutes later, right by a large field, I looked over and saw more turkeys than I could count. I laughed and cried and felt seen, loved, and held.
Despite the goodness of the morning, some sadness still remained, so after church, I decided to show kindness to myself by going out for coffee and a treat. I took myself to Starbucks, went inside, and ordered a rich, indulgent mocha and a pastry. I sat down and took out my journal. When I'm feeling overwhelmed, anxious, or brokenhearted, I write, so that's what I did. I ended up writing this poem.
Home Is a Table
I hear a whisper, and it sounds like my name.
You're calling me home, telling me home
is a hundred places, a thousand moments
of laughter. Home sounds like music
and feels like peace. Home is a feast
where the bread is shared
and even the crumbs offer welcome
to those I didn't expect to see eating.There are so many things I never expect,
and they keep coming, as if I love surprises.I do not love surprises.
I'm still learning how to love:
how to love you, how to love the ones
whose glass is empty, whose mouth is smeared
with grease. I don't always love myself,
but when I hear you say my name
I glimpse the girl you see and that stops me
from tearing her apart. So say my name again,
say it always. Engrave it in the wood.Home is a table, and you've saved me a seat.
I look back on this day, still so clear in my memory, of having learned two lessons. The first is that I must allow myself to be loved, and the second is that I must love myself well. My skeptical, analytical side could have heard the song lyrics, seen the turkeys, and brushed them off as nothing, but I had enough faith that morning to believe that I was being reminded of God's love and adoration. Perhaps my sadness weakened my defenses enough for me to receive that much-needed reminder. Pain can sometimes be a teacher, as much as I wish this wasn’t true.
While receiving love can feel awkward or undeserved, showing love to ourselves can feel selfish or even silly, yet it's essential to our wholeness. Self-love can look like journaling with a mocha and a chocolate croissant, but it also looks like rest, play, therapy, or taking medication. Loving ourselves can easily be seen as a self-care trend involving face masks and manicures, but it's much more than what happens on the surface. It's asking ourselves what we need in moments of depression, grief, or fear and then finding the courage and strength to meet those needs with the tools available to us.
As I wrote “Home Is a Table,” I thought about these beautiful words from the late Rachel Held Evans, found in her book, Searching for Sunday: Loving, Leaving, and Finding the Church:
“This is what God's kingdom is like: a bunch of outcasts and oddballs gathered at a table, not because they are rich or worthy or good, but because they are hungry, because they said yes. And there's always room for more.”
I hope you allow yourself to be loved this week, and I hope you treat yourself with the kindness and gentleness you deserve. I hope you take a seat at the table and know with utmost certainty that the spot was saved just for you.
I’d love to hear how you practice self-care. What actions help you feel connected to yourself? When have you allowed yourself to be loved by someone else? Leave your thoughts below. As always, thanks for reading.
Wonderful story, and poem. 🥰
I’ve been working on self-care a lot these past couple of years.
I enjoy quiet walks, and using my five senses to take everything in.
Laughing with friends!😉
And forgiving myself when I make mistakes!
I love the reminder of our seat at the table. I have been working on giving myself grace and showing others grace. I don’t have to be perfect and others don’t either.