Thoughts Along the Invisible Pilgrimage -- Day 3

I am recognizing two large pieces of baggage which are growing quite uncomfortable in my backpack.  I think it is time to stop and unload a bit.  The first piece is a massive, heavy blob of seeking acceptance from others.  So much of my "achievement" list is rooted in trying to get an affirmation from others, or at least allowing letters behind my name be proof enough that I am worthy, competent, and have something to offer the world.  So much of my tendencies toward gossip and putting others down is rooting in finding acceptance.  If I slam someone down behind their back and get you to agree with me that person X is the biggest jerk in the world, then I know you are on my side. I feel a little less alone and a lot more affirmed.  Until guilt sets in and I feel bad for speaking so negatively about another person.

And if I feel myself a failure, or allow myself to get too comfortable with my insecurities, then I search for faults in others in order to feel less alone (and slightly better than myself because at least I do not do such and such.)  And this leads to my second piece of baggage, insecurity.  My security is wrapped up in how I compare to others -- I should be more of this and less of that.

When I allow my insecurity to focus its attention on gaining approval from others, I come up empty handed.  I am beginning to see it as greed.  Someone gives me a quick assurance and I want more.  I want more than what others are able to give.  I want others to fill my empty void, to quiet my insecure heart, and assure me that all is well.  But it is not their job.  I say this, not to diminish the role of Community and the Body of Christ.  I do believe we are the incarnational hands and feet of Christ's love.  But, we are human.  We fall short.  We disappoint.  Our love, though usually pure and compassionate is nothing compared to the love of Christ.  I grow disappointed with my fellow human friend because I expect to receive what only Christ is able to fully give.

The point of this ramble -- stop looking for temporary, quick fixes to satisfy my deepest longing that only God can fulfill.  Stop expecting more from others -- being greedy and asking for what is not available to give.  And be grateful with what is offered.

My heart has not exactly been open to Jesus being my first love and source of fulfillment.  My heart has been guarded and resistant at the idea of falling in love; of being written into the greatest love story of all time.  But this is exactly the story my soul seeks to be written into.  While I love having the honor of being a part of the rich narrative of the Community of Christ and to the world around me, I need this to first be rooted in God's story.

In college, I fell in love with a Rich Mullins song that was never professionally recorded before his death.  There were several songs that were recorded by Rich singing in an old church.  They were the 10 songs about Jesus and released in The Jesus Record.  Within this album, one song jumped out at me and I remember playing it over and over again in my car.  It was the cry of my heart, "Jesus, write me into your story.  Whisper it to me, and let me know I am yours."  I loved it so much, that my roommate had the lyrics printed and framed for me as a gift -- it is still in that frame.  Even through the years when I did not love Jesus, I never could bring myself to destroy the picture or the CD (though there were several moments I wanted to slam them against the wall.)  And now, 15 years later, after a walking many miles with a hardened and angry heart, and years of it healing and growing soft again, the song once again becomes the cry of my soul.

You can watch a rough version of the song below.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qkf0_8ORz4I

The Invisible Pilgrimage Began.

I left at 5:04 yesterday morning.  This is a journey of prayer, fasting, and an openness to the unexpected.  For me, prayer is including Liturgy of the Hours (readings/prayer at 6, 9, 12, 3, 6, and 9pm.)  There is an app called the Laudate that is free and will provide the readings for you.  My fasting is eating vegan/raw foods with exception to the Thanksgiving feast I plan on enjoying with my family.  I am still drinking coffee, but thinking this might eventually need to go as well.  As most pilgrimages require some type of physical endurance, I am also exercising at least 30 minutes/day.

In my "backpack" -- the Liturgy of the Hours, The Inner Voice of Love by Henri Nouwen.  Other books on prayer, fasting, and saints. 

The destination is December 17 (that's 49 days from now).  This will enter into Advent and preparation to meet the Baby Jesus.

A report from day 1:  I was cranky and short with everyone around me.  Not exactly a great way to start, but it is what it is.  I sought some peace and quiet and instead found constant interruption.  I am being challenged by my own control issues -- I want change, and by golly, I am going to force change my way.  There is a gentle spirit calling me to let go.  To pray in order for God to mold me into his will rather than me telling God how to shape me. 

Invisible Pilgrimage

When I picture the life I believe God has called me to live, I see a woman who has dignity and respect for others.  I see a woman who approaches those around her with gentleness, grace, and compassion.  I envision a woman who is not ashamed of her faith; whose life is a prayer offering.  When I reflect on this image, I am filled with assurance.  Yes, I am called to live this way.  I fall way short.

In reality, I am no different that St. Peter.  I deny Christ and the life I have been called to live.  I sacrifice my identity, my integrity, and my source of true vitality in exchange for a quick laugh and fleeting approval from others.

Hello, my name is Heather, and I am a sinner.  

Over the past several weeks, the theme of pilgrimage has invaded my thoughts.  It started with a couple of movies, Into the Wild (about a young man who wanders the country and finally Alaska living off the land) and The Way (a film about the Camino Walk in Spain).  Then I read a fascinating novel, The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry.  And to top it, while ironing clothes one day, I watched a documentary on the Appalachian Trail.  

I have sectioned hike portions of the AT and have dreamed and pondered about thru hiking the entire 2500 miles.  I daydream about the Camino and other long hikes.  There is something about backpacking that brings me back to my core being.  Perhaps it is the hours of quiet, or the need to focus directly on the step in front of me that keeps my mind from wandering beyond the present moment. Or maybe it is the primitive aspect of roughing it that leads to a disregard toward physical appearance or social approval.  Regardless, I often hear the trails calling me back.  It has been eight years since my last backpacking trip.  

The trails are calling.  But this time, it is not to get back to nature.  I am feeling called to a pilgrimage.  Called to a journey; a path towards something I cannot yet imagine.  My situation in life does not allow for me to abandon my responsibilities and start walking.  I am pondering what a spiritual pilgrimage might look like.  To create space to focus on the step directly in front of me.  Space to confront the part of me that seeks social approval over a life of holiness.  Space to get back to my most primal source of life – God.

I have not left yet.  I am still figuring out what exactly this pilgrimage will look like.  Some things I believe it will include are a daily examination of conscience as suggested by St. Ignatius and reading the Daily Office (for my non-Catholic friends, this is Scripture reading and prayer during several marked periods throughout the day).  I see it including writing and a step back from mundane entertainment and time-wasting/mind-numbing activities.  I fear this is another one of my enthusiastic ideas that have several days of zeal followed by an abrupt quitting.  Consistency and sticking with an idea until it runs its full course is not my strong suit.  In light of this, I need a clear destination (right now I am thinking the Advent Nativity and the birth of Christ).  And I am likely going to need fellow pilgrims along the way.  If not other pilgrims, then at least encouragement and support from onlookers.  With that statement, this is now an invitation if anyone would like to take a virtual pilgrimage with me, a person with no clear direction and no set departure date.  I invite your companionship. 

Facing Fear

It’s Halloween time – time for costumes, pumpkins, apple bobbing  . . . and this year in our house, the first trip to the Children’s  Museum haunted house.  I am not the biggest fan of Halloween.  Don’t get me wrong, I love seeing all the creativity in costumes and sneaking a few Reece Cups from my children’s stashes, but I hate the scary side of the holiday.  Horror films?  No thank you.  I have seen enough real life scary things, I do not wish to voluntarily subject myself to further hair-raising, oh-no-I-pooped myself activities.  But I have children; children who love all the festivities of Halloween ghosts and goblins.  

The haunted house.  Back in July, my children participated in the library summer reading program and one of the prizes was free tickets to the haunted house.  I remember going when I was about their age – witches having tea parties, ghosts doing a little jig.  They were excited to have earned their own way and I was excited to relive a piece of my own childhood memories and experience another first with them.  We chose lights on – after all, the kids are still young.  And, as I said stated earlier, someone jumping out at me might trigger an accident and I did not bring a change of underwear.  Lights on equals no people jumping out, but instead an opportunity to walk through and experience the art and creativity.  We walked in as a family and my oldest quickly went from excited to sheer terror.

When I say terrified, picture shaking, screaming, jumping, crying, the whole works.  Being mom, I scooped her up to offer comfort, but I also made a parenting decision to not let her take the easy way out and run from her fears.  I am convinced that the staff, volunteers, and other onlookers thought I was a cruel parent for not shielding her from her fears and taking her back to the lobby.  As I held her, we started a mantra, “It’s just costumes, makeup, and statues . . . it’s all pretend, it cannot hurt me.”  We repeated these words over and over.  Costumes, makeup, statues.  Costumes, makeup, statues.  Within minutes, she had calmed down and even left the comfort of my arms and walked through independently.  In the end, she said it was silly to be afraid, but she was never going through another haunted house again.  I was proud of her for making it and agreed she never had to do it again.

I have been chewing on this mother daughter moment and thinking about my own relationship with God.  I still have a lot of fears, more than just of carnies, clowns, and haunted houses.  I fear the unknowns of the future.  I fear my past coming back to haunt me.  I fear the present and being forced to face the consequences of my decisions.  I typically do not dwell on my fears, or even readily admit them, but instead cover them up with overinflated confidence and valiant attempts at maintaining control.

My child needed someone she trusts, who loves her deeply and would never willingly cause her harm.  She needed such a person to walk with her and help her face her fears.  She trusted me to keep her safe.  She relaxed in my arms and let me carry her anxiety.  These days, I am feeling a little lost and wondering who I am.  I know what I do.  I am mom, wife, therapist, nursing student, learner, nature-lover, reader, writer, cook, laundry lady, taxi service . . . but apart from my roles and responsibilities, I am feeling a bit disconnected from the core of my being.  Who is God calling me to be?  What life is he calling me to live?  These questions scare me the most of all.  It is easy to define myself by a “to do” list.  It is easy to hide behind the check list of things I have accomplished.  But when I sit in the silence of my being, when I create space to listen to God’s gentle voice guiding me toward holiness and grace I find myself anxiously looking for an escape plan.  Work and responsibilities give me the perfect exit.  

As I reflect on what my child needed – a safe set of arms to guide her through her fears, I realize that is Jesus for me.  “I am the Way, the Truth, and the Life.”  In Christ, there is perfect love.  There is no intention to harm.  This does not me there are not struggles and pain in life.  But I must remind myself that I have the perfect guide willing to walk the path with me; a perfect guide willing to carry my burdens, my wrongdoings, and  my fears.  And like my child, I have the choice to trust that gentle Voice that calls me out of my hiding and into holiness, or I can continue looking for an escape route and flee.

Listen and Obey

Yesterday was the Feast of St. Therese, “The Little Flower.”  Having the honor of working a few hours a week at a Catholic school in Kokomo, I had the privilege of being present as the Serra Club and Father Bennett provided a lunch celebration for the female students.  They served ham sandwiches cut in the shape of flowers and cupcakes with a floral swirl on top.  They shared photos and stories from the three young women from Kokomo now a part of a religious order.  The heart of the event – listen to God’s call on your life and follow it.   Everyone is called into a vocation.  Everyone has a plan and purpose for their lives.  Our job is simple.  We are to listen and obey.

The job is simple, but not always easy.  Listening means being quiet and making space to hear.  We live in a culture that prides itself in our rushing to the next activity.  “How are you doing?”  Answer, “Busy, so busy and exhausted [insert big, groaning sigh].”  And behind the exclamation and sigh of busy I secretly am saying, “Yes, I am important.  I am needed.  I have many things that rely on me.”   I find myself fighting this temptation to use my activity level as a measure of my significance.  What I am really doing is pushing away from what is most important and what brings the most meaning and joy.  I fill the anxious void with busy and in turn create “legitimate” excuses to avoid intimacy and connection with God and those around me.  I miss the mark of who I am called to be – to be Christ’s love and presence to those I encounter.  

I read a quote recently, “I will be most remembered by what brings me the most joy.”  When I am following my purpose in life, following my vocation, I find I am filled with joy.  And for me, I find that my vocation has not changed, but how it is lived out has radically shifted.

Fifteen years ago, what brought me the most joy was traveling to third world countries and physically improving lives.  I built houses.  I built latrines to help eliminate disease and prevent contaminated drinking water.   The dirtier and sweatier I got, the more satisfaction I received.  I assumed my vocation would always involve digging in third world dirt.  I found joy investing my life in broken and abandoned youth – visiting their homeless “castles”, taking them to Wishard when they broke their arm from a drunken catastrophe, and being “Pizza Mom” by feeding 150 youth on Saturday nights.

Then I got married.  I finished grad school and started working as a therapist.  I had children.  Third world dirt and late Saturday nights with homeless youth were no longer feasible, at least for this next season of life.  But, I found a new front line to live out my vocation.  I worked with people on probation and with the Department of Child Services.  It was a new territory to get dirty and make a small part of the world a better place.  I experienced great joy on these “front lines.”  But, family demands increased, and again this line of work did not seem feasible in lieu of what my family needed.  I stepped away from the “front line” for a few years and entered a vocational crisis.  I felt guilty for not getting my hands dirty.  I felt guilty for choosing safety, security, and comfortable living.

 

I struggled (and still struggle) to find the balance between my vocation of family and my vocation to take Christ into the world.  In a sense, I felt I was not obeying my call – I had listened, but I was no longer walking into the front lines.   I live in comfortable suburbia, we have not one, but now two minivans (three boosters do not fit across a backseat), and I do things like lead the kindergarten Daisy troop.  By the way, I had three things on my “I will never list.”  I would never drive a minivan, I would never be a girl scout, and I would never own an RV.  I think I am doomed to someday own an RV.  

As mother, it is my job and vocation to teach my children to listen to the call on their life and to take Christ into the world.  Yesterday, my son asked his sisters if they knew what the Church was.  They threw out a few random answers that were not “right” and then he said, “We are the Church.”  Good reminder.  We are the Church and we are all uniquely different.  My vocation as mother is to help my children discover their role to play in being the Church.  I have taught them all about the third world, specifically Haiti.  Haiti clicked with my oldest, especially learning that access to medical care is not always available.  For her birthday, instead of presents, she collected medical supplies that she sent to Haiti with a team from our church.  For Christmas, she wants a sewing machine so that she can learn to make dresses for her dolls AND for little girls in Haiti.  This brings me great joy.  I want to be remembered for helping her make this happen.  And if anyone knows how to sew and is willing to teach me, please let me know.  Domestic skills were not my first vocation!

And one last thing, as I gave up the front lines of third world dirt and homeless castles, God has been faithful and brought me to a new front line.   As I entered my vocational crisis, I came to learn that what brings me the most joy (besides my three fabulous kids and patient husband), is being a healing presence.  I am in my sixth month of nursing school (only 10 to go, but who is counting!)  I find myself on the front lines of people’s lives dramatically changing.  On Friday, it was a rough day.  A patient came in with shortness of breath and hours later was being whisked into the OR for multiple biopsies.  This was a young patient whose life was just radically flipped upside down in a matter of hours.  For ninety minutes, I was with that person and their significant other.  I had tears in my eyes right alongside them.  My hand on their shoulders, I was able to be present in their anxious silence.  I knew this was exactly where God had brought me.

A year ago, I listened to God’s call toward a new direction.  I took a crazy leap and decided in my mid-thirties to add more letters behind my name, take on student loans, rely on my family to pick up the slack with me still working and now adding study time and clinicals, asking my children to sacrifice time away from me and two of our annual summer trips to Florida . . . and on Friday, I was assured this is the new front line where my unique gifts and talents are called to be.  In my tears and broken heart, I was filled with joy. 

Listen and obey . . . it will bring us the most joy.

Envy

“At heart, envy boils down to this: everyone else has it easier than I do.  And so they are obviously happier than I am.”  -- James Martin, The Jesuit Guide to (Almost) Anything.
 

Envy always seems to be with me.  To paraphrase one of my favorite priests, it is my default sin.  The one that keeps coming back no matter how many times I confess it, how many times I try and avoid it, there it is again rooting its ugly head.  With envy, there is a tendency to maximize my own difficulties and minimize my blessings while at the same time, maximize another’s blessing and minimize their difficulties.  My life is hard.  It is a unique hard.  It is a hard like no one else has.

Envy is comparison.  If only I were more outgoing, less chubby, less awkward, more confident . . . blah, blah, blah.  This implies that somehow, how I was made, how I am built, and how I tick is not good enough.  My personality type is an INFP, also known as the healer.  For those not familiar with the Myers-Brigg it can be summed up this way:  I am an introvert that is slow to process information, slow to engage in conversation until I have had ample time to observe and organize my thoughts.  I dream big, but my dreams are fueled by a deep sense of values.  And this means I am not one to focus on details and small tasks.  And I am flexible and adaptable to my surroundings with a lack of consistency and strict discipline.  INFPs are rare – less than 2% of the population.  Only rarer are the “mastermind” INTJs (my husband – aren’t we a fun pair!)  I did not decide to be an INFP – it is who I am; it is how I was made.

When I am writing or doing psychotherapy, being an INFP is a perfect fit.  For those moments, I am comfortable in my skin.  I can celebrate who I am and how God has made me.  When I step out of that, I start to compare and criticize who I am.  If only I were a more consistent parent like my sister-in-law . . . if only I were more disciplined in my eating and fitness then I would not have a muffin top . . . if only.  I begin to envy what other women have and assume that they have a problem-free, easy life.  

As I was told by the same favorite priest – with envy, there is no room for love.  When I compare, I begin to assume the other’s life is better than mine and I begin to resent them.    But more than this, I stop looking at the blessings in my own life.  I stop celebrating how I have been uniquely and wonderfully made.  I slap God in the face and tell him he screwed up in making me and he should have made me more like that person over there.

The cure?  Love.  Love who God has made me to be.  Accept the personality, passions, and biology that I have been given.  Focus on who I am and use those gifts.  Play the part I have been given.  I had a dream several years ago that I was an oboe player in a symphony and my job was to play measure 47, a B-flat (it was a very vivid dream).  I did not like the part I was given.  I wanted to play a different note.  But to resist the part I was given would create a cacophonous sound.  The beauty of the symphony is everyone playing their part in harmony.  If I hear the teachings of St. Paul correctly, we are one body with many parts – a foot is to be a foot and not try and be the nose.

And the rest of the cure?  Love my neighbor.  The envious stance of minimizing the struggle and maximizing the benefits of others is not loving.  It is assuming – making judgments without taking the time to know the person.  This is objectifying the other; stripping them of their personhood.  They are only what I make them out to be.  Everyone has their share of blessings and struggle.  If I take the time to truly love my neighbor then I suspend my assumptions, take time to hear their story and walk alongside their journey.    

Where there is pure love, there is no envy. 

Recalibration.

Every few months I get the “weepies.”   It is that feeling that something is wrong, things are out of whack, but you can’t quite put your finger on it.  My weeps usually last a couple of days and then all returns to normal.  I typically blame it on hormones – PMS, premenopausal junk . . . and it is possible that this is not helping.   And without a uterus, it is a little difficult to know exactly what is happening physiologically with my body.  For the few days of the weeps, I do not talk much, making a PBJ is a chore, and I am completely irritable and impatient with everyone around me.  And every time it comes, I ride it out knowing it will only last a couple of days, and then when the storm clouds pass over, I return to life.  In other words, do not try and understand it; do not try and fix it.

This time was different.  One, my mom saw it written across my face.  She usually does and lets me be (smart woman!)  This time, she suggested perhaps I needed to drill something – like shelving in a dysfunctional closet and make it user-friendly.  Yes.  I needed that.  I needed to build and make something better.

And the word “need” came up.  I needed something.  I do not like to need anything.  I took a different course and claimed what I needed.  I needed my husband to hold me and listen.  I asked him to sit with me.  He did.  I laid my head on his lap.  He put his arms around me shoulders.  I tried something new -- I talked.  My oldest daughter, in a giggling tone, suggested that I kiss him.  I did.  She giggled some more. 

Instead of silently stuffing the weepies back down I began to process what was going on inside my brain and soul.  Truth, I am feeling lost and out of balance and I need to recalibrate.  I have big questions – who am I?  What does it mean to love my neighbor and look after the poor and orphans?  How can I sit atop of so much when much of the world is starving?  I feel guilty for having abundance.

In my teens and twenties, I was convinced I would change the world, or at least make a valiant effort.  I had big ideas – starting orphanages, shelters for the broken, relief centers amongst the starving, free counseling services for those who cannot afford it, a home for those recovering from sex slavery . . . I dreamed and thought at least one of these would become reality.   I would find my Calcutta and pour my life into it.  I would take something dysfunctional and make it better.

And then I got married and had three amazing children.  I married someone calm and practical who helps keep my feet on the ground.  As my primary vocation shifted from ministry to motherhood, my lofty ideas began shifting further and further away.  I stopped looking for Calcutta and began burying my dreams.  Stuffing them down until I cannot stuff anymore and then they seep out giving me a case of the weepies.

We joked in grad school that the answer to any marriage and family therapy question was “both/and.”  In other words, I do not have to choose either Calcutta or motherhood.  It is both.  In fact, I think I need to look harder.  Not only do I have a Christian responsibility to love my neighbor and take care of the poor and orphaned, but I also have a duty as a parent to pass on that ethic.  And children do not learn by mere hearing, but by doing and observing how it is done.  

There is a lot of praise for Pope Francis from both Protestants and Catholics alike.  Pope Francis is not just a man of mere words, but one whose actions back up his faith and beliefs.  So far, I am impressed and excited.  As Holy Father to the Catholic Church, he is shedding light on how to be parents – love Jesus with our heart, soul, mind, and strength.  Believe it, say it, and do it.

Who am I?  I am still trying to rework that.  Wife, mother, therapist, nursing school student, dreamer, wannabe writer, nature-lover – these things I know.  How shall I live?  Loving God and my neighbor.  And what does that look like?  Maybe it is time I stop focusing on the ideas of how to do this and just start doing it with those around me at the moment.

And perhaps if I keep my eyes opened, I will find Calcutta right in front of me. 

From an Easter Point of View

Lent seemed especially long this year.  I found myself growing angry and irritable towards the end.  Perhaps this had to do with my inability/unwillingness to actually surrender my sugar addiction.  Or maybe it was the lack of morning coffee and thus my morning routine of having a few cups alone in peace and quiet before the rest of my household woke up.  Or perhaps it was the fact that this winter seemed to stretch an exceptionally long time.  Snow on Palm Sunday . . . a foot of snow by that Monday.   I like snow.  In fact, I love snow.  A foot of snow at the end of March when I am ready to prep the garden, well, that is an entirely different story.

Now that we are in the midst of the Easter season, I can look back with 20/20 hindsight and observe.

My first observation:  I still try on my own accord to be a disciplined person and I fail miserably.  When I think about the source of my motivations, they are rooted more in being in control and feeling secure.  If I restrict my eating, then I will be thin, and if I am thin I will feel confident and secure in who I am.  If I am confident, I will be able to silence the little voices in my head that are critical and constantly comparing myself to other women.  While I am not opposed to being thin and healthy, I am telling myself a lie if I believe that with a thin body my insecurity and feelings of awkwardness will suddenly go away.  It may help, but the core issue remains.

One of my favorite, and most influential authors died this week.  Brennan Manning, author of The Ragamuffin Gospel, Signature of Jesus, Abba's Child, and many others was one who knew about grace, forgiveness, and the root of security.  A drunk who found himself in the gutters (literally), found his identity in Jesus.  His security was firmly rooted in God's grace.  I think I need to be re-reminded again -- grace, grace, grace.  This is not throwing discipline out with trash.  We need boundaries and structure.  I need limits and rhythm in my life.  Discipline brings these things.  But discipline without grace -- that is just mean.  And mean is what I have been to myself.  Discipline to punish my body for being overweight without first having unconditional grace and acceptance.  No wonder why I was so angry!

My second observation:  parenting with simplicity.  This could be a second blog title.  I grew up with a lot of advantage -- private school, vacations in the Caribbean.  My eyes have been blind to my own internal pressure that I must provide my own children with the same advantage.  Our children attend a private school with a lot of wealthy families along with many other average earning families like us.  While I have said I do not believe in keeping up with the Jones, my soul was filled with envy at what other families are able to do for their children.  Sorry kiddo, I do not have hundreds of dollars to throw you an extravagant party and give you an iTouch for your birthday.  A part of me has felt guilty for this.  Another part has struggled with envy and dislike towards those families that are able to do such things.  I judge them harshly.

This spring break, we rented a family cabin in Brown County.  Two days of no cell phones, no TV, no iPads, just time together as a family.  We hiked, swam, played cards, and cuddled on the couch.  It was simple.  Nothing flashy.  Our children cannot wait to go back.  A good reminder -- they desire time and our undivided attention.  This is the best I can give is an emotionally present me and my unconditional love.  There is nothing they can do to earn it or increase its quantity.  Their security and enjoyment of life comes from knowing they are loved and allowing that love to enter and engage their lives.  A good lesson for their insecure mama.

Lent brought no major "ah-ha" moments.  No grand signs from heaven or mountains moved.  Instead I was nudged further along the path of surrender.  Baby steps . . .