Katrina Obata
No Boots, Barefoot

It was time for me to move from my quiet morning time into the rest of my day.  I didn’t want to; but there were things to do, and it was time.  I noticed myself trying to muster up the energy to move.  Normally I would do just that - use my will to summon up the energy to get about my day.   As I lingered in my chair the phrase, “pull yourself up by your bootstraps” came to mind.

After being in God’s gentle presence, hearing “pull yourself up by your bootstraps,” just didn’t fit.  I knew this advice was coming from me, not from God.  But I wasn’t sure how to move forward.  It wasn’t a normal day; I needed more energy than usual.  In fact, the last few weeks have been anything but normal.  I would describe this time as liminal.  Life has taken an unexpected turn and the fragility of life has been vulnerably exposed.  Things aren’t normal. And now this?  Pulling myself up by my bootstraps didn’t feel like it would work, and really, I didn’t even want it to.

No Boots, Barefoot

No Boots, Barefoot

No Boots, Barefoot

It was time for me to move from my quiet morning time into the rest of my day.  I didn’t want to; but there were things to do, and it was time.  I noticed myself trying to muster up the energy to move.  Normally I would do just that - use my will to summon up the energy to get about my day.   As I lingered in my chair the phrase, “pull yourself up by your bootstraps” came to mind.

After being in God’s gentle presence, hearing “pull yourself up by your bootstraps,” just didn’t fit.  I knew this advice was coming from me, not from God.  But I wasn’t sure how to move forward.  It wasn’t a normal day; I needed more energy than usual.  In fact, the last few weeks have been anything but normal.  I would describe this time as liminal.  Life has taken an unexpected turn and the fragility of life has been vulnerably exposed.  Things aren’t normal. And now this?  Pulling myself up by my bootstraps didn’t feel like it would work, and really, I didn’t even want it to.

Make Space

Make Space

Last week I was listening to a friend read an excerpt from a Richard Rohr book. As her words washed over me, a few landed in a soft place in my heart. Pondering, rearranging, playing with those words ended in a happy result; a short, but meaningful poem. 

  I am grateful to have the chance to share it with you. 

 “Make Space”

 Make space

Open and inviting

For

The whole human experience

Growing Up

Growing Up

In my growing up years I was afraid of my dad.  He had an explosive anger, and I was, at times the recipient of that anger, especially in my teenage years.  My dad never hit me, never spanked me, but, as I said, I was, at times, the recipient of his anger, and for that reason I was afraid of him.

My dad never, ever darkened the doors of a church, except for funerals or weddings, but my mom was a quiet and a very strong Christian and I followed her to church.  I have always felt that I was loved by Jesus.

Sacred Flame

Sacred Flame

On Sunday mornings I get to tell the children’s story. I grew up in the church and know so many of these stories forwards and backwards; but now I get to revisit them with grace and wonder. I am invited to translate my dawning awareness into language that invites the children to wonder; invites them to learn about a God who welcomes them, who welcomes us, right where we are at. 

 

One week the sermon centered Rizpah (2 Samuel 21). It is not a story I learned in Sunday School. It's not exactly kid fare, but I wondered what it might be like to tell a story and model how to use big feelings instead of suppressing them. What might shift in a child’s heart, in my heart, if big feelings were personified as characters? What might open up if feelings were held as sacred messengers? 

Who Is Weaving My Identity?

Who Is Weaving My Identity?

Expectations.  They are woven into the fabric of my identity, like a background operating system that runs silently under the surface and yet can have a profound impact. This is something God’s been inviting me to explore lately.

I have expectations of myself.  I think that’s a good thing.  It’s good to have goals, standards, hopes, and dreams.  However, sometimes my response when these expectations aren’t met is not a good thing.  When I get disappointed with myself, my compassion towards me is diminished. My inner critic grows. Sound familiar?

Want to Go Back

Want to Go Back

Early the other morning, as I was coming out of centering prayer, I heard a young child crying outside my open window. I live on the fourth floor of a five-story building in a relatively quiet suburb. The wailing went on for quite some time.

I have two young adult children and I've “been there” with the crying toddler, so I tend to avoid gawking. But she sounded so distraught. I finally stepped out onto my balcony to make sure she was okay.

Abiding Together

Abiding Together

A devoted commitment to knowing God, self, and others requires what Eugene Peterson called “a long obedience in the same direction” in his book by the same title. I like this phrase because it speaks to the reality that is abiding. Our journey through life with God never ends and always begins. This is the Alpha and Omega of the eternal Christ who orchestrates the evolutions of faith moment by moment, day by day. And it is the work of the abiding Spirit within that continues to lead us on this sacred path.

Marinating A Life

Marinating A Life

Puttering in the kitchen is always a source of joy for me. Yet, after all this time, I am still intimidated by preparing meat. There is so much one must do right to get a good result as opposed to the latitude there is when making soup. I can work really hard and end up with meat that is flavorless, tough, and disappointing, especially considering the time and effort expended! To offset my meat-cooking limitation, I have learned the magic of marinade.

Tsumani: Hope and Grief Unleashed

Tsumani: Hope and Grief Unleashed

Our teenage son is diagnosed with Down Syndrome, autism, and speech apraxia. In his eighteen years of life we have only ever heard him utter one or two words that we could understand. We did years of speech therapy, he learned sign language, and he has a communication device. Yet nothing has given our son the ability to express himself beyond wanting a Coke or a milkshake.   


We have prayed his whole life that he would be able to speak–to tell us where he hurts, let us know how he’s feeling, or what he would like to do for his birthday. We would have dreams in which he spoke in full sentences only to wake up and find it wasn’t real. We told ourselves, “This is as good as it’s going to get but it's ok, we love him no matter what.”

A Small Sea of Listeners

A Small Sea of Listeners

A few years back, I said yes to something I rarely say yes to: a last-minute invitation. Honestly, though, I sometimes don’t say yes to first-minute invitations, either. Weeks or months in advance, I’ll buy a ticket to a concert or ballgame and then, day of, hem and haw about going... more than a few times content to stay put, and savor the moment I’m already in.

But following this particular last-minute yes, I found myself in a small sea of listeners, at Seattle’s Benaroya Hall, while two men in armchairs, bathed in warm theater light, chatted on stage. The interviewee, writer and farmer, Wendell Berry. And while I don’t recall most of what he said that night, I do remember how I felt, listening.