she writes on sundays

  • notes on quiet moments

    God and I have a tumultuous relationship.

    We’ve been that way for awhile. We’ve been back and forth and I’ve met with him in different spaces and places. I’ve yelled at God on dirt roads in Swazi and cried looking at so many different bodies of water.

    I’ve struggled with not feeling enough. Not being able to hear God enough, not being holy enough, not giving or volunteering enough.

    I’ve struggled in the church of feeling like too much. Too big. Taking of too much space. Using too many words.

    They are things I’ve picked up along the way in all the churches I’ve worked at, the ones I’ve attended, in the ones I’ve sang at, in the places in between that became church spaces.

    I haven’t been able to go to church in a lot of weeks because of theater and other life things and I can always feel it in my soul when it’s been awhile since I’ve sat in that space. I can feel when I haven’t given myself a few moments to be quiet- which I’m aware I should do on days other than Sunday but the way in which my life is able to pause on a Sunday morning even when I’m in the café or setting up Sunday school is something different.

    It’s a different kind of holy moment for me.

    And that’s the holy moment I can’t walk away from.

    I don’t think in the last few years I’ve ever been angry at God persay. I’ve never thought the things around me were the fault of some man in the sky who looks down and tries to make my life more difficult.

    I’m absolutely not someone who thinks that literally everything happens for a reason. I just believe you can use everything that happens FOR a reason.

    And while I haven’t been angry at God or thought that I was just trapped in this game that kept lobbing grenades at me; I have desperately wanted to run away from anything that looked like God.

    I realized that everything in my life felt like clutter; and all I wanted to do was shut all the doors so no one could see in. I’ve tried to move quickly because the things I felt happening were too big for me.

    In every quiet moment I had, I was searching for something to fill it. I was trying to find noise or a job or a project to not take a moment.

    So, today, when I decided to listen to some old worship music while I worked, this line was a billboard in front of me:

    “If I open my hands will you fill them again?”

    And in the moment hearing that lyric, I thought, why would you?

    Because all I feel like I’ve done lately is fail.

    I have felt like an awful friend, a not great daughter, I’ve been not doing all the things I need to at work, I’ve been showing up halfway.

    Part of me is scared. Scared to be lonely, scared to open myself up again to places and things that remind me of parts of myself that felt too big.

    Part of me still believes I am too much and not enough all in the same breath.

    Part of me listens to the small voice that tells me to be silent.

    And part of me doesn’t know what to do with my hands.

    I wish I could say that I know where this is going.

    That I am writing from the end of this part of my story and not the middle.

    Hell, this might even be the beginning of a chapter.

    And that’s where I’m at today.

    That’s where my feet are.

    With love,

    Meg

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  • again.

    I knew when I got home today after the first free Wednesday I’ve had in awhile that I needed to write. Part of that is because the people I was with have the habit of helping stir words around for me and part of that is because I knew I needed to take a quiet moment for myself.

    When I don’t want to write words or when I feel as if I have nothing to contribute to any conversation is when I realize I actually should be writing. I should be finding the space and time to plop some words down and ship them off to see if anyone feels like I door even just so simply, a year from now I can come back to these words and see if I’ve grasped something I didn’t grasp before.

    Yesterday, I said to a friend via text that it felt as if I had spent the last few months climbing a mountain only to find myself back at the bottom of a hill needing to climb up again.

    And honestly, I’m tired.

    Now, here’s the thing, I can easily and effortlessly disclaim away the things and thoughts in my brain right now. I could absolutely tell myself I have friends who are in much worse places right now and I could shut my computer and be done with it.

    But, instead, I’m choosing to grit my teeth and look at this computer and admit some things to myself; to you and maybe it will give you the permission and space to do the same.

    And maybe, admitting those things to ourselves will keep us from jumping down wells to try to find the bottom that isn’t there.

    That, of course, if you’re not new here, brings me to the movie the Labyrinth. Because the minute I had the picture of falling down a well, I thought of all the times the character Sarah falls down holes, or wells, or what have you and ends up further from where she was (or sometimes, closer, she just doesn’t know it).

    I feel as if I’ve jumped into a few metaphorical wells lately in hopes that it will bring me back to a place I’ve been before or at least to a place that I can feel like I have footing.

    I’ve jumped in a few metaphorical wells lately because I’m a bit nervous at the things that I believe I’m supposed to be saying and doing and if I could just move back a few steps maybe I’ll find my strength in doing the path again.

    But, that’s the thing about trying to re-do a path again; you can’t. No matter what the path won’t be the same and you won’t be the same.

    Right now the path I need to be walking down is one where I use my voice and say the things I need to say.

    I need to say them again and again.

    It’s simply high time for me to speak again.

    I need to choose to climb the hill in front of me even though I’m tired and I need to find a way to believe in what’s been placed in my hand.

    If none of this made sense; fine.

    If it all did; great.

    If you feel like you’ve been trying to jump down into a well to start over; I get it.

    And if you feel like all you’ve been doing lately is climbing mountains; know that I am here- with you.

    With love,

    Meg

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  • an iowa redemption

    The musical The Music Man isn’t one that someone would look at the story and character arc and see a theme of redemption. It’s a love story and a story of character growth and a few other things; but not really redemption.

    And yet, here we are.

    About 2 weeks shy of four years ago our cast and crew of the Music Man found out the horrible news that because of a looming shutdown over a virus we knew so little about, that our show was getting cancelled. We all felt a lot of emotions not knowing what was next and what we would end up dealing with and going through.

    Now, four years later about a dozen of us have had the opportunity to be a part of bringing this story to life on the stage.

    And last Friday we got to finally set foot in River City, Iowa.

    Before the curtain came up it truly hit me how different I am from 4 years ago. What I’ve gone through, how I’ve grown as a person in so many different elements of life. What I’ve lost, what I’ve gained and who I’ve become.

    But, I also realized, though, there are a dozen or so of us who are getting to “finally” perform this show, there are a cast, crew and orchestra who get to pick up a little of our redemption.

    Because we all are different then we were in March 2020.

    There are so many stories I don’t know about, so many humans who are a part of getting this to the stage who had to overcome things, who lost people, who found people, who changed because of this season of life that we all collectively walked through.

    Last Friday, we got to be a part of this thing, this story, that never got to be.

    We get to stand in the gap for those that couldn’t be a part of it this time around, we get to finish the story that was started four years ago.

    We got something back that was taken.

    I’ve been having so much fun in River City. I’ve gotten to be on stage with friends I’ve never been in stage with, I’ve met new friends, I finally got to wear an obnoxious hat and I’ve gotten to see incredibly talented humans finally get to step on stage as characters they left behind four years ago.

    I’m sad that my parents aren’t able to be in the audience, that I can’t send my mom all of the amazing costumes I’m wearing, that I didn’t get to tell her all the insanity of tech week or how much fun it is tap dance again.

    But, I’m thankful for the ability to put a period on the end of this Music Man sentence.

    I don’t what you’ve lost in the last four years; if it’s time or people or relationships or pieces of yourself. I don’t know if you’ve had the ability to sift through the muck and find those pieces again.

    But I do know that redemption comes in some of the most unknowing places; including a city on a stage full of stubborn Iowans.

    With love,

    Meg

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  • land mines

    I’ve done about 5 things prior to sitting down and writing something because I don’t want too.

    Here’s the thing: if you’re new here, if you’ve stumbled upon these words somehow; something you need to know about it this- I write to untangle.

    I write to untangle with the hopes that in my untangling I’ll find a piece of something I didn’t have before. I’ll find something hidden or I’ll let myself take the time to face the thing I haven’t been wanting to face. I share because at some point (at many points) in all of our lives we have to untangle things. We have to figure where we’ve been and where we’re going and what we need to do to get there.

    And no matter how many times in our lives we come to that place that feels like a jump it still gets a little scary. It still feels like something trepidatious, because when we choose to move forward, we’re choosing to walk into something we don’t know, we’re choosing to move into something unknown- sometimes leaving something lovely and sometimes leaving something battered and bruised, sometimes somewhere in between.

    I had a breakdown on Friday. In the midst of doing lunch dishes everything just sort of weighed down on me and I felt a panic attack coming. I text my friend Amanda who in turn told me to call her, so I went outside and cried on the phone to her. Amid the conversation, a phrase came into my brain, simply this; “I feel like I can’t get my feet on the ground”.

    Since that moment on Friday that phrase has been told back to me, once in a picture and then in a dream wherein I was barefoot and upon searching what that meant saw many different variations of feeling like not being able to get feet on the ground.

    But today, as I was leaving church and echoes of words my pastors said ricocheting in my brain I thought “I don’t want to move forward because it feels like there are land mines”.

    I feel like I’m about to enter a time where I’m doing some things I used to do again. It’s not the same because I’m not the same, but the actions are similar.

    It’s terrifying and I absolutely see the land mines.

    And I have to wonder-am I strong enough to withstand the blows if I step on one.

    The truth that I know, down in my knower, is that I am indeed strong enough to withstand the blows.

    I am strong enough to get back up again.

    I’m just tired of it.

    (it is to be noted that I stopped at this point and scrolled on my phone as to reach the end of this collection of words)

    There’s a part of me that I have to acknowledge that I’ve set aside the last couple years. I left a job on the brink of collapse, exhausted, burnt out and without hope. I moved into a safe place wherein I was going to have space to breath and just as I was catching my breath- my mom died.

    So now, it’s been almost 2.5 years since I walked away from that part of myself and now something is telling me I might be coming back to that part of who I am.

    And as much as I’d like to say that first my feet have to find the ground, if I’ve learned anything, we cant wait for that- we just have to keep moving forward.

    Something new is on the horizon- it’s pushing me onward and reminding me that ‘again’ isn’t the same- it’s just that- again.

    I’m probably going to step on some land mines on the way, but I have to remember to move forward with my eyes up regardless, I have to remember to lead with hope.

    I have to remember the strength I’ve built and the ability I have to keep moving forward.

    I’m going to be completely honest: I have no idea what is actually next. I just know it’s time to watch for the light again and see what happens.

    If you’ve made it to the end of this, here’s a piece for you:

    You are stronger than the things that came before that gave you the strength. You won’t meet them again the same because you aren’t the same.

    You got this.

    With love,

    Meg

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  • again & again

    When I first started thinking about my word for 2024, I quickly heard the words “build again”.

    And then I quickly said “well, no”.

    While part of me said nope because of a deep need to not feel like I was just re-doing 2023, I also said nope because it didn’t settle to my toes. The words didn’t make me go “yep, that’s it”

    So, I’ve just been waiting.

    Waiting to see if something popped up, or if I had a word highlighted to me.

    Thus far, in 2024, I’ve just been trying to take care of me. I’ve eaten dinner every night, done skin care, tried to drink more water. I have just been moving in a forward direction.

    I don’t in any way shape or form want to do anything from last year AGAIN.

    I’m a human who is very passionate about how we are constantly changing. You can’t really go back to someone you were in the before because of all you’ve become since then. I try to lean strong in to the not having of regrets. I don’t think “everything happens for a reason” but I do believe you can use everything that happens for a reason.

    So, today, sitting in church I kept writing the words “again and again” over and over.

    I was stuck on the phrase. Again and Again.

    I got to thinking about my preschoolers when they would do something that would spark joy or laughter, or when we’d listen to a song or story they love, there would quickly be an “Again!”. I think, looking back to even my one year olds; again is a word that quickly comes after the word ‘more’. Again provides better context for what they want and the repetition that they get when the word is used.

    Tiny humans use again for hope and joy and laughter.

    Then I thought of training or rehearsing or anything where you need a repetition of movement to get better or stronger.

    “Again!”

    It’s a command. A word that says so much with only two syllables.

    Again circles back into the conversation when you’re going through something. This summer when I was dealing with vertigo and unable to hold anything down I went about 14 hours without throwing up when I moved. But, towards the end of the evening on a Sunday, I got up to go to the bathroom and I threw up- and I remember tears falling down my face and saying the phrase, “not again”.

    So, needless to say, ‘again’ circling through my brain has been something I haven’t wanted to look in the face.

    The past week we’ve had snow, I’ve been staying home and I’ve been cleaning and organizing and cooking.

    And the world around me has, for the first time in a while, started to feel like home.

    Home; again.

    And I made the realization that maybe, just maybe, my word isn’t build again, or live again, or home again.

    Maybe it’s just _________ again.

    Blank again.

    I feel a bit like I was holding a deck of cards and I dropped them all.

    But instead of suits and numbers they hold words.

    Write, build, dance, home, sing, rest, laugh, smile.

    The cards hold pieces of who I am that I’ve lost along the way the last few years.

    And its time to pick them up again.

    It doesn’t mean that I’m going back to what I was or repeating what I’ve done.

    It’s just time to be Meg again in ways I’ve forgotten, in places I’ve missed, in spaces I need to show up in again.

    So this year, again and again, I’ll move. I’ll pick up cards.

    I’ll find myself walking forward with who I am and what I’m about.

    Again and again.

    With love,

    Meg

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  • So what if…

    But what if I just started writing.

    What if I stopped being scared that I had nothing to say, no reasons to write.

    What if I stopped being frightened that I was faking it til I make it in regards to the whole prospect of having hope.

    What if I took a moment to lay down the things that feel like are covering my face or weighing me down.

    What if I admitted I’m terrified of being left in the dust.

    What if it feels like all those around me have climbed mountains and crossed oceans while I just sit.

    Here on this island, too petrified to make a leap again.

    What if I told you that I’m scared I missed something; that I stood my ground in such a way that my stubbornness turned to cement and my legs became stone.

    What if I allowed myself to write the words that describe how it feels like grief shifted my foundation

    so much that I feel like I’m in a completely different house.

    What if I don’t know what to say anymore.

    And what if I think that my fires and trials and tears have separated me from all those around.

    And what if I told you; I know that the words that come before this are things that aren’t true but seeped in a bit of truth that I hold onto tighter than I should.

    What if I physically forced my fingers to not press the backspace because I know the lesson in all of this; I know the beauty in it is that in our stream of consciousness we find the nuggets of strength and the things that desperately need to be pushed into the light.

     

    What if I’ve realized through these almost ten years of putting words onto a paper, in the wind, or on a Sunday, that the only way you can put things into the light is to turn the light on yourself.

     

    Because what if I told you that I miss the person I was before I became the girl who lost her mom.

    The girl who didn’t feel like her identity was tied to a grief.

    And what if I told you that I’ve been spending my quiet moments trying to figure out how to keep walking in the direction off the island I feel I live on.

     

    But what if I told you I know I’m stronger.

    I know I’ve walked through those flames and valleys and the things all around them.

    What if I just started writing because I know I’m more than the flames, more than the tears and more than the hurdles in my life that brought me to where I am.

    So, what if I started writing about who I am.

     

    I am Meghan Marie Reeve.

    I’m a friend, a daughter, a little sister, a writer, a traveler, a teacher, a singer, a caregiver, a home.

    I’m a Meredith, a tequila drinker, an adventurer.

    I’ve been through waves and storms more times than I can comprehend.

    And I’ve kept moving forward.

     

    So, what if I told you; it’s time to build again.

    Because it is.

    With love,

    Meg

     

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  • Start writing…

    There are three weeks left of this year and part of me just wants to hibernate so I can say I survived.

    It feels silly to say that because the survival portion of this has really just been the last four months.

    But damn, I have survived.

     

    Right now, in my brain, I’m trying to absolutely disclaim away the things I’ve gone through mentally and physically in the last four months, the things I’m honestly still going through and dealing with.

    But damn, I survived something and I think I’m starting to come to terms with that.

     

    There were a few terrifying moments in the weeks I was dealing with the vertigo that caused me to not be able to eat or move or be. A few times when going to the bathroom I came moments from passing out only to be saved by the fact my toilet is next to a counter I could lean on. A few times where I came close to choking when small movements would cause me to throw up.

     

    I cried myself to sleep most nights.

    I missed my mom more than I could even articulate.

    It was a lot.

     

    And I’m slowly starting to realize what I’ve come through and how it has and still is affecting me.

    My word (phrase) for the year that I’ve been coming back to is “coming back home to myself”. And I’ve been halted on writing because I didn’t really know how to hold the last four months and those words in the same hand.

    And I am still not sure where this is going to go; I’m just going to choose to walk on the path and see what happens.

     

    When I think about coming home to myself, in the beginning of the year, I thought that it would be about finding who I was again. I thought it would be stepping more into the things that brought me home. The brought me joy and that allowed me to lean into things that brought me power of self.

     

    I had a moment, when I was laying in my bed, unable to move, to lift my head, unable to close my eyes, where I had the realization and the thought that I had been stripped of everything that I felt made me, me.

     

    How could I be a home to others if I couldn’t even be home in my own body?

    How could I be a home to others and to myself if I couldn’t even walk down my stairs?

    I know in my knower that I am still me, Meg, even when I was physically trapped in my bed.

    I know that I am still me, even when I felt like a shell of human.

    I had to come home to myself with nothing to give to realize that I was still Meg.

    I had to come home to who I was when I physically could do nothing to realize that people aren’t around me because of what I can do for them or what I bring to the table.

    I had to come home to who I was when I had nothing to give to remind myself I can do hard things.

     

    The last four months have been scary and anxiety producing and have caused me to question more things and interactions than I’d care to admit.

     

    I’m still grappling with my balance and my face and my inabilities daily. I just push through the things that scare me. I’m still grappling with having to decide if this is my new normal.

    I’m still in survival mode sometimes.

    What writing these words has reminded me, is that l am, like my mom, a tough old broad.

    It has reminded me that homes are so many things and they have so many functions.

    And sometimes you don’t get to go downstairs for two weeks.

    If you’ve made it to the end, thank you.

    I hope you’re able to look back on 2023 and see the places you became more yourself, to see the hard things you pushed through.

    To see how you’re stronger.

    To see where the joy lies.

    You did the damn thing, so let’s take these last few weeks and celebrate that.

     

    With love,

    Meg

     

     

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  • Sometimes the ghosts come back

    I don’t want to admit any of the things that are about to be said in this collection of words.

    Because it feels unlike me, it feels like I’m letting a few things that I had mostly put to bed come back. Here we are anyway.

    Somewhere along the way in my 30s I’ve grown to enjoy being in pictures and have even felt beautiful and have grown to love my smile.

    And somewhere along the way in all of this I’ve started to appreciate and be ok with the sound of my own voice. (I had speech issues as a child and had a hard time being understood to the point where I just wouldn’t talk).

    And if I’m being honest the last two months of dealing with Bell’s palsy has brought those two things screaming back to the surface.

    I saw friends this weekend I hadn’t seen in a few months and I felt a lot of anxiety and nervousness and felt incredibly self-conscience about my face and my voice and my ability to communicate. I didn’t want to be in pictures facing the camera and I felt so nervous speaking out loud when I was talking to groups of kids or parents at a theater workshop.

    I didn’t want to do those things but I did because I won’t be silent and I won’t be ashamed of a thing I’m going through- but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t a battle.

    It doesn’t mean the old ghosts of being misunderstood and feeling incredibly not beautiful and worthy don’t come back up.

    It doesn’t mean that I don’t just want to hide and be silent.

    I’m proud of my ability to speak in public and the confidence I have built in myself. I’m proud of myself for choosing to see my beauty.

    But right now, everything in me says to hide.

    I really don’t know what the point of all these words are. I don’t have a solution; I don’t know when I’m going to look and feel normal again.

    I just know that I have to keep being who I am in spite of what the small voice in my head says.

    I’ve had a hell of a two months and it’s still going. (For example tears are currently coming out of one of my eyes).

    I know each thing is going to be a little battle, each event where my friends want to take pictures, each time I have to talk in front of people, auditioning for a show, meeting new people.

    It’s all hard things that I’m going to have to do. All things that make that small, little voice go; “hey remember when?”.

    Here I am though; trying.

    I don’t know what hard thing you’re going through, or what thing is bringing back ghosts from the past you thought you defeated, but I want you to know you aren’t alone.

    You can do it.

    We can do it.

    I can do it.

    Let’s keep fucking going.

    With love,

    Meg

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  • Where I’m at.

    I wasn’t going to write.

    I didn’t want to pin this season however long it may be anywhere.

    I don’t want to look in a mirror so I really don’t want to look in the mirror that are whatever words might come out of my mouth.

    Truth be told; I’m scared.

    When the doctor said the phrase “Bell’s palsy” last week I actually really resisted the urge to google more than the paperwork in front of me.

    The thing about googling Bell’s palsy is that people that recover quickly don’t talk about it.

    I’ve been out of work all week. I’ve been dizzy and exhausted and I’ve been avoiding talking and FaceTiming and anything that is having to use my voice.

    My brain is desperately wanting to check out and not have to think about any of the things.

    Because at the end of the day- it’s where I am right now.

    I’m trying to remember who I am, what I’m about and what I’m made of.

    I’m trying to remember my strength.

    So, with all that being said, I’m going to go into this next week and keep moving forward.

    I’m going to choose to believe again and again and again that this is a season and from this place I’ll be stronger.

    And also for now, I’ll know that I don’t always have to be strong and that if I need to cry I will (even if it’s only with one eye).

    I’ll be thankful for the kind words and the care packages and the love and prayers and the humans in my life.

    And I’ll do my damndest to speak even though it is really really hard.

    That’s it.

    That’s some guttural, real, from the pits of where I’m at this Sunday.

    That’s all.

    With love,

    Meg

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  • Into Fall

    I’ve been trying to write for a while. Weeks really. I’ve been a little afraid at what might come out if I allow myself to sit in front of a screen and just let words come out.

    In all honesty I think I’ve spent the summer drawing lines in the sand that I don’t believe anyone else really knows about.

    (I say this though and all I can think of is my best friend reading this on her couch and knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that she’s seen the lines I’ve chosen to draw.)

    I’m trying to look at my life differently than I ever have.

    I’m trying to see the things, people, and moments that give me life.

    I think I’ve been avoiding people the last few weeks. I’ve been cleaning out corners and sitting with my empty house and empty brain and I’ve been sad and not sad and a lot of things in between those. 

    I’ve spent a lot of years being drained because I thought I was supposed to be.

    I’ve spent a lot of years doing things I think I should because other people needed my abilities to step into those places.

    I stayed longer than I should have because if not me than who.

    I stayed in friendships, I stayed feeling bad because I wasn’t better, I stayed so others weren’t alone even though the places I stayed were taking every ounce of energy I had because I had the ability to keep moving forward. 

    I stayed because I had strength on the behalf of the people who didn’t have it.

    But, when I haven’t been able to write this week, when it’s been a lot and a lot, I chose to lean into something that is constantly a reference point, constantly something I choose to look at when I feel like I can’t untangle what I’m feeling.

    Obviously, the movie “The Labyrinth.”

    On my rewatch I noticed something.

    All the main character had to do was change how she saw things. All she had to do was look at a wall differently and there was a door. All she had to do was look past the cracks in the mirror and remember she was still on a quest.

    All she had to do was change the way she saw things.

    All she had to do was choose her own way of seeing things.

    There was a chunk of my life wherein I chose to make myself smaller so a person who was close to me didn’t feel small.

    I chose to stay tucked away so a person in my peripheral didn’t feel left out.

    So instead, I left my own self out.

    And honestly, I got angry. I got sad. I got lonely.

    I got unlike myself.

    I felt like I was drawing lines in the sand because the human in my life was unable to step out of theirs.

    And that haunted me for a long while.

    So, this summer when I felt stepped on and shoved aside and a few other adjectives I won’t share; I decided to draw some lines in the sand.

    And it’s been hard.

    It’s been lonely. 

    It’s been giving space to those who didn’t need to draw those lines.

    It’s been keeping myself out of places I didn’t have the emotional ability to process.

    It’s been truthfully coming to terms with being alone and being someone, who’s mom died.

    And those realizations have been earth shattering in ways I’ve kept quieter because I’ve been unable to articulate what those actual mean.

    And it’s been a lot of sitting with my own brain and classical music.

    Guess what?

    That’s ok.

    It sounds sad, lonely, and depressing.

    But, really, it’s not.

    Today I spent an hour with three good friends of mine, and then met my bestie for early dinner and I got the light of things that brought me life.

    And that led me to these words.

    Words that felt shadowed and heavy and so many other things.

    But they weren’t

    They were just things I needed to look at again.

    I needed to change the way I saw them.

    This summer won’t go down as one that brought me goodness and memories.

    It will be one where I came home to myself in a quiet way, so that I could let things die, so that I could let pieces I kept go, because they made others more comfortable.

    This summer is leading me to fall and while that’s a place I usually don’t want to go- this year; I’m ready to lead myself into fall.