Embodied: a letter from K.J. Ramsey
“So many eyes, glazed by television, don’t see the God stories being enacted right before them, sometimes in their own homes. It is my task, I have decided, to see, to listen.”
—Eugene Peterson
Dear Friend,
If you are new here, welcome. This is my monthly letter, where I take some time to sit with you at the the intersection of sorrow and joy. I hope it helps us both see more of what's here.
I’m sitting on the front lawn of our apartment complex, soaking up both the sun and birdsong. After a week of barely having enough energy to go outside, our simple, shared front yard feels like a state park. Stay in one place long enough, and small things might become stunning.
Merton, my trusty sidekick, is sitting next to me with his leash tied to the fence post (because bird dog gonna be a bird dog, and KJ doesn’t want blood on her hands). A woman with a pitbull-lab mix just walked past us, and with my hand on Merton’s side, I told him, “Stay, buddy. Stay where you are.”
I’ve been finding it hard to stay where I am. Have you?
We are sheltered in place, surrounded by a story of global trauma, a story we are powerless to untell. And staying here is staying in bodies that remember our stories.
Every powerless place we’ve sat is stored in our sinew.
Those stories still speak, and their words are sensations.
We’re weary, not simply because this is sad and scary, but because our bodies belay our stories to the present moment. Our bodies tie the truth of what we have lived to the tenderness of where we are.*|TWITTER:TWEET [$text="We're weary, not simply because this is sad and scary, but because our bodies belay our stories to the present moment. Our bodies tie the truth of what we've lived to the tenderness of where we are." @kjramseywrites]|* We remember, remember, remember feeling stuck, shrouded by uncertainty, and separated from the normal in which we had found safety. Old stories of shame and stuckness are speaking in our bodies while we’re sheltered in place.
This season isn’t simply about the pain of the pandemic.
It’s about the pain of your past asking to be sheltered. *|TWITTER:TWEET [$text="This season isn't simply about the pain of the pandemic. It's about the pain of your past asking to be sheltered." @kjramseywrites]|*
Stay. Stay where you are.
Staying asks us, like my dog, to be in the boundaries of a leash, a small radius of reality. Merton cries and pulls on his leash for a few minutes, but then he settles by my side, deciding to enjoy my company more than hunting the alluring birds chirping nearby.
Lately I’ve been thinking about boundaries as the borders of flourishing. Rather than the edges of everything I can’t have or can’t do or everywhere I can’t go, boundaries can be the fenced plot of the garden where I will grow.*|TWITTER:TWEET [$text="Boundaries are the borders of flourishing. Rather than the edges of everything we can't have or can't do or everywhere we can't go, boundaries can be the fenced plot of the garden where we will grow." @kjramseywrites]|*
More than the boundaries of our total self-quarantine, I’ve been coming up against the boundaries of my body. My body’s waging a battle because my treatment for AS is failing—inflammation marches like soldiers on my spine. Everything’s harder. I spend my steps like gold coins. Their costliness keeps me in one spot for most of the day, spending the little energy I have on showing up in my work as long as I can. The wartime boundaries of my body are stiff, unavoidable. And I’ve been here before. Each time I can’t make my own lunch or get up without my husband’s hand, I hear the helplessness of years long past.
Hard days howl with the echoes of every season we’ve felt stuck.
Sensations of fear, shame, and anger speak into these days, begging for a response. And we have the grace of choice in how we respond. Will we reenact old stories of striving to silence our sensitivity and pain? (The way parents or someone with authority treated our troubles and tenderness like problems to push into a closet or paint over with positivity.) Or will we turn with tenderness toward every trembling part of ourselves? Will we tell a truer story about the tender parts of ourselves?
I won’t pretend to know your stuckness, but I’ll wager that it’s here, speaking into this season. I think it might be asking to be held.
While Jesus was preparing his disciples for his death, for the silence and the stuckness of all their dreams seeming dashed and dark, he said, "Remain in my love.” (John 15:9)
Here, where old stories are activated, speaking in our breathlessness and sleeplessness and striving, we can gently touch each sensation as a seed of a new story. We are no longer condemned by the presence of the parents or people who subtly shamed our sensitivity. Because of Jesus, we are, now and always, in the presence of a Parent who turns toward us tenderly. Every haunting memory of harm and helplessness and every sensation of sensitivity, sorrow, or shame can now be sown into the story of a God who remains with us, who set himself in the boundaries of a body so we could flourish within ours.
“And the Word became flesh and dwelled among us,” John wrote. (John 1:14) And the way the story ends is with a loud voice from heaven settling over all our stories like a bedtime song, “Behold, the dwelling place of God is with man. He will dwell with them, and they will be his people, and God himself will be with them as their God.” (Revelation 21:3) We live between these chapters, with the Spirit speaking our stories into this end, inviting us into a shadow of shelter while we wait. Indeed, “He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High will abide in the shadow of the Almighty.” (Psalm 91:1)
You are not stuck.
You are sheltered in love.
And the stories inside you are seeds.
See them.
Sow them.
Stay with your story, willing to welcome the God who brought his story near.
Dare to live like God dwells with you.
Dare to see the divine Parent who blesses your tenderness, shelters your pain, and glories in your goodness.
Watch the boundaries of your life become the bounds of a garden growing with grace.
See what strength will grow in your weakness. See how stunning small places can be.
Stay, choosing to turn toward the God who turns toward you.
Remain in his love. Watch it become true.
A few good things for staying sheltered in Love:
1. One of you shared a beautiful artist with me, and I’ve been sitting with her music while I soak in the tub to relieve pain. Alana Levandosky’s albums include meditations from the contemplative James Finley, and this one in particular has helped me turn toward myself with tenderness in this season and see that God does too.
2. Some dear writer friends of mine wrote poems and prayers for this season, inviting us to peace that lasts. You can read their words and listen to them read aloud as you reflect on the Psalms they pair with. This is one of the two presents that you get for preordering This Too Shall Last: check them out and claim them here. (The other is the first 2 chapters of my audiobook, narrated by me!) These gifts are for everyone who preorders before release day, so if you’ve already bought it, please do go claim your presents! And if you haven’t preordered it yet, now’s a great time to do so while you can get some extras.
This Too Shall Last releases in two weeks on May 12th. (Finally!) I hope and pray it prompts you to see and sow the seeds of your story and find you’re growing in the grace of the God who dwells with us.
3. Two lock screens (below) to remind you to remain in what's true.
Staying, sheltered in love,
KJ
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