Rachel Whaley Doll

Biblical Storytelling

9/21/2016

Biblical what now? Many times, people are unsure what it means when I say I am a biblical storyteller. At its most basic, biblical storytelling is simply sharing a story by heart. But it’s so much more than that!

Biblical storytelling, for me, is like the process of making tea. When a person allows herself to be steeped in a piece of scripture, she cannot help but be changed. And when that well steeped tea is shared with others, there is nourishment and connection.
I can tell that story to myself, and carry it with me, and my life is enriched and changed. And when I have the opportunity to share that story with other people, it not only enriches our individual faith journeys, it connects our journeys together, and connects us with our ancestors in faith that we find in scripture. Everyone's faith is strengthened when biblical stories are shared, whether that story leads to more questions or to answers. I believe the purpose of biblical storytelling is to deepen relationships; with our God, with one another and with our ancestors.

Over the course of this year, I have had the opportunity to embark on an amazing journey. I have been pursuing a certification in biblical storytelling from the Academy for Biblical Storytelling (learn more here ). It has deepened my faith and stretched me
in so many wonderful ways. As part of my class, I will be offering a Storytelling workshop on Saturday, October 8th from 10:00-11:30 at Winter Park Presbyterian Church. Come learn more about this ancient, mysterious, yet relevant and powerful way to interact with our story. Come to laugh, think and enjoy the fellowship of the family of God.

I will also be sharing a Biblical Storytelling Concert on Wednesday, November 9th, also at Winter Park Presbyterian. Dinner will be served at 5:30. There is no charge, but please RSVP to the church so we will have enough. The concert will begin at 6:30.

Come and experience our story, and let it change us together!

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Sweet Little Jesus Boy

11/14/2015

During a twitter conversation tonight, we were discussing songs that connected us with Creator. This song, written by the amazing Robert MacGimsey in 1934, is one of my all time favorites. I feel it in my bones when I sing it.

Shoveling the Clutter

Slowly, with mind numbing repetition, I chip away at the clutter that surrounds me. The papers; ads, school work, art, lists, quietly formed drifts throughout the house, like a Rochester snow.
No surface is safe, corks and beads line the window sill like the tiny pyramids of snow stretching for miles down the silent power lines, aching to be pulled and snapped clean.

But like the high power lines, cleanliness always seems just out of reach.

Sort, toss, recycle, box for Goodwill... Repeat until the kids get home from school, carrying school work, art, lists...

I can hear the scrape of the snow shovel on concrete, feel the shovel lighten as the piles grow on either side of the sidewalk. Shoulders burning, fingers numb, nose and eyes frozen wet, watching the shovel cut the snow through thick clouds of my own breath.

And then, it happens. I reach the end of the sidewalk and slowly turn...

Is it just me, or does everyone hear a full orchestra in their heads as their eyes fill with the sight of that beautiful gray boulevard, lined with majestic white mountains? That beautiful sight leading to warmth and coffee and slippers warming on the radiator?

I feel so utterly full of myself when I finish shoveling snow, even on those days when it's already white again when I turn around. Even on this day, when the 'snow' is clutter and the weather is warm and rainy outside.

Tonight, as I sit in my little condo by the sea, our new home; I focus on the beautiful brown expanse of an empty dining room table leading to a wide open space of clean kitchen counter. How can empty be so satisfying? But it is.

I see the clouds gathering under the moon, and I know there's another clutter flurry in tomorrow's forecast. But I am surprised to find I am filled with a peaceful calm. Of all that life is filled with right now- in my family, community, our world; it is powerfully reassuring that I know I am capable of handling this one little slice of my life. I feel empowered in the midst of the flurries of life.

May your winter be filled with sturdy shovels and warm slippers.

Praying

It's so easy to feel utterly alone, helpless. But we are neither.
Together, let us reach out and bind the wounds of one another.
Lord, in your mercy, hear our prayer:

God of all of us,
Remind us that you are with us when we have no words. Sit beside us while we cry, or while we sit dumbfounded, too shocked for tears.

Fanatics have misunderstood, and twisted the words of the Koran, lashing out at the innocent again. They have taken your name in vain. In Beirut, in Paris, in Baghdad, your children mourn the loss of your children. And still they flee Syria, Afghanistan, Iran, the list goes on, it’s too overwhelming to wrap our heads around.

Instead of lashing out to retaliate, to try and conquer those that are other, give us courage for much harder work; give us the strength to conquer the anger and fear that lives in each of us, the anger and fear that drives us to do more harm, to ostracize others, to store up for ourselves and do little for those in need.

It’s a scary world right now, God, but you are still the God of our ancestors, you are still the God of our children, you are still our God.

Give us courage, when we feel alone, to remember you. Some of us are feeling alone because a partner or friend is no longer in our lives. Some of us feel alone sitting right beside someone we love. Small misunderstandings can build big walls.

Help us to see you in the eyes of those we disagree with. Help us to see you when we look in the mirror. Your love lives within each of us, no matter what.

Amen.

The Silent Singing Bowl

The shoulds, the deadlines and the perfectionist who wants it all to look so polished, sit drowning in the list and wondering how to create when the hurricane inside my head just. won’t. stop.

The singing bowl stands silent, collecting dust and receipts and longing to sing the hurricane into peaceful water once again. Acid churns in my stomach, pushing me slowly down the list that will. not. end.

There are simply too many options for what to fit into this day to possibly make a choice and get started. There are too many mundane tasks that must be completed that hold no sense of satisfaction and therefore no allure. And yet the lights get turned off if you don’t pay the bill and no one gets dressed if you don’t do the laundry.

But the allure that lies in the large tasks, is so large it seems insurmountable. Planning a retreat for 35 amazing women, writing a sermon for the first time to a congregation that raised me and is so hopeful for my leadership, yearning for that next song to fill my soul and pour out of me, to fill and heal me and those around me.

Some days there is just too much potential in the day it is stupefying. I resent the tiny stumbling baby steps that seem to be my only mode of transportation these days. But I am also reminded that those tiny, bumbling baby steps are precisely what have brought me to this moment, in this life, and it’s actually not such a bad place to be. It’s exquisite, truth be told.

Gotta go, off to empty the dishwasher, and the singing bowl.

Healing Journey

6/3/2015

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Early last spring, as we were preparing to move, my husband, Aaron, brought me several small bags. “I found these in the freezer. Can you believe we still have bags of breast milk?! I'll just throw them out.” I grabbed the bags, highly offended. “No, YOU did not make this, you do NOT get to decide what happens to it!” I surprised even myself at my passionate response to these little bags. You see, my youngest child is now six, in first grade, and stopped nursing at age one.

But those little bags signified so much I had never dealt with. I put them back in the freezer and spent the next week trying to decide what their fate would be. Our move would take us 800 miles away, so the bags would not be traveling with us. But they represented a time in my life that had been so hard in coming; I was not willing to simply throw them away. It felt like I had a tangible connection to so much untouchable loss. I prayed, I meditated, and I waited to see what would be created from those little bags of breast milk, sitting my freezer.

I'm not sure how I arrived at my plan, but I saw a watercolor forming in my mind. I gathered blues, purples, and black paints; sea salt to represent so many tears. And I waited. It occurred to me that over the course of our ten rounds of fertility drugs, there had been ten embryos that had been created by Aaron and me. Ten. That number was astounding. Those little bags of milk represented the end of a four year struggle with infertility. They represented seven embryos that never attached. They represented the child lost through miscarriage. They represented the cherished time I nursed two amazing children. Still I waited.

One day, amid packing boxes and looming deadlines, the feeling was overwhelming. It was time. I stood at my dining room table and began to swirl the blues, the purples, the black. I left ten little spaces and while the paint was still very wet, I dropped the breast milk onto the canvas and watched as it swirled and mixed and danced with the colors on the canvas. I sprinkled salt over it all, and whispered prayers for each of those embryos, for the space they would always hold in my soul, for the healing I longed to take place there. Finally, eventually, it was finished. The power of that dance; of paint, milk, tears, salt, and prayers - was unspeakable. I had no idea how much I had needed that dance. When it was finished, I sat in silence with the painting for a long time. There was a powerful connection swirling in the air. Eventually the feeling of connection was replaced by a wide feeling of peace inside me. There was a little milk left over, and I walked outside and sprinkled it over the wild blackberries that grew in our yard, knowing it would feed someone; birds, squirrels, friends, strangers.

That was months ago, and the painting is very dear to me. It went to the book launch party with me, and hung that night in the art gallery as we celebrated. After our move, I hung it in our new home, in our bedroom, and enjoy its nearness. A couple of weeks ago, my hand brushed the bottom of the canvas as I went to turn on the light. My fingers came away damp, and I turned on the light to see streams of paint weaving down the wall. The painting was wet. Aaron said the recent high humidity had caused the salt to soak in the moisture from the air.

But why now, in January? It had not done this through the many humid months of summer in North Carolina. I counted up the months in my head, it has been dry and fine all this time. Chills raised the hairs on my neck as I realized it had been painted nine months ago. I realized it was weeping. I cannot explain the journey of this painting except to say we are connected, and in my eyes it is beautiful beyond measure.

Whatever journey you are walking, honor the connections your soul sees, and allow them to dance.