The F-word is a Dirty Word in the Church

I have had something percolating for a while — thoughts on being a woman in the church.

It is good to be human. But is it good to be a woman in the church?
And what about the f-word? It’s hard to be a feminist in the Evangelical church.
Do you ever wonder why people of faith don’t talk more about how Jesus treated women?

I keep picking at the edges of it, writing, and rewriting. Here is just a few paragraphs…

It is difficult and painful to be on the faith journey as a Christian Feminist woman who grew up in the evangelical church. At first, for me, as I broadened my perspective. I was cautious, suspicious even. Mostly I was fearful because of what I had been taught. And I’ll admit it, even angry at some of the assumptions that people made about what the Bible teaches. It seemed to me that these conclusions were drawn without being willing to actually study it.

As I felt an internal pull, a tugging of my heart toward the truth, I was afraid. Whereas I had been especially affirmed and promoted at work, at church it was crystal clear that this was not to be expected. Women were “supposed” to do the receiving and watch men do the vital ministry of teaching and leading the church.

But more than anything, I just wanted other people to talk to about what I heard God stirring inside me. I could not find anyone to talk to about it. So I began the lonely venture of studying the scriptures for myself. I also read theologians, including feminist theologians, with heartfelt trepidation, fearing that I may end up leaving the evangelical church based on what I learned.

The f-word is a dirty word in the Church.

I went back early this morning to a letter I wrote to my elders last year. I put everything in those pages, there for them to take in. My heart out there on the page. I was told by the elders of my church, not now. Just wait. Be patient. And I think I hear the Lord saying, Sh………… Stop. Wait. Just wait………….. And be quiet a while. I have a sense that he wants to work on my heart, my lack of forgiveness, and anger, and so though I have pages and pages I’m waiting.

In the meantime…

I read a beautiful post on Eugene Cho’s blog that I resonated with greatly. Pastor Cho is also a great advocate for women. The article by Dr. Michelle Garred, who is a researcher and consultant in international peace building, talks about experiences at a Christian event as a recently married and yet professional woman, and asks compellingly:

Why does this distorted social setting appear to pit me in competition against my husband and best friend? Why can’t someone meet a couple and assume that these two inter-dependent individuals both have something to offer? Why should I be forced to wield my trump cards as instruments of power, making conversation into a contact sport? Most importantly, what about the many women who don’t have trump cards, but who do have boundless gifts to be shared with the Church? Who sees those women? And who hears them?

I found myself telling the author …

“Thank you for writing so simply and eloquently, with a gentleness that isn’t angry. I found myself resonating loudly! And I have to say that once you lose the credentials of “important work” and you are a “wife” then you seem to have even less stature and credibility, which is partly the culture of “work” being valued over all else. But it is also sexism rearing its ugly head.I know I am very angry and I know that I need to get beyond it to forgiveness somehow. I too resonate when people of colour talk about their experiences with racism, because they echo my own as a woman in the church. All this to say – amen! Preach it! You are saying something really important and hopefully, PhD or not, others will listen!

I would encourage you to read it: Gender, church, and the art of alternate endings.

I also read and resonated loudly with this article by David Park another great advocate for justice, in the EFCA church. He talks of Six Postures of Ethnic Minority Culture towards Majority Culture. And oddly enough, or not, I found that this has been similar to my response as a woman in the church. But if you want to read it in its entirety it’s here. These postures are:

Posture 1: Unaware.
Posture 2: Angry and Wounded.
Posture 3: Silent and Resigned.
Posture 4: Duty and Pleasing.
Posture 5: Unity as Assimilation.
Posture 6: Equal and Empowered Partnership.

I have lived, am living these. Park says: In the effort “to build bridges between minority and majority cultures, that there is the feeling that this whole race dialogue is “unfair” to the majority, but it’s really not. It’s hard on both sides to work towards having a relationship, especially a relationship that is part of our witness of a common savior. It takes work, and it is fair. So jump in and assume the right posture. We are in it for the long haul.”

Yes we are in it for the long haul as we work together to build up the Church, to see it as Jesus would and become the beautiful reconciled body of Christ with everyone serving our of their gifts and talents.

I hear God’s call to be a voice for certain voiceless populations, especially for women in the evangelical church. I am constantly clarifying, are you sure Lord? And at times I have been unproductive, and not very Godly, allowing myself to be anxious or angry, or even trying to please others rather than listen well.

Each of us must ask ourselves, male and female alike, are we living as an old person or a new creation? In the flesh or in the Spirit? And what are we being called to as we serve?

I’d love to know what you think on this or anything. And in the meantime, as I actively wait to know what I am to do with my writing on women in the church, pray for me will you?

Melody

God Never Tires of Being our Comforter

The first Sunday of Advent I walk in to church wanting to smell candles and incense. At this time of the year especially I miss the high church traditions, since we have been going to church in a bar. As I walk in, late, I run into an acquaintance and he asks how I am. There is always a pressure within choosing honesty in the midst of my struggle with depression, while still remaining true to being a positive person, as I wrote recently at Provoketive Magazine. I ask him if he is well? With a pause he says “I can’t complain.” And I instantly wonder if he read my piece?

As I walk away, I begin to wonder if anyone reads anything I write? The old dog of depression is under my feet, tripping me up as I walk into the service. Silly dog, panting with about me with its “Doubt. Fear. Self hatred. Self loathing. Is there anything I do that matters to anyone anywhere?”

Shaking it off at the same time I take off my winter coat, I prepare to listen to God, knowing that sometimes you simply must choose. Choose faith. Choose joy. As I laid in bed earlier this morning, slightly dreading being alive, I chose to get up. I “do another day” many days when I am depressed, because this is what I choose to do.

I choose to see and feel the Comforter. At least this is what I am thinking as the band starts up. They’re really good this morning. The A team, I think to myself.

We begin by singing…

“Our God is a God who saves… He holds the keys of life, our Lord. Death has no sting, no final word.”

I settle in, in order to stop the hard work of choosing and let God save me— again. He is the one who saves. We are reminded in this song our job is to wait…

We will wait. We will wait upon the Lord. We will wait upon the Lord.”

I raise my hands almost in a plea, a prayer “Oh God, my hope, my Strong Deliverer, you are the everlasting God.” I say the words, choking on them, because I cannot sing them. Not to worry, my heart tells me, because God doesn’t get tired of being your comforter.

The everlasting God — You do not faint. You won’t grow weary. You’re the defender of the weak.

I am weak, so blasted tired.

You comfort those in need.

I choose you Lord, but I have such a great need.

You lift us up on wings like eagles. Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, Your perfect love is casting out fear, And even when I’m caught in the middle of the storms of this life I won’t turn back I know you are near And I will fear no evil for my God is with me And if my God is with me Whom then shall I fear? Whom then shall I fear?

And I weep with the realization that I don’t have to be afraid — of myself, of depression, of the mess in my heart, of the fear of not ever being useful, of my shame for the way my life has come together.

Oh no, You never let go
Through the calm and through the storm
Oh no, You never let go
In every high and every low
Oh no, You never let go
Lord, You never let go of me
And I can see a light that is coming for the heart that holds on a glorious light beyond all compare.
And there will be an end to these troubles. But until that day comes
We’ll live to know You here on the earth
Yes, I can see a light that is coming for the heart that holds on
And there will be an end to these troubles
But until that day comes.

The band launches into :

I will enter his gates with Thanksgiving in my heart

I will enter His courts with praise

I will say this is the day that the Lord had made

I will rejoice for he has made me glad.

And I’m not ready to “be glad”– this song is too jubilant for me, I am still weary from sobbing my way through worship, barely catching my breath, tears coursing down my face warm and salty. I feel so loved! My son, concerned to see me cry twice in as many days and perhaps only a half-dozen times in his twelve years of life, puts his arm around me. He whispers “Are you okay, Mom?” Oh yes, I am very okay!

Though I am weary from weeping and knowing and choosing, I know that if I can rejoice, the word in hebrew ‘gil’ means to be glad, yes, I think, even joyful in this, I will endure anything life can bring. The deep, deep well of despair lifts a little bit more. I want to shout “Bring it on, Mother F***er!” with a raised fist to the Evil One who has tormented me. But that would be inappropriate. I laugh inside, almost gleeful because the inexplicable darkness, the unimaginable hell is lifting.

Psalm 2: 11 says I will rejoice with trembling. And that is me in this moment. I sit in stunned reverence. For God enfolded me this morning in his love through the music, the kicking keyboard and amazing bass, the beautiful female voice and my friend Paul — all those who led us in to the holy of holies.

And as they did, I fell — stumbled toward my God broken, frail, unable to even be glad I was alive. Simply hoping, tired of the dailiness and deadliness of depression.

Oh yes! Sometimes, you can rejoice even when you had to choose to do it first.

Oh no, You never let go
Through the calm and through the storm
Oh no, You never let go
In every high and every low
Oh no, You never let go
Lord, You never let go of me

And I can see a light that is coming for the heart that holds on
A glorious light beyond all compare
And there will be an end to these troubles
But until that day comes
We’ll live to know You here on the earth

Until that day comes.

A Dare to Name all the Ways that God Loves Me

For He is always speaking, if only I could hear Him, see Him, receive Him.

I’ve been reading One Thousand Gifts by Ann Voskamp. To honor the intent of the book, I’ve begun my own list I titled ~~a Dare to Name all the Ways that God Loves Me.~~

I had to rename this list because even if I lost every single thing listed here I know that God still loves me.

I’m Thankful For:

Health insurance.
A husband’s love.
A home.
The truth of scriptures.
That Daniel gave thanks.
For children’s laughter.
For children’s questions.
For childlike faith.
Imaginations of children.
The sound of LEGOs pieced together, clicks and clinks as the youngest boy digs.
The click of computer keyboard, as ideas fall onto the screen.
The tinkling of guitar chords, rising from the basement.
Skinny boy legs.
Coffee, warm and soothing.
Enthusiasm of children.
Emma’s laughter.
A loyal pup.
Ginger tea’s reminder of many things shared with Tom.
A warm, heated home.
A trusty car.
The prayers of friends, new and old.
The hope of Cross Stitch.
Full tummies.
Silly belly laughing at dinner.
Frost on the fall morning’s grass.
The stories of Ho-Chunk people “People of the Big Voice” which I heard about on the radio.
Public radio.
Public teachers and leaders, truly humble people.
The New Yorker magazine.
Books. Books piled up in corners.
Used book store smell.
The sounds of the heater kerchunking in the winter. (It still works!)
A husband who does laundry.
Drinking Jasmine tea with a friend.
Feeling understood.
the Bible plain and simple, that anyone can open, read and try to understand.
that the Bible doesn’t have to make complete and total “sense.”
my depression.
~~my alcoholism.~~ Being sober three years and four months.
Handel‘s Messiah!
Tears, being able to cry again.
Tom.
Tom’s job.
God’s abundant provision!
Good health (so far) for our children.
Molly living at home.
The CIVA project to work on.
The illogic of faith.
My sisters, strong resilient women each one.
That I was able to travel twice to Russia and Ukraine.
The hope that I will one day travel overseas again.
So many talented, creative friends who make music and art!
For pecan pie. 11/28/2011
For the ability to express myself in writing.
A child who tells me when she’s afraid.
A grown up daughter that still listens and grows.
And her big, open heart!
the smell of rice cooking.
the dog growling at baby Jesus and the reindeer in my neighbor’s yard.
Turkey curry with coconut milk.
Vietnamese Noodles with a good friend.
Home made hot cocoa for a sick girl.
sunlight in the window.
Chai warm and sweet goodness.
Mosaics.
Clouds in the blue sky.
Ice on early morning windows.
boy drinking broth with a straw.
the agility and ability of children to sleep in any place or position.
home-made corn bread cooking sweet in the oven.
the grass sparkling with frost. 11/30/2011
Learning humility from a dear friend who is constantly insulted by others’ insensitivity to her beautiful Japanese culture & heritage.
Vanilla Ice Cream!
A night out with Tom and no kids.
Dinner with friends.
Fires in the fireplace.12/5
Classical music.
Jacob’s “graduating” from help at school after eight years of speech and language help!
Sunsets, the color and majesty.
Heat, as in sand and palm trees and sun!
That Junia was a woman and that I know it.
The honor of serving on the board of Lilada’s Livingroom.
Historians, like Doris Kearns Goodwin.
Blackhawk church downtown!
That “public servants” is not a misnomer.
For the teachers, aids, doctors, speech therapists, tutors and interns that have worked with J for the last eight years, giving him language, and speech and the discovery of his own intelligence.
Men who aren’t sexist.

The Thanksgiving Miracle

Being with my family is always something complex – rich and stark at the same time. My people are full of ancient pain. Mostly we have learned to carry on, but I the least of all. For some reason I live stuck.

“I’m sorry you’ve been sad” she said kindly, as I fingered my sweaty water glass. Standing there, more comfortable in the place just outside the kitchen, where Serbian is being spoken which I do not understand, than in the living room where I will be expected to be something. I know not what, except that I cannot do it today. And so I stand there listening to the beautiful Slavic sounds, watching the cooking. Bread is baking. Gravy slowly bubbles.

The sun peeks in through the window where a cacophony of herbs is growing, so unlikely in this stark Midwestern winter. But this kitchen is a place of miracles. I finger the sage, basil, mint, “Such a wonder, herbs growing.” I had whispered more to myself than anyone. My brother-in-law looks as me curiously, perhaps he is wondering at my wondering.

“It is not sadness” I quip sometime later. I immediately regret my correction if it is harsh or sounds mean when really I am only bone tired. I apologize, contrite, in the same breath. And this is the miracle moment I can only see looking back. It is an instant. A simple choice. She persists.

And doesn’t walk away as we have done to one another a thousand, even a hundred thousand times. We, my broken family, are quick to quit on each other in moments like this. Too afraid of the conflict, of anxiety, of misunderstanding. Of harsh even mean words, for which I am often guilty. We become weary of the simple effort of inquiry, wary of the risk and the liar tells us “It’s not worth it” the pushing through, the desire to understand, to heal; to change the ancient rules of misunderstanding. Persisting, she asks “What is it?” That moment is unbelievable to me and I know she really wants to know.

“Fractured.” The first word burst out of me for I was ready, longing for the question and I find myself wanting her to know. “Anxious. Fearful. Lacking hope.” The words tumble. Slowly at first, I persist through my shame. And she listens to me in those miraculous moments after our mother left choosing football alone over Us. We know where we stand. I don’t judge my mother. I feel her rejection sharp.

But as my sister stands there and listens, I talk about the deepest kind of despair. “From ancient wounds,” she asks? And I stare at her in wonderment. Has she read my blog or poetry, echoing words I have scribbled there? Or has she read my heart, my mind? She has never spoken to me of the words I put down there, a selfish scribbling down of the story of my shattered heart that I put on my blog lacking the courage to speak them in real life.

Feeling a little bit more known I stammer out the words, finally. I talk of this family we are a part of and how we don’t know how to be together. How I long for more. And it makes me so sad. And yet my husband has a theory that ultimately we all “do what we really want.” If you want more connection do something about it, is the implication. But we both know, my sister and I, that it is not so simple for us, having started from a place of broken with no capacity to build something good. I share that I really long to know her, know my brother-in-law, be a part of their lives. I share this place of hurt. Where I become stuck. These triggers to my depression, of fearing rejection that hasn’t actually happened.

Then I begin to speak of our Father, long dead and it is clear he is inside my head. “I cannot remember him kind” I sputter as tears begin to flow, the second miracle or third after the questions and the herbs, for I am the woman who cannot cry. I long to, but my frozen heart, cemented to its pain has been shut solidly closed. It may have been a decade since tears have flowed. And I stand there in the kitchen of miracles and weep ancient tears. And speak of the terror in my heart and head as I hear my father’s rage. “I am stuck there with him, terrifying and terrorizing me.” And she comforts me with her presence. And her tenacious probing attention. I shudder with the pain of speaking my genuine admiration for her achievements, of living. She has somehow been able to live. “The boxes we were put in as toddlers,” she says. This is a revelation, since we two girls were babes our father has said she was smart and I was somehow something other. Though he wasn’t particular as he raged about grades. But for some reason I was the recipient of his anxiety, disappointment and fear. That is when she voices their anxiety.

She speaks of a class she took on Anxiety and how it spreads in organizations and families and what a revelation that was to her! The anxiety of our parents was a constant presence and fueled his anger, her sadness and all the sickness in our home growing up. Even today, every word my mother expresses is laden with fear of rejection, misunderstanding. I wonder what she really thinks, feels but I will never know. And I know that I cannot talk to her about any of this, my ancient wounds, because she is too fragile. The threat all these years has been that she will fall apart.

Every time you feel in God’s creatures something pleasing and attractive, do not let your attention be arrested by them alone, but passing them by, transfer your thought to God and say: ‘O my God. If thy creations are so full of beauty, delight and joy, how infinitely more full of beauty, delight and joy art Thou Thyself, Creator of all? — Nicodemus of the Holy Mountain

We stay a long while, and laugh, and talk and simply be. We leave more connected. I am overwhelmed by the miracle. This tale is supernatural in that it happened. It is not the tears or the ancient pain spoken out loud though they are incredible. This is about the persistence of My Sister who gave a thanksgiving miracle to me. Yes in that I can say, thanks be to God.

He did this. She did this. We did this.

And what remains is hope.

Lord, make me an instrument

vocatus atque non vocatus, deus aderit. — these words of Erasmus, translate to say:

Bidden or unbidden, God is present.

I think it is important to remember, beauty in the bleak days.

“Prayer is sitting in the silence until it silences us, choosing gratitude until we are grateful, praising God until we ourselves are a constant act of praise.” — Richard Rohr

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace;

where there is hatred, let me sow love;
where there is injury, pardon:
where there is doubt, faith;
where there is despair, hope
where there is darkness, light
and where there is sadness, joy

O Divine Master,
grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled, as to console;
to be understood, as to understand;
to be loved, as to love;
for it is in giving that we receive,
it is in pardoning that we are pardoned,
and it is in dying that we are born to Eternal Life.
— St. Francis of Assisi (1182 – 1226)

So often, it is too easy to get caught up in ourselves. “Lord, make me an instrument…” Don’t we all just want to be useful, usable? I know, when I am caught up in my own darkness that I am, or at least I feel, useless.

While life’s dark maze I tread,
And griefs around me spread,
Be thou my guide;
Bid darkness turn to day,
Wipe sorrow’s tears away,
Nor let me ever stray
From thee aside.

— A hymn My Faith Looks Up to Thee by Ray Palmer.

I believe that I shall see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living.
Wait for the Lord; be strong, and let your heart take courage; wait for the Lord! –– Psalm 26

I will extol you, O Lord, for you have drawn me up, and did not let my foes rejoice over me.
O Lord my God, I cried to you for help, and you have healed me.
O Lord, you brought up my soul from Sheol, restored me to life from among those gone down to the Pit.
Sing praises to the Lord, O you his faithful ones, and give thanks to his holy name.
For his anger is but for a moment; his favour is for a lifetime.
Weeping may linger for the night, but joy comes with the morning.
As for me, I said in my prosperity, ‘I shall never be moved.’
By your favour, O Lord, you had established me as a strong mountain;
you hid your face; I was dismayed.
To you, O Lord, I cried, and to the Lord I made supplication:
‘What profit is there in my death, if I go down to the Pit?
Will the dust praise you? Will it tell of your faithfulness?
Hear, O Lord, and be gracious to me! O Lord, be my helper!’
You have turned my mourning into dancing;
you have taken off my sackcloth and clothed me with joy,
so that my soul may praise you and not be silent.
O Lord my God, I will give thanks to you for ever. — Psalm 30

In you, O Lord, I seek refuge; do not let me ever be put to shame; in your righteousness deliver me.
Incline your ear to me; rescue me speedily. Be a rock of refuge for me, a strong fortress to save me.

You are indeed my rock and my fortress; for your name’s sake lead me and guide me, take me out of the net that is hidden for me, for you are my refuge. Into your hand I commit my spirit; you have redeemed me, O Lord, faithful God.

You hate those who pay regard to worthless idols, but I trust in the Lord.
I will exult and rejoice in your steadfast love, because you have seen my affliction;
you have taken heed of my adversities, and have not delivered me into the hand of the enemy;
you have set my feet in a broad place.

Be gracious to me, O Lord, for I am in distress; my eye wastes away from grief, my soul and body also.
For my life is spent with sorrow, and my years with sighing; my strength fails because of my misery, and my bones waste away.

I have become like a broken vessel. But I trust in you, O Lord; I say, ‘You are my God.’ My times are in your hand; Blessed be the Lord, for he has wondrously shown his steadfast love to me.

Be strong, and let your heart take courage, all you who wait for the Lord. — Psalm 31

———–

I covet your prayers friends. All I can say is that I know this is an illness. I also know that it is spiritual attack. More important, I know that I am beloved. I will take courage and wait for the Lord.

What God can possibly expect from a broken-down, brokenhearted, mess like you?

Grace is that kick-start value that breaks through the dullness of one’s self-loathing, recrimination or dysfunction, granting love and favor without the expectation of a return. Experiencing it from God is transformational, offering it to someone else is revolutionary. — Saltshaker

In some ways, I wonder if my frequent lingering in the pain of the past — the constant remembering — is a slap in the face to God, to the forgiveness and grace that I have received.

I live with that shame. I live with the question if God is the healer why can’t I heal, finally, once and for all?

That question rings out loudly today as I look back over my week of falling into depression, again. I know that I have some control over it, though not sure how much. I know that. I wonder to myself if by slipping down there again, I betray my Lord? Am I denying him? “They claim to know God, but by their actions they deny him. They are detestable, disobedient and unfit for doing anything good.”

I have always believed that my honesty and truthfulness was my only hope out of the wickedness of a childhood full of fear, self-hatred and pain. Now I am uncertain. Perhaps I am doing this in my own strength and I am not really healed? Does my frequent lingering only pick the scab off of a wound that deserves to heal? I want the Lord’s healing. I want my life to be proof of God being real.

I whisper a prayer from Jeremiah: “I know Lord, that our lives are not our own. We are not able to plan our own course. So correct me, Lord, but please be gentle. Do not correct me in anger, for I would die.”

Correction first, healing second.

Really? This might be it. The connection I’ve been searching for. As I open up to God’s correction, then healing may come? I see it in the words of Julian of Norwich in Revelations of Divine Love:

“See that I am God.
See that I am in everything.
See that I do everything.
See that I have never stopped ordering my works, or ever shall, eternally.
See that I lead everything onto the conclusion ordained for it before time began, by the same power, wisdom and love with which I made it.
How can anything be amiss?”

What?

Before time began, this too the Lord knew …

He knew of an angry father.

He knew of a reclusive, fearful cold mother.

He knew of four frightened daughters, full of secrets.

He knew me, full of self-loathing, before time began.

This too, He knew? He never stopped ordering his works, or ever shall.

How – can – this – be?

What do I do with this knowledge that before time began He knew my pain?

He knew and He knows. He knows my heart, what it feels like to fear your own daddy and wonder what you did wrong? He knows what it is to crave a comforting, hug from mamma, a hug of safety. He knows what horror tastes like, in salty tears streaming down, as you’re berated, over and over, for some failing; that as he yells, you are not even sure that he remembers what failing of yours set him off. He is so caught up in his righteous raging. All you know in that moment is the shame and loathing and fear. You want to escape it, him, home. If this is love… then there is no safe place.

And over the years you hide inside yourself, eyes wide to the world, cringing. Expecting life to hurt. Not knowing whom to trust, if anyone. Even in that fear, remembered some thirty years ago, you stumble over the question of what God can possibly expect from a broken-down, brokenhearted, mess like you? But he knew this pain too?

“God only desires that our soul cling to him with all of its strength, in particular that it clings to his goodness. For of all the things our minds can think about God, it is thinking upon his goodness that pleases him most and brings the most profit to our souls.” (Julian of Norwich.)

Really?

Cling to the truth that God is good. Even in the midst of past horrors, pain. Scabs on your heart, thick scarring. Disbelief. Knowing, or at least fearing that people will always let you down. Your hurt billows out with the fear from the echoes from a daddy’s rage.

I will cling to His goodness as if it is a prayer, whispered, lifted to the heavens with a tiny billow of faith.

A prayer of gratitude for his goodness is all he asks. Not my perfection. Not any deed or accomplishment. Not even a big, humongous faith.

Simply cling to his goodness.

See that I lead everything on to the conclusion ordained for it before time began, by the same power, wisdom and love with which I made it.

He made life, with power wisdom and love?

Amen. May it be so for me and you.

Someday Pain

“In certain ways writing is a form of prayer.” — Denise Levertov

frequent looks backward,

are killing me. a betrayal of today.

i want to know why

but yesterday hurts.

aches like a cold, itches

like a wound healing.

i can’t help but think

get over yourself.

and pray, the whispered mantra

i warble at first, hushed

to myself

someday pain won’t rule over me.

Kitty Versus Wolf

I have beautiful friend, she
sings like an angel. And
when she sings people’s hearts
heal.

Please take a listen.

And 10% of all CD sales will go to Poverty Stops Here, an organization that is confronting extreme poverty through investments in clean water, sanitation, and economic opportunities in Nigeria.

And the ever talented Tom Hanson produced the music.

Shall I Dance for You? (A poem)

The sun came out today and I felt its warmth creep into my soul. It would appear

that I am on the mend. Believing,

That is the tricky thing. Knowing and accepting are strange bedfellows.

Where did it come from I wonder — this self-loathing?

Was I born this way?

Or is it the result of rubbing against broken people?

Am I shattered and wrecked – lost beyond repair? Or, hopeful. Yes.

Where do we find safety, deep rest except by trusting in the Son.

All my striving and this need to prove, outperform, and achieve isn’t the Gospel.

I have soaked in the lies of culture — an ethos of discontent– so deeply into my pores that I no longer believe?

Where do we find safety, deep rest except by trusting in the Son.

Am I respectable, admired, or lovable without doing?

Shall I dance for you so that you will love me, finally?

It is never enough.

So today, I will lie here in the sunshine and soak in the sun.

in the midst of ashes, hope

Broken Bits and Pieces

I am so bloody tired of this feeling of being trapped and held by the past, unable to live the abundant life that was promised to each of us.

And I am frightened. Scared to death of the endless looking back to see and remember. When will I find in the midst of the ashes, hope. And where is it?

All the broken bits of me are scattered and the wind gusting into my life today threatens to blow me away.

I don’t know what to do with the bits and pieces of memory – those things that hurt. They cause me to doubt myself. They are vicious. They are hurtful and dangerous, drumming. They are clamoring. They are ringing in my head louder than my small wavering voice (only just) learning to speak. Are they a lie from the pit or truth? When I get like this, when my wounds are oozing as they do today, I cannot distinguish lies from truth. It is what it is. I am nobody. Just another nobody with a story. Who cares? I cannot believe that this story would help anyone. One word put on the page after another – risky only in its admission. Here, now, this, these words, they are nothing.

I am so tired of this place. My family and its circling pain, all shattered fragments, falling apart more every day. Who will hold the generations together? They are slowly slipping away and soon they will be bits and pieces of nothing.

More importantly how do I learn? When will I be transformed?

Trust Him

The disciples appear to be sitting around, unsure of what to do, until Peter decides to go fishing (John 21) and the others go along. Was it aimless activity. They needed to eat. Not necessarily completely aimless but doing the thing in front of them. The disciples do not know what to do, so they do the necessary. And the story suggests that they have put themselves in a place where Christ meets them.

“Here is the simple truth, attested to by the saints, that when we are uncertain what to do we should simply do our duty and God will guide.”

But that night they caught nothing doing what they perceived as the right thing. It is suggested that they are being prepared to learn one of the central lessons of discipleship–apart from Jesus they can do nothing (15:5).

Jesus has taught this lesson before, for “never in the Gospels do the disciples catch a fish without Jesus’ help.”

I feel like those fishermen who struggled to believe—they were fishing in order to pass the time and in order to eat. It has been a long, long time that I have sat with my story, lived it, tried to find something redeeming there in my story. And my life.

I fear, like the disciples with their nets in the water, that

I. just. don’t. believe.

Yes, I am having trouble believing that you can catch fish here. With my life. With this story. It’s been “a long night of fishing and I have caught nothing.”

I need to hear His voice, and I don’t even know for sure that I know what it looks or sounds like any more. Is it even him they wondered when he showed up? When He said, “Throw your net on the right side of the boat”….

What are his promises for a moment like this?

Lay It Down

So I have to set down my anger and disappointment at myself for quitting my job so that now, in the middle of a recession, I have no possibilities. I have to put my desire to work or “to do something” to support my family down. I have to let go of my ego and pride and the very real delusion that a job will make me more esteemed person to others or bring me respect. Lay it down.

I must believe that all of this, my story, is part of a purpose bigger than I am able to imagine or see. Jesus is teaching me that apart from him I can do nothing.

Even I don’t see it. It is almost easier to look backwards because that is so much clearer, ah beautiful hindsight.

No the future is confusing. I think I want to go back to school then I am I’m totally frozen by insecurity, self-doubt, and fear — perhaps I’m not smart enough, diligent enough and more importantly have nothing original to say? It has all been said, thought, written, done. Lay it down.

I thought I was going to write my story, but there isn’t even a story. It is just a story about an average nobody middle child who had a raging rather, became a workaholic while having three kids and a step daughter, who quit her paying job, got depressed, became an alcoholic, and now does what? Lay it down.

Tom says it is a spiritual attack when I start to feel like I have nothing to offer to the world, to my children, to my friends (what friends?), to him. Lay it down.

Don’t tell me I’m a good mom, because I don’t care right now. I don’t even know why I am here.

The future is blank. It requires faith. Big faith? A small quavering timid faith is all I seem to have today, a brokenhearted faith. Whatever it is, it’s immeasurable.

It simply is. I have to lay it all down and believe what he promises, when he said …

“Blessed is she who has believed that the Lord would fulfill his promises to her!” – Luke 1:45

Lord I believe. Help my unbelief.

On (Not) Writing

I’ve slipped back over here to my blog because I’m having trouble writing. You could say I’m s t u c k — mired in self-doubt.

Gluey, icky burdensome thoughts are inside my head as I go through my days — has it been a whole week — of NOT WRITING.

How can this be, after all this time? I’m heavy with disappointment in myself.

I even have the excuse of carpel tunnel (I had to look that up to spell it.) My right hand isn’t working correctly, aches all the way up my arm, goes numb, even typing out each l e t t e r hurts just a little. Sometimes a lot.

I have read, reread, rewritten my poems. Because nothing new is coming.

In that valley is where Mary Magdalene comes looking for them, at a milepost way deep in the shadows. Their journey back toward apostleship, toward being the church, begins in grief. It was Mary Magdalene, striding into the valley of the shadow of death to knock, once more, on a door and proclaim the good news: “I have seen the Lord” — the Lord who will not let the grave claim you who are trembling inside the prison of grief or depression. Grief is one more place on the journey from baptism to the new Jerusalem. Let the one who poured the waters of promise on your head so long ago — let that one sanctify your grief and turn it into ministry. He has been doing that since the days of Abraham and Sarah. Since the days of Peter, who denied he had ever known Jesus of Nazareth. That is the good news of the gospel. Thanks be to God. Amen. —Edgar Moore

There is something in these words that is for me. That winding path I traveled over the last ten years holds grief and glory. That is where the story will begin, if I can find it.

Melody

Close the door. Write with no one looking over your shoulder. Don’t try to figure out what other people want to hear from you; figure out what you have to say. It’s the one and only thing you have to offer – Barbara Kingsolver

Simplify Stupid. If only it were that Simple.

I’ve done a lot of writing of late and that has led to a lot of chores piling up. When chores collect one begins to notice how much stuff we have around the edges of life. Why is that? A few things occur to me:

I look around my home and of course I have miles and miles of books — if they were stacked end to end. There are more books that I will ever read, but they are on issues that I care about. I have several books ideas of my own in the works and many of those books relate to research topics. Still, why do I need to own so many?
Looking in my closet this weekend, my son asked me “Mom, does the Goodwill pay you to take their clothes?” Ha ha, very funny. Though I don’t think he was trying to be funny. It was ironic and too close to home. His point was that I own a lot of clothes! You can read about my year of no new clothes here and here. I do have an issue with buying tons of clothing.
We have some friends who are downsizing from a house to an Airstream with two kids in tow and it sounds like a dream project. I haven’t had a chance to hear their story in person but I am fascinated by the idea.

Christmas is coming. How do we face the challenge of consumerism vs. living out our giving with integrity? And why do we collect so much stuff when in total honesty much of it remains untouched? Is this a matter of simply needing to be clearing out more often to reappropriate things to the next family that could use them whether it is toys, clothing, gaming systems, movies or books? Or should this be a conversation about buying less. And about the value of simplicity?

A singer and artist I appreciate for the poetry of her words, Carrie Newcomer, said this on Facebook today:

I have a sense that simplifying is not about denial and lack, but rather about getting rid of what does not ultimately give life and deeper meaning to our lives. If we got rid of what clutters and fills our lives to the very edges – what would happen in those open spaces? What do you think?

How do you teach yourself the discipline of reappropriating things? Why is this important? What do you do to simplify, remove clutter and create space in your life? What would you do differently if you had the mental and physical space? What resources have you found that help you?

Category: My Story