Emerging Women

By Krista Finch

Remember – the root word of humble and human is the same: humus: earth. We are dust. We are created; it is God who made us and not we ourselves.
– Madeleine L’Engle, Walking on Water

As I inhaled and exhaled in concert with the Ashtanga Yoga poses I attempted, I felt it. Felt it toe-tip to scalp. Felt it in my bones and in my soul. It reminded me of the mist that fell on us and the Yountville appellation each morning we spent in Napa. It was a refreshing. A re-birthing. A glimpse of wholeness.

Breathe.

Since Jude rocked our world back in July, important things like exercise, slowness, and breathing have gotten lost in the cracks and crevices of parenthood. Of course, proper priority says that raising a child is the most important thing we can do with our time and energy. But wisdom would also add that you can’t raise a child well if you are unwell. And as I leaned back in child’s pose, the fibers of carpet tickling the tip of my nose, I knew what I had to do.

Breathe.

Science tells us that when we breathe, we eliminate 70% of the toxins in our body. And I haven’t been breathing. I suppose that’s why I’ve felt like a cesspool in so many areas of my life. Scattered. Weary. Tired. Unbalanced. Frustrated. Harried. Hurried. Torn. Undone. Disconnected. Fragmented. Gross.

Breathe.

As I rose from Mrtasana, also known as Corpse Pose, I felt alive. Although this pose’s name literally means “death,” the instructor on my yoga video explains that this is the most restorative and important pose in yoga. That something must die so that we can truly live.

Breathe.

After rising quietly from my final pose, I looked at the calendar. February 17. Ash Wednesday. First day of the Lenten season. I marked the day with the wispy writing: Breathe. This year, for Lent, I will breathe.

I continued breathing as I picked up our bonus room. And, as I did, I heard something new as the rhythm of my breath accompanied a deeper rhythm. This year, rather than giving something up for Lent, I would take something in, knowing full well that this would still require a giving up, a kind of dying. Dying to tasks that stroke my need for perfection. Dying to distractions that overstimulate. Dying to loves that poison any hope of peace.

Receive.

Breathe.

Talitha koum. Rise up, little girl.

And along with each breath, a prayer that I would experience God’s nearness so deeply that his very breath would be mine.

Then the LORD God formed man of dust from the ground, and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life; and man became a living being. [Genesis 2:7]

Krista Finch is a wife, mom and author seeking wholeness in the tension of a malfunctioning world. In her recent book, As Is, and on her site KristaFinch.com, she digs into the mundane majesty of life here and now.

By Lauran Kerr-Heraly

I hear constantly that men should be the provider. What people usually mean by that is they expect men to work hard at their jobs to make enough money so the rest of the family is fed, clothed, and happy.

When Eric and I decided to get married, out of respect he spoke to both my parents before the proposal. They asked him how he planned to provide for me and eventually for children. At the time, I was struggling with serious health issues, so part of their question was a sincere inquiry into his willingness to be the sole income-earner in the case that my health prevented me from working. He, of course, was and would be willing to do that if the need arose.

But I loved his answer. He told them that we would provide for each other. Provision would extend beyond financial concerns. He committed to providing inspiration and care and support to me, just as I would provide that to him.

He has said several times since we got married that he is glad he doesn’t have the burden of “provider” in the traditional sense. He is glad he didn’t sacrifice a job he loves and is gifted at in order to make more money. He is glad he isn’t the spiritual provider in the sense that all spiritual decisions and knowledge are left to him. He is glad that he is connected to me (and later to our children) emotionally, not in a distant provider/protector sense.

Our commitment to provide for each other allows us to trust God to be our ultimate provider of Life and guidance. Christ is the head of our marriage, not one of us.

Lauran Kerr-Heraly is a graduate student at the University of Houston where she also teaches Women’s Studies. She shares a hyphenated name and a blog with her husband. Follow her writing at http://thehyphenhouse.blogspot.com (where this post originally appeared) and www.thisordinaryday.com.

By Jessica Coblentz

I kept thinking about the incarnation as I lay on the cement floor in St. Mark’s Cathedral this evening during Compline prayer. I was between Stephanie and Jen, two of my best friends since childhood. Throughout our friendships they have been constant pillars in my spiritual life. Each of us comes from her own unique Christian upbringing, and even as we all spent our undergraduate years with the Jesuits, we still hold many differences in faith. Yet they have always been embodiments of Christ to me. Real Love in Flesh and Blood. Truth speakers in some of the most trying of circumstances.

According to Roman Catholic doctrine, one of the major reasons women cannot be ordained priests is the fact that Christ became human in the form of a man. The priest, who represents Jesus in the consecration of the Eucharist, must therefore be male in order to adequately reflect Christ’s embodiment. I’ve acquired plenty of strong theological arguments to dismiss the institution’s logic on this matter, but tonight I didn’t need any intellectual assertions to support by belief that Christ’s embodiment was not merely male. No. There next to me, on my right and on my left, Jesus lay in Flesh and Blood. Skin and Bones. Jen and Steph.

The Incarnation I witness every day is often female, just as it is often male. And it is always a Mystery.

Jessica Coblentz is a graduate student at Harvard Divinity School. Follow her writing on the Web at www.jessicacoblentz.com.