I can see your life from up here

So, President Obama and I were on this scaffold. Well, to be honest, it wasn't really a scaffold. It was more like a rectangular surfboard kind of a thing, and it was suspended in mid-air. We were both standing on it, and there were no railings, no ropes or anything to hold onto. The surboardy-scaffoldy thing was level with the top of the Empire State building and we were looking down on the Macy's Day Parade as it passed below us.


As dreams go, this one was emotionally vivid. I distinctly remember looking down at the parade floats and seeing them as toys, and then coming slowly to the realization that they only looked tiny because I was so incredibly unbelievably terrifyingly high off the ground with nothing to hold onto except a powerful leader.

Hmmm.

He said to me, "As you look down there, can you come to an appreciation of how high up you are right now?" A toy bus passed under the surfboardy-scaffoldy thing.

"Yes," I replied. "And it's making me sick to my stomach and making my knees weak... Can you please just lower me? I want to be back on the ground."

Slowly the scaffoldy-surfboardy thing floated down and I got off.

You see, I've been very impatient as of late. Frustrated because things I've been hoping and praying for haven't been developing quickly enough for me. I've been arguing with God about His timing. I'm 55 years old for Your Sake. What the heck are we waiting for? 

So God - disguised as a powerful presence for which I hold great affection and respect - took me up really, really, high, and invited me to look down on life the way He might see it. When you can see both the beginning and the ending of the parade at the same time you don't see it for its individual parts and pieces. When you're on the sidewalk watching, all you can see is a humungous floating SpongeBobSquarePants, then a squad of veterans, then a beauty queen, then a giggle of clowns, each one monopolizing your view in turn. But from up there on the scaffoldy surfboardy thing, you see the parade's entirety, its holism. And the passage of time takes on new meaning; time grips more tightly when you are standing up close, and exhales a bit when you gain distance. The older I get, the more I appreciate that. I was in a bad marriage for 15 years. When I was 35, that accounted for nearly half of my time on this earth. Now, I see it as a difficult relationship from my youth. Hopefully I will live long enough to see it reduced to a diminutive float in the parade of my life. I can catch glimpses of that even from where I stand now.

From His eternal perpective I imagine that God sees the whole of my life. And it all makes sense, it all flows down a perfect boulevard to a place that I can't see because I'm down here, marching in the parade. And I think that through this dream, He was telling me that I wouldn't like it if I could be up there, seeing things from His perspective. It would make me dizzy, and frighten me to have the kind of vision reserved for God and his angels.

So with my feet on the ground, I will wait and trust that God-bama knows exactly what He is doing. Left, right, left, right, left, right...

Peace,
Julie

Julie Scipioni is a writer, speaker, and the co-author of the #1 Amazon bestselling novel, Iris & Lily.

Don't let go, Mr. Compertore!

Sometime around 1964 - I don't remember exactly when because I was four years old and I forgot to mark it on the calendar - I learned how to ride a bike. I don't remember my parents being involved. They had 11 children to look after, so unless you were bleeding at my house, you were pretty much on your own. But down the street lived my best friend, and her father helped teach me. At one point, he was holding on to the back of the seat, running along behind me, and I was calling out, "Don't let go, Mr. Compertore!" The next thing I knew, I was sailing down the sidewalk, albeit wobbling and terrified, with Mr. Compertore nowhere in sight.

Riding my bike is one of the few pleasures I discovered in my childhood that I still enjoy. So today when I woke up to a sunny Thanksgiving with the temperatures in the 50s, I decided that the best way to express my gratitude would be to go for a spin on my old Schwinn, aka "the cruiser."

Someone in the neighborhood was burning a log fire and the smoky sweetness of it tickled my nostrils. I turned up the music and pedaled a little faster. I let go of the handlebars, just to see if I could keep my balance. I did. I rode across the bridge that goes over the highway and I waved to all of the motorists below, just to see if they would wave back. They didn't. I sang out loud. I stopped at the playground and went on the swings. I closed my eyes, imagining what it would feel like to fly. I brought my swing to a stop and did that twisty thing with the chain, releasing myself into a wild spin.

Today, I felt free in a way that I haven't in a very long time. It was like going back in time and reliving a morning of my childhood with nothing in sight except the sky and the road and the open day ahead. It seemed a little like heaven. Jesus once said that unless we become like little children, we will never enter the kingdom of heaven, so I guess that means if we can become childlike we'll get a glimpse into life the way God intended it to be. Joyful and free.

One of the greatest freedoms we experience as children is the freedom from carrying the emotional burdens of others. But it doesn't last very long. At least it didn't for me. I learned very early on that if someone around me was unhappy it was quite possibly because of something I did, and even if it wasn't, it was still my responsibility to try and fix it. Along the way here and there I picked up problems that weren't mine to solve and worries that I had no power to ease, and by the time I was an adult, I was like a pack mule for the lame and brokenhearted. This burden violated my sense of fair play, but I didn't know how to give any of it back. So I trudged along, backed bowed, feet on fire, hoping that everyone would one day take back their crap and go home.

Needless to say, they didn't. Why would they? Why carry your own load when someone else is so willing to do it for you?

Over time, by Grace, and through many painful experiences I finally learned how to give people back their own burdens, how to release them in love, how to allow them to face the consequences of their own choices. My childlike joy and sense of freedom this morning was a celebration of my saddle bags, finally empty except for the few things I carry for myself.

As I look at the road behind me, I can see how futile was my effort to be anyone's savior, and even how foolish the desire to do so. Like if Mr. Compertore had listened to me, if he had worried too much about my temporary well-being to let go of the seat of my bike, and just agreed to run behind me until I was no longer afraid. Which, by the way, never would have happened. The longer he would have held on, the more afraid of riding on my own I would have become. It is the prospect of doing something scary on your own that is the source of fear, and it is the sailing on down the street that triumphs over it and leads you to the next great adventure life has to offer. It is not my place to deprive others of that accomplishment, of that joy.

And so I let go, and so I ride on.

Peace,
Julie

Julie Scipioni is a writer, speaker, and the co-author of the #1 Amazon bestselling novel, Iris & Lily.

I'll show you mine (Even if you don't show me yours)

I have very few physical scars. When I was 10 years old, I tried to use my bicycle to boost myself up into the apple tree in our yard. The bike slipped and I followed, scraping my shin on the chain, ripping a gash down to the bone. I still notice the mark it left every time I pull my socks on. It reminds me that new ideas need to be thought through. Then, when I was 29, I gave birth to a gorgeous baby boy by Cesarean section. When I notice that scar, I am reminded of my sweet boy and all he's been to me in my life.

So basically, with just the two scars, I'm in pretty good shape. However, if you could look at me and see the scars of my emotional and spiritual life, I would be a hacked and bloodied mess.

I am a warrior. I don't actually remember signing up (I'm pretty sure I was drafted), but at a very early stage of life I found myself deeply embroiled in battle. The string of challenges has remained fairly unbroken. I can speculate and philosophize until the end of time about the how and why of ordinary human suffering. Some would say I attracted troubles to myself with my thoughts. Others would say it's karma, the fee for the piper's song that still reverberates from another lifetime. Some simply say, "That's life! Stuff happens because we're human and it's all a big ugly crap shoot."

I suppose if I had to try and answer the "why" of my own trials it would be a combination of those factors. Suffering is inherent in the human experience. I also can't deny the influence of time, place, and culture on my individual circumstances. And truthfully, I haven't always sowed seeds of peace and harmony, so it would stand to reason that at least a limited harvest of pain would crop up through the soil of my life by my own hand.

Don't get me wrong - I have been richly blessed and there have been many ecstatically happy times, too, but I'm just one of those people who seems to have met with my share of trials, and (I suspect) maybe even some that were intended for someone who just happened to look like me.

But I'm not unique. Not by a long shot. There are countless people all over the world and throughout time who are experiencing and have experienced everything that I've been through - and much worse. So why is it that when we are walking through the shadows that we feel so utterly alone, as though no one understands and that no help is near?

For one thing, when we are in pain, we become afraid, and that fear not only shuts us off from others who would offer help and encouragement, but it also blinds us to the good that remains, and it is that good that can fuel our will to fight our way through.

Yet there's another reason why we feel desolate in our suffering. It's because we are ashamed. We think our troubles are a reflection of our value, of our worth. After all, if we were smarter or more lovable, a better wife or mother, if we were more talented, or more favored by God, we would be sitting at the cool kid's table laughing and making plans for Saturday night, not sitting alone in a pool of our own tears.

The greater the pain, the greater the shame and the guilt, and the greater the loneliness and fear. And on and on it goes.

That's why I'm willing to show my scars. They don't make me unlovable or inferior. I am not ashamed of them. My scars are the badges of a life lived, of a spirit forged, of wisdom gained. I don't share them to garner pity or to aggrandize myself in any way. Quite simply, my beautiful scars are the evidence that healing has taken place. If I go through a trial and I come out on the other side alive, the scars I collect in the process tell the story of courage, faith, hope, and the grace of God. I know it's a story that someone else needs to hear.

Remember this: Regardless of what you see on TV and in the newspapers, not all human suffering ends in tragedy. In fact, more often than not, people are saved. Every moment of every day, we are snatched from the lion's jaw, pulled from the fiery furnace, rescued from the mouth of the whale and released from the grave. Our scars signify triumph.

Life prevails. Love saves. God heals. My scars are proof. So are yours.

Peace,
Julie
Julie is the co-author of the triple-decker novel "Iris & Lily."

Stay the Course

When we're facing difficult times - whether we are working to overcome adversity or to accomplish a cherished dream - it's important to see past today's pain and to keep the longview of hope. While things might not look great to us right now, we are on a path. As long as we act with faith and integrity, we can expect to one day find ourselves standing on the cusp of a brighter day.

A few years ago, my husband wrote this song and I recorded it. If you or someone you know is facing challenges, share this with them. Sometimes all you need is to know that you are on the right track and that there is always hope.

Listen to Stay the Course.


Stay the Course

I had a dream I was a starship driver
I met the man in the moon
He said to me, "I know you're cold and tired,
But there's still so much to do.
And I know sometimes, it seems you're out there on your own
But there's much more going on than you can see
You may believe in happenstance
But nothing happens just by chance
The right time and place is where you'll always be.

Just Stay the Course, you're on the right track
Trust in your heart, no, don't look back
Watch for the signs along the way
The road ahead leads to a brighter day."

I met a man on the way to somewhere
He had that look in his eye
I don't know how but I could tell he'd been there
Around the block once or twice
And he said, "You may not know me
From the man in the moon,
But I've a feeling you've got something on your mind.
You might think that it's absurd, but I'm giving you my word
What you're looking for won't be so hard to find."

Now I don't know what makes the world go 'round
The sky blue, the grass so green
And I don't understand serendipity
But I do believe that dreams come true
So if you're open to the clues
There's no end to the possibilities

Why I Write

Angela and Julie Scipioni, co-authors, Iris & Lily

Today’s post is part of a blog hop that I was invited to participate in by my colleague and friend, Robin Rushnell Taney, founder of Studio4PR.The objective is to write a post about why I write. I invited Angela Scipioni - my sister and co-author of Iris & Lily to share this post with me.



Here's what I have to say about why I write:

The first profound thing I ever remember writing was an entry in my diary when I was 13 years old. In that entry, I expounded at length upon the feelings I had for a young man who soon afterwards became my first boyfriend, in a romance that blossomed during the summer between eighth grade and high school. The diary itself was covered in faux leather - as much an imitation, or a maybe a shadow, of the real thing as the relationship was. The lock on the diary didn't work, as I remember. Either that, or I never bothered to lock it, having had an underdeveloped sense of privacy growing up. It's odd now that I think of it since my thoughts were one of the few things I could have kept for myself in my very large, very intrusive family. I wonder if I knew they couldn't see my mind without my permission.

At some point along the way, I went back to that entry of deeply detailed 13-year-old love/angst and scribbled over it in pen until I could no longer read what it said. I distinctly remember having gone back to read it and being repulsed by my own words, or maybe by the feelings they resurrected.

I suppose when I first made that entry, it was to express myself. And when I scratched it out, it was because my feelings had changed. Both were a diary entry in their own way - one a stake in the ground and the other a stake pulled up when it was time to move on.

My writing life - and my life-at-large - has since been marked by thoughts fervently expressed, left out unlocked, and then often obscured by a change in heart or mind, lost in the scribble of personal growth, or, God willing, wisdom.

So I guess I would say that I write to find out what I'm thinking about and how I'm feeling, to openly share that with others, and then to look back upon what I have written in an effort to understand how I, my thoughts, my feelings, or my life have changed.

I figure as long as there is always something I wish I could go back and scribble out, I am going in the right direction.

And here's what Angela had to say about why she writes:

Writing has been an integral part of my life, all of my life, but I’ve never given much thought to the question: Why do I write? I simply grew into it naturally, like I did as a child when I learned how to talk, or sing, or dance, or make music. Just as I cannot imagine remaining still and quiet my whole life, I cannot imagine a life without writing.  It’s an instrument I use to elaborate the thoughts and emotions and ideas bubbling up inside me, another channel through which to convey them beyond the limits of my being, where they wash over one another, ebbing and flowing with the pull of my mind’s tide. My writing is not driven by a compulsion to establish myself in terms of how great an audience I can attract, rather it is something I cannot help myself from doing. Just as I often dance alone, and sing alone for the pure joy of expression, I write alone.  All writers write alone. Except when they don’t.

I never would have guessed that my dream of one day writing a novel would be so spontaneously and irreversibly transformed into the reality of working nonstop for four years with another writer. But strange things can happen when you share a dream with a sister. A sister who also can’t imagine a life without writing, and singing, and dancing, and making music.  I venture to say that writing a novel together has been our greatest gift to one another. Through our passion for writing, we have turned a shared dream into reality: a 1400-page reality called Iris & Lily.  I feel blessed and amazed that we have been able to produce this novel together. I am awed by the power of writing. I have been profoundly changed by this process. While searching for my voice as a novelist, I have rediscovered a uniquely talented woman and friend. Our blood ties have been enriched and strengthened by a new sisterhood, a sisterhood which I extend to all our readers and fellow writers.

Write on, sister!


Angela and Julie Scipioni are co-authors of the novel Iris & Lily. Visit IrisandLilytheNovel.com to learn more. 

----------------------------------------------------------
And now, here are the next two people in the blog hop:

Wendy Shinyo Haylett is a freelance resume writer and career consultant, helping professionals and executives define, refine, and market their professional brand. She is also a Buddhist teacher and Minister, affiliated with The Bright Dawn Center of Oneness Buddhism. Her book, Living As Yourself: Being Not Becoming will be published later this year or early 2015. Visit Wendy on LinkedIn.

Robin L. Flanigan is a freelance journalist for magazines, newspapers, books and websites. She is working on a creative nonfiction book about love, loss and second chances, and lives in Rochester, NY, with her husband and daughter. Her website is www.thekineticpen.com and she blogs at www.thekineticpen.wordpress.com.

Holding Open the Door to Love

Sunday is a day when we are reminded of the possibility of redemption, and I would like to take this opportunity to seek some of that for myself.

Yesterday on Facebook, I posted a link to a blog article that examined some interpretation, translation, and cultural contextual implications of the Bible with respect to the topic of homosexuality. But then I took the post down because I felt that the post comments were being used to spread the idea that God is not all loving, and that people are fit to judge one another. I felt attacked, and I got angry so I took my toys and I went home.

I realize now that by taking the link down, I reduced the force of God's Love in this world by one voice.

I'm not saying that I have extensively researched all of the information in this very thoughtful and informative article. But I do believe that any theology that includes all and loves all must be the theology of Jesus.

Jesus calls us to love all and judge none. That includes gay people, by the way. If it didn't - if Jesus meant to create an exception - He would have been very clear and specific about that. 

I think it would serve all of us well to read this entire article and prayerfully consider what it says. I'm not here to debate it; I'm only holding open the door of love and non-judgement. You can step through it, or not. But you can't close the door on me. So here it is again.

http://www.patheos.com/blogs/thegodarticle/2011/10/clobbering-biblical-gay-bashing/

Just read it. What are you so afraid of?

Peace,

Julie
www.JulieScipioni.com

Church is not for you

I’ve been on a journey to find Jesus my entire life. My travels have taken me to many strange and

wonderful buildings. I looked for Him in the Church of the Big Holy, but I slipped trying to climb the hierarchy. Once I got inside there was too much echo, too much empty space. And I always needed a sweater. 

Next I went to the Screaming Church of the Yelling down the road. But again, I stumbled - this time over my sin, which was blocking the door, first preventing me from going in, and then preventing me from leaving again. At the Small Sad Church, I stubbed my toe when I burst into a verse of Amazing Grace before I knew they didn’t use music in service. (They said to do what the Spirit moved me to do and the Spirit said, “Sing!” You’d think the Spirit would know the rules, after all.) 

I wandered to the fringes, exploring religions and philosophies that called God “Universe,” that measured my faith by the size of my accomplishments or the number of illnesses I experienced. I took a course in miracles, explored the science of my mind, and had someone tell me a secret. Eventually I traveled to other lands, learning about many exotic isms. I studied Yoga. Then I circled back around to the Church of the Big Holy thinking I must have missed something but someone tripped me and said that I should try the Church of the Not-Quite-As-Holy. But that was like exchanging vanilla bean ice cream for vanilla and I didn’t see the point. By then I had fallen so many times I was bruised and broken. Limping. 

Being at those churches didn't feel much different than being at home, but instead of people I knew, the place was filled with strangers. And it’s really uncomfortable to have strangers walking around in your house. Like going into the kitchen and finding some random guy rifling through the fridge, wanting to know if you have any brown mustard.

That’s probably the way Jesus felt when I wandered in for Sunday service - like some random woman looting the fridge, trying to satisfy her appetite for belonging, trying to learn which peg needed to go in what hole to make my life fall into place. The mental list of what, exactly, I was looking for in a church included: doctrine I could live with; a community of people I felt comfortable around; songs I knew; and a constitution that fit my personal worldview and sense of morality. I wanted to get what I needed - the information to solve the problems in my life I thought could be solved, the comfort to endure the ones I did not, the Heaven points redeemable to escape suffering in the afterlife, and someplace to go on Christmas and Easter. 

I told myself I was looking for Jesus, but as it turns out, I was looking for myself, for the Church of Me. 

In a moment of extravagant grace, I realized that it was Me that had gotten me into all the messes in my life. It was Me who had made the bad choices that led to seemingly unsolvable problems, it was Me who feared suffering in the afterlife, it was Me who thought that church was a building to go to on Christmas and Easter. 

Church, as it turns out, is not for me. 

So I began again. And this time I had one criteria. The one that Jesus Himself provided: Love. When I put my focus on loving others, it suddenly didn’t matter if I could accept every single teaching; it was enough to accept that I didn’t have to know or understand everything. Love filled in the gaps and solved the mystery. It no longer mattered if the other people in church were like me - in fact, I began to see that the more different they were, the greater my opportunity to practice love. And it didn’t matter if I didn’t know any of the songs. I started to sing new ones, discovering fresh ways to express my sorrow, my joy, my hope, my love. 

I don’t know what your spiritual journey has been like, or if you even know you are on one, but if you’ve ever tried to find the peace and love of God by visiting a church only to trip and fall, you know what it’s like. Maybe they didn’t welcome you, or they welcomed you too profusely (nobody’s THAT nice... must be something wrong there...). Maybe you felt out of place because you didn’t understand the customs, or you didn’t know the songs, or you said “trespasses” when everyone else said “debts” and now you’re too embarrassed to go back. Maybe the congregation was too old, too young, too weird. Maybe none of them were white; many too many of them were.

Consider that you are looking for the wrong things, in the wrong place. The church doesn't contain Jesus; Jesus contains the church. Stop searching, stop hopping around. You are the church. We are the church. And we step into the vestibule whenever we practice love with the people who are all around us every day. We do that by making allowances for one anothers' faults, having compassion for one anothers' sorrows, and lending a hand to ease each others' burdens. When we do that, we become Jesus followers. And when you follow Jesus, you will discover other Jesus followers, and you will probably want to hang out with them, sometimes even on Sunday morning. And it will be just right. 

Let Love lead you home.

Peace,
Julie

Julie is the co-author of the triple-decker novel "Iris & Lily."