The missing jigsaw puzzle cover

For many of us growing up, putting together jigsaw puzzles was “a thing”. At our house, the end of our dining table, made from a door my father put metal legs on, was a perfect place for a work in progress.

We all had our own methods to assist in a quicker solving of the puzzle. Sort by color. Sort by purpose. Do one section at a time. Do one corner at a time. In our family, the kids even thought it funny to hide a couple of pieces just to frustrate the person most determined to finish one.

But regardless of method, one necessary part to the completion of any puzzle was the box top with the picture. We would rest it on one end and set it at the place of honor at the top of the puzzle, analyzing its features to find clues for how to finish quickly.

Even in the highly technological world in which we now find ourselves, the puzzle still holds its place, especially on family outings. In rented cabins or condos, finding an old puzzle box often brings a rush of childhood anticipation as the family slowly works on it in odd free moments.

It is a metaphor for life, I think now. We all have a picture on some imaginary cover of how we think life should go, and we have these various pieces we are always trying to analyze to see how they fit. Only the pieces are constantly changing shape, size and color.

A promotion doesn’t happen, cancer does, and then the picture on the cover itself changes, catching us unaware. That dream job doesn’t materialize or the Disney view of marriage faces reality, and once again, we are left scrambling to readjust the image for the life we thought we were trying to piece together.

At some point, at least for us, we settled into the picture we thought was our lives and just kept forcing pieces into places they didn’t belong trying to make the picture happen the way we thought it should be.

We knew what our puzzle picture was in our every day, organized and planned life in the Northwest. We knew where the edges were, and the picture was pretty much complete. And then we made that fateful, Spirit led decision to leave everything behind and move into the desert Southwest. And we realized quickly that we hadn’t simply changed the picture.

The new puzzle did not have a cover at all.

That could have been a frightening thing, but it has been exhilarating because we have been able to experience what happens when we release our expectations of what our lives should look like and instead just watch the picture unfold through no design of our own.

And it is a process that is filled with joyful anticipation and devoid of fear.

It is the lack of fear that has caught me most off guard. Having no idea of what is before us or what we are to “be about” here should be cause for some anxiety. But there is none. A vague sense of being unsettled presents itself at times perhaps, but it is wrapped in the arms of deep peace.

In letting go of our preconceived notions of what life should look like, we now have a front row seat to what life is like when guided daily by an unseen hand

In the process, we are learning to finely attune our listening to the whispers of the Spirit who guides us in ways that defy explanation. We are learning the joy of turning over the steering wheel and the destination. And we are learning that we do not need to know what the picture looks like or where the pieces go.

We just need to sit back and watch as the scene unfolds before us.

Coming full circle

In the spiderweb of creative connections in my life, for some unknown reason no one looms larger than Jimmy Yessian. Yes, he was a brilliant songwriter. Yes, he was one of the kindest, most generous people I ever knew. Yes, his heart and sense of humor lit up any room he entered.

But what I treasured most about him is that he once said he wished he could put on a stretch super hero suit and take out those who had harmed me.

Missing him deeply this morning, I went to the folder where I had saved all of our email correspondence. I thought that maybe I would find some healing through rereading them in the early dawn, but the ache in my heart just grew as I continued to read and reflect on the impact he had on my life.

We once talked about the fact that neither one of us understood the friendship. I still don’t. But I know for me, it transcended the music. And I discovered that when I sent him a copy of my memoir “Killing the Helicopter Woman” which details the story of sexual abuse at the hands of my father.

Over the years, we had sent creative works in progress back and forth, but it was always about music. Deciding to share the novel was a hard thing to do, exposing my past to someone I didn’t know very well. I felt vulnerable, and yet a part of me wanted him to know the “real me” warts and all.

Today in the early morning hours I re-read his reaction to the novel. He said it had taken awhile to write back because he read the memoir several times and then had his beautiful wife, a therapist, read it with him so he could understand it better.

The words he shared in that email would have been healing to any survivor of abuse. He got it. He understood on a heart level the pain and devastation that happens in a soul when this horrific violation happens. And I could not stop crying when I read through his final words again.

To just survive would have been enough. You stood on top of the world and said ‘I’m alive – I am free’.

For some reason,I felt seen and validated and filled with new hope, even through my tears today.

Jimmy is gone now, over one year. For all of us who loved him, the wounds are still so fresh. I have been thinking of him especially now, having moved to Arizona and looking to make songwriting connections again in a place where I know no one.

Yesterday, my first music connection here, a musician and recording engineer, called to let me know that around the corner from my house, a couple who had moved from Nashville was holding a songwriting seminar.

He mentioned both of their first names, and I stopped him in mid sentence to ask their last names. When he told me, I realized that this couple was the one that Jimmy had just referenced in one of the first emails sent to me 17 years ago. He said they had changed the trajectory of his musical life.

And now they were my neighbors in this small Arizona town.

These were people Jimmy loved, who had embraced him from the beginning, and were now entering my life 17 years later. He was still with me, doing what he did best for all of us: sending encouragement, bringing creatives together, and helping all of us be better by working together.

Jimmy, you always were that stretch super hero dude to me, and you always will be. You were the older brother I always wished I’d had. You stood in the darkness with me in the telling of my story, providing hope and encouragement. And I believe you are continuing to intercede in my life even now as I make new connections that tie me to you and your spirit.

I miss you.

But you are here…

Super hero suit and all.

As the Quakers say…

About 25 years ago, Tim and I found ourselves in a sharing circle in a convent in San Francisco. As with most unusual experiences, we can’t exactly pinpoint how we arrived at the decision to be there.

Dubbed the first West Coast “spiritual formation gathering for spiritual leaders,” we joked that we didn’t know what the term meant, and we were certainly not spiritual leaders, which made our presence there even more puzzling.

In that first “get acquainted circle”, the attendees and retreat leaders took turns sharing their names, professions, and why they had come to the retreat. I heard the names of several authors whose devotions I had been drawn to. Pastors, spiritual directors, lay leaders…one by one the introductions continued until it was Tim’s turn.

“My name is Tim. I am a bus driver. I have no idea why I am here.”

In spite of that awkward start, though, we both had seminal experiences that week with our new tribe: contemplatives. The stories of miraculous encounters at this retreat are for another time, but during the week, one ritual occurred that we came to love: the setting of intention for the day.

The leader for the first morning began by leading us in prayer and then explained the plan for the day, which involved a lengthy introduction and a list of activities. This was standard fare for conferences.

In our heads, we were already gearing up to start completing tasks when we heard the leader pause and take a deep breath. Having finished an exhaustive list, the leader looked up, gently smiled, and then simply said,

“Or not…”

We looked at each other and stifled a laugh. Those two words gave us instant freedom from the tyranny of our inner “rule followers” who clamor for control and approval. We were encouraged at the end of each morning’s plan to listen to the gentle promptings of the Holy Spirit and act on those promptings even if they did not include the “official plan.”

We have continued to practice that holy listening especially when we travel, so when we awoke at the Grand Canyon well before dawn, we set the intention to see the sun rise without knowing what the destination would hold. As we walked the darkened path, we could barely make out other forms carefully making their way in the pre-dawn light.

Arriving at Mather Point, we noticed pockets of people who had gathered before us, many wrapped in blankets to ward off the early morning chill. Excited murmurings filled the air, and the conversations swelled as tripods were set up and cameras readied to hopefully capture a miraculous moment. Waiting for this sunrise, I saw faces come into focus that reflected cultures from all around the world. I witnessed selfies and family photos being taken, and I heard the mingled voices become like a rush of water babbling over stones. As the soft grey light increased, eyes seemingly gleamed with the same expectant, hopeful glint.

The sun was coming.

Suddenly, I saw a woman’s gray-haired head turn from a rocky place below the crowd. In a thick German accent reminiscent of my mom’s, she nearly shouted at the crowd above her on the path.

“You need to be quiet.”

A moment of stunned silence spread, thickening the air with shock and shame. Joy was rushing off the path like air out of a popped balloon. I turned to the small crowd near me who seemed almost paralyzed and simply said,

“Or not.”

I get it. We all approach sacred moments in different ways. Some of us are navel gazers, and some of us dance in the aisles with our arms in the air. Most of us fall somewhere in between.

But this was not a classical music concert with strict protocols on when to applaud and when to be silent. This was not a loft in a study library of a hallowed institution of higher learning. This was not a solo hike in the woods that came with an expectation of solitude and reflection.

This was a communal experience of the miracle of a sunrise over one of the seven wonders of the world.

Like her, I too had expectations for how this moment should be met. I wanted that crowd to burst into wild, spontaneous applause and cry out, “Do it again, God” when the sun completed its climb over the rim. I wanted to conduct a spontaneous Mather Point choir, lifting our voices in a magnificent chorus of “How Great Thou Art” as the first red shafts of light cut through the clouds. I wanted us to hug each other before we walked away, total strangers of every tribe and tongue, and wonder at this shared experience of shalom expressed in a sunrise.

But in the end, I simply remembered that after the intention is set, I could gently let go of my agenda and simply say within my heart,

“Or not.”

And I wish she had done the same.