Wrestling

I have been reading through the Bible again and will finish up in the next couple of weeks - something I've done numerous times over the last 25 years. Since outgrowing the days of flannel boards and children's Bible stories, I have struggled with the Old Testament. There are large portions that are beautiful and give me immense comfort every time I read them. There are portions that bring to my knees in worship or conviction or awe. Yet I have struggled. I'm unable to reconcile the God that tells Joshua to wipe out whole people groups (including their women, their children, their animals) with the God we see in Jesus. I struggle with the horrific things done to women - and God seems to be silent about it. I struggle with things like the difference in the punishments if the crime was against a man or a woman or a slave. I struggle with the vengeance of God in the prophets, followed quickly by His overwhelming compassion once His wrath has been emptied and then unleashing His wrath on the countries He "used" to inflict his punishment on His people. I cannot reconcile it with turn the other cheek, walk the second mile, love your neighbor, love your enemies, pray for those who persecute you, let he who is without sin cast the first stone of the New Testament. I just can't.

I've had questions for as long as I can remember, but never felt the least amount of freedom to ask them. I don't know if that was the church environment I was in, or my own personal insecurities, but whatever the reason, I only have one memory of asking and then it was only one question. As a fully grown adult, reading all the way through the Bible for the first time, I finally found the courage to ask my pastor about my struggles with what I consider the genocide of the Old Testament. His answer was polished and practiced and thoroughly studied. With full confidence, he explained it away as primarily symbolic of our sin - we must deal seriously with our sin - wipe it all out, leave no room for it. If we leave it just the tiniest outlet, it will consume our life and draw us away from God. Period. That was the end of our "discussion" and I left quietly, still with all my same struggles. I did not tell him that I thought that was a ridiculous answer, contradicting what he taught every Sunday. This same church also taught me to take the Bible very literally, to trust it's historicity implicitly. If I do that, then this is not symbolic people I'm reading about - it's REAL people. And not just the soldiers met in battle, but their families - wives, children, livestock, family pets. I just could not buy it. I did not say anything. I did not ask any more questions. I packed it all back inside and felt "less than" for my doubts...for the next 20+ years.

I taught Sunday School, I directed Vacation Bible School, I homeschooled my children (where I taught them apologIetics and how to make the very arguments I did not completely trust), I was a pastor's wife -- yet never spoke of it again. One of my greatest regrets as a parent (and there are many) is that I did not give my children space to voice any doubts. I do not know if they had some of the same doubts I had/have. As I've watched them become adults and seen some of their own adult questions, I'm guessing they did. But to doubt, to differ, in the the environment I was in -- these were slippery slopes, sending one to quick and sure destruction. I left no space for questions or doubts - not for myself and not for my children. I towed the party line.

All these years later, I still struggle. I still doubt. I still sometimes get angry with God when I read the Old Testament.  I struggle when a story in the Bible seems at odds with science or history. I do not know what to do with what seem like huge contradictions in the character of God. I cringe when I hear teachers say things about God's ways toward us that would translate into horrific, abusive parents if it were us toward our own children.  I still cannot reconcile the God of the prophets with the God in Jesus.

But I do not feel "less than" anymore. I'm voicing my doubts. I'm asking my questions. I'm wrestling with God. And ya know what? God ain't scared. He doesn't love me any less for my questions. He does not need me to defend anything. I lean in heavy to the God of Jesus. For right or for wrong, I sometimes do a lot of skimming in the prophets. As I've read with less fearful eyes, I've realized afresh what a mess the people in our scriptures are. They are absolutely all over the place. Yet, there was God - right in the middle of it, revealing Himself to them, forgiving, giving grace, compassion, new chances, walking them ever closer to Himself, in Jesus. And I believe that is the same today. Right now.

I'm listening to/reading valid, thoughtful, scholarly teachers and pastors that have a little different take on things than what I grew up in. I have been incredibly surprised to find that they love Jesus! They love the scriptures! I don't always agree with them either. They still often leave me with questions -- much like the teachers I met in my earlier days, in different camps. The difference now? I'm not afraid of the differences. I pray I've opened doors for my kids to be more honest with me than I fear I allowed them to be in their time at home. I'm not afraid to talk about doctrinal or theological differences - sometimes big ones - like I used to be. I no longer believe a lot of those differences are deal breakers on whether you're "in" or "out". God is here - while we discuss and argue and fuss and slug it out. I'm convinced we'll all be surprised to see where the "right" answers land some day. God will not be confined to a box, no matter which camp is trying to keep Him there. It's less a slippery slope and more a wrestling match for me. I'm not letting go - and neither is He.

I've been in the prophets for the last several weeks in the Old Testament portion of my reading (probably the reason this is all stirred up again) and really struggling. And then God threw me a bone - Jonah. Gosh, I love Jonah. I love the God of Jonah. I love the drama and the humor. I love Jonah's pity parties. I love that God does not give up on him. He does not give up on Nineveh  (and also? I did not know until way later than I should have that the Ninevites were not part of God's chosen people - they were Gentiles - yet there was God, offering them compassion, grace, a chance to change - right there in the middle of all this Old Testament wrath and vengeance. - so. cool.) I love all of it - and I needed the break from the gloom and doom I'd been struggling through. I needed a time out from the wrestling match, as it were.

If this is not where you're living right now, the last thing I want to do is cause you to feel unsettled. Go with God, my friend. But if you are struggling with things you've been forever told are non-negotiables, please find some measure of peace in knowing that God is there with you, in the midst of your wrestlings. He's not shocked or horrified. He's not laying awake at night fretting. He is Emmanuel - God with us. 

I'm glad God is here for me in this space. I'm glad I'm not so afraid anymore. I'm glad I've met a God big enough to take me on with my doubts and questions and even some anger now and again. I doubt I'll ever have all the answers I want, but He and I will get through this. I'm sure of that now.

The Way of Jesus

Yesterday was hard. Yesterday felt like that prayer would never be answered. That battle would never be won. That Boundary would forever be a struggle to maintain. That person will always be hard. Yesterday felt angry. Hurt. Yesterday I wanted to be snarky. I wanted to give as good as I got.

And then God brought today. I love how He so beautifully weaves life together. I can continue in my self-pity or my anger or my unforgiveness. I can. But it will not be for lack of God placing beautiful reminders before me - ways of escape - better paths - ways of peace. 

This morning's readings during worship? Joseph and the forgiveness he extended to his brothers, a Psalm reminding me not to be provoked, and Jesus gently reminding us that we will be forgiven in the same ways we forgive. His way is radical, extravagant, crazy love. 

Ugh.

Our pastors had a water basin at the front and encouraged us to come pour out our souls, our pain, our struggles to Him this morning. They've never done this before. And honestly, as she began to explain it, I felt just a nudge of irritation. Not at my pastor - she's lovely. But at God. That He just won't let things go! I sat for a bit - thinking perhaps I could just let it slide this time - wallow a bit longer. But I couldn't. I approached the basin, still kinda angry, still wanting to be snarky and mouthy, but knowing I needed to figure out how to live in shalom - no matter how I am treated. I wanted God to show me how that looks. How do I set safe, smart, wise boundaries and still show the radical, extravagant, crazy love of Jesus? When I got up to the basin - I saw a pile of rocks had been placed in the bottom and here is what God said to me - ever so gently:

"Pour it all out on the the Rock. On Me. It is not yours. He is not yours. He is Mine. Stop trying to fix it. Stop trying to find the right words. Stop. Pour it all out. Here. This morning."

So I did. I'm sure I'll have to do that thousands of more times. Because the truth is, some of those battles will go on for a long, long time. Some people may always be hard. I may have to gently, lovingly, give reminders of that Boundary forever. I may spend my life learning and re-learning what it looks like, practically, to turn the other cheek, to walk the extra mile, to love as I'd want to be loved, to forgive as Christ. This may be the way of it. And that's okay.

We end our services every week by coming to the Table. We partake of the bread. The wine. We enter into His suffering, His life. His resurrection. We partake of His life and we do it together. We are all on level ground before Him. None is better than another - no matter what our week leading up to this moment has looked like, no matter where we are in our walk with Him, no matter how long we've walked with Him (if that walk started decades ago, yesterday, or even tomorrow), no matter our history. His forgiveness is for us all. His forgiveness allows me to let go. His forgiveness allows me to walk in peace. Shalom.

I can walk out this radical, extravagant, crazy way of Jesus because He is with me and because He has not left me alone.

Bless? Endure? Answer Kindly?

Musing on my reading today:

"We work hard with our own hands. When we are cursed, we bless; when we are persecuted, we endure it; when we are slandered, we answer kindly." 1 Cor. 4: 12-13

How often do I/we really do this? As the church? As followers of Christ?

It feels like, most of the time, we spend our time screaming for, demanding, our rights, angrily addressing those that disagree with us, dismissing them as almost "less than" for their differences in thought. We seem to believe that "their" ugliness or "their" attacks somehow justify our retaliation.

Turn the other cheek, walk the extra mile, give my cloak also -- these commands don't really mean anything, even within the Church, anymore. But Jesus said, and meant, those things. He meant them just as much as other verses we throw around liberally, expecting everyone to obey. 

The teacher - the God - we follow, did not "win" in any way we would measure winning today. He died on a cross, as a criminal, with almost no one remaining loyal to His cause. He had little to call His own and what He did have, He gave to those in need. He spent His energy defending others - never Himself. He brought healing, life, recovery, to those around Him. Any scathing remarks He spoke were always to those that used their power to hurt others. His rights were stripped, He was stripped, bare. Yet, He prayed for those very people, even as they mocked and killed Him. He treated His enemies with no less love than His closest friends.

He loved them, all of them, to the very end - and then into the new beginning. THIS is who we claim to follow.

God help us - help me - to want to be like You more than we want to be known, or powerful, or comfortable, or safe.

Comfort and Safety, or Jesus?

If you're following along with me the last couple of years, you know that we are attending a more liturgical style church now and we follow the Church calendar - this means that all churches, all over the world, that follow this calendar are reading and studying the same scriptures on the same day. I love that about his tradition. One of our pastors called me last week and asked me if I would share my reflections on the gospel reading for today. After a couple of mini-panic attacks, I reminded myself of my commitment to being brave and letting God draw me into new things - and I said yes. The gospel reading for today was Mark 12:38-44 - you can read it here.

So - anyway - thought I'd share it with my Musings friends! Here ya go:

This section of the gospel reading opens with Jesus teaching in the temple courts - I believe He’s setting up for His disciples an understanding of what they’re about to watch unfold. He speaks of the very real danger of getting caught up in "the show" or in power. God instituted the distinctive clothing that their leaders wore and they had purpose and significance, but they had gradually adapted, changed, allowed that to become a way of elevating themselves above those they were to be leading and serving.

Widows and orphans were among the most vulnerable at this point in history. They had no rights, no protections. God had instituted safeguards in His Law for them, but their leaders, the elite and the rich of their day, who should have been the ones to come alongside and protect them and see that they were cared for, did not. Instead, they used the loopholes of their law to take advantage of them, exploit them and gain for themselves personally off the backs of the poor. He gave stern warnings for those who made these choices.

He finishes His public teaching, and He sits down and just begins to watch. People-watching is a very human thing (one I can do for hours) and it brings me some level of comfort to picture Jesus plopped down, just watching - observing, and then interpreting what He sees. But it is also deeply spiritual. Our actions tell other people a lot about us, whether we want them to or not.

What did Jesus see?

The rich gave from their abundance. What they gave did not bring any personal discomfort. It did not cause them to have to trust God for their future in any way. It did not cause them to have to trust for what tomorrow would look like because of today’s sacrifice. They gave safely, publicly, for the show of it.

This widow, (among the most vulnerable in their culture, among those that had every right and need to hang on to what they had to provide for themselves and their families) -- this woman gave all she had. She put herself squarely in a position that would require that God come through for her, as likely no one else would. Knowing this, she gave.

She gave in spite of knowing it would make tomorrow difficult to predict. She gave in spite of the fact that it would likely put her in a place of even less safety and comfort.

Jesus saw all of this. No words were spoken, at least none that were recorded - but He and those with Him saw what each of these "givers" believed - by their actions. We can say we believe a lot of things. If our actions do not back up those words, people notice. They know what we truly believe by what we DO.

So, what am I doing? How am I giving? And not just monetarily. Is it sacrificial? Is it scary? Does it ever put me in the position that if God doesn't come through, things are likely going to go south? Am I willing to trust Him when I cannot see the end of my giving? When I can’t predict what today’s sacrifice will mean tomorrow?  Again, not just money - time, heart, resources. Am I safe - giving enough that it still looks good, but it doesn't put me in a position of discomfort or living in the unknown.

Scripture tells us that true and undefiled religion is caring for the widow and the orphan. I say I care about them. If I do, my actions will reflect that. I say I care about the sick, the oppressed, the marginalized, the imprisoned. Jesus said He came to free these people. If I truly care, my actions will reflect that. Jesus said to love my neighbor - do I actually love my neighbor, or do I quantify who that is to free me to love those who are easier to love?  He said blessed are the meek, the peace-makers, the merciful, the poor in spirit, the persecuted. Do I REALLY believe it? With my actions? John tells us that we’ll be known by our love - that is the primary marker of true Christ-followers. I say I believe that. Do my actions reflect that belief? None of my beliefs will be confirmed by just throwing money out of my excess at any of these things - perhaps money, yes, but also with my heart, with my time, with risk. Let me be really clear here: if my actions do not back up what I say I believe, then I do not really believe it.

I fear that too often, I look more like the rich leaders that Jesus said would face a judgment for their choices, rather than the poor widow, whom He praised for quietly proving what she believed with her actions.

My prayer is that He will mold me into someone more often willing to risk, remove the safety net and trust Him.

Boundaries (Part 3 of Soul- Excavation)

If you're still hanging with me, I've been working through writing some of what I've learned over the last several months of what I've come to call my "soul-excavation project". If this is the first you've read of it, you might want to jump back a couple of posts and catch up, as I'm just jumping in where I left off last time. This has been a slow, plodding process. It has not been easy, painful even at times, as I've allowed myself to take a good, honest look at myself and some of the reasons why  make the choices I make.

During Celebrate Recovery, one of the most important things I learned in helping me to move forward, to get "unstuck" in my anger, was to learn to sit with my emotions. I am not good at this. Negative emotions, to my old way of thinking, are sin, weakness. As sin, they need to be rooted out and discarded in as quick a fashion as possible. I don't necessarily believe that anymore. Yes, anger can lead me to sin, but anger itself is not sin. Anger is a signal that something is wrong. Grief can often feel like it is a lack of faith or a giving up, so we try to push through it quickly and just believe God's promises that would turn that grief into... whatever positive emotion we're supposed to have in the face of loss. Fear signals that something is, or at least feels, bigger than me - it has always caused me to feel that I lack faith, so I fight to ignore it. I would feel these negative emotions and try to find ways to push through them as quickly as possible, often denying their existence all together. When in truth, denying them will likely allow them to grow, just under the surface, usually eventually manifesting in rage or cynicism or complete withdrawal. 

I'm learning to sit with these emotions. Feel them.

• When I feel anger welling up, I sit with it long enough to analyze what is wrong that is bringing the anger to bear. I don't allow myself to feel it in the sense that I explode all over someone, venting my anger - but I sit with it...allow myself to meditate on where it's coming from. Sometimes I find that my anger is coming from a place of unmet, unrealistic expectations. This allows me to process that - to release myself or the other person from my ideas of what life must look like in order for me to be happy. Other times, I find my anger is coming from a place of unresolved grief...
• This leads me to facing that when I am overwhelmed by grief, allow myself to feel it... to grieve what is lost, be that a dream or a person or a goal. Giving space for my grief will bring the healing I need to move forward again eventually.
• When I am afraid, stop... Analyze what it is that I actually fear. In finding the source, I can approach it more rationally - is it truly too much for me, or am I believing an old lie that I've learned to listen to? Am I leaning into God for strength? Am I letting trusted friends in to help? Am I allowing something or someone to have control over me that I need to put a stop to? Facing that fear can actually give courage.

In practicing this, I often find what I need to do. Is there action I should take? Sometimes the best, most pro-active step I can take is to be still. Other times, I need to act. Call Senators, volunteer, walk across the street and get to know my neighbor, share a meal with an old friend (or a new friend), set a boundary that prevents enabling cycles, get off (or maybe on) social media for a stretch, run head-long into that thing that scares me. But none of this should be reactionary. Sit with it. Meditate on it. Then take intentional steps forward.

In Celebrate Recovery, one of the things we did every week is recite the Serenity Prayer. I have heard what I thought was the entire prayer for decades, but have since learned there is more to it. The portion that has spoken to me the most is as follows:

"...Living one day at a time,

enjoying one moment at a time,

accepting hardship as a pathway to peace,

taking, as Jesus did, 

this sinful world as it is,

not as I would have it,

Trusting that You will make all things right

If I surrender to Your will..."

"taking this sinful world as it is, not as I would have it..." -- This has been a tough lesson for me. I don't believe this is a fatalistic "giving up". We must continue to live a life that promotes mercy and justice, to defend the defenseless, to be present for the poor, the orphan, the widow. Accepting the world as it is does not mean that we don't continue to pray for and work toward "Your Kingdom come" while we are here. But, it does mean I will give up on the idea that things and people (even those closest to me, those I love most) must be a certain way in order for me to be happy, at peace. It means that I will give up my everlasting need to fix everyone and everything around me.

Exploring this part of myself led me to the book Boundaries by Drs. Henry Cloud and John Townsend. I cannot recommend this book enough. I read it for the first time last year, on my own - desperate to find answers for why I continue to return to these emotional cycles. This year I re-read it in the context of a group that explored and discussed it each week. This has done so much to open my eyes to the ways I had not established good, safe boundaries in my own life, and also could easily run roughshod over other people's boundaries when I believed them to be wrong. It's helped me learn to welcome those negative emotions as red flags that can guide me to a better way. It's helped in learning to let go of criticism and judgment of others - to honor their choices, even when I disagree (sometimes strongly) with them.

I'm learning.

I've learned the value of silence. I find peace now in sitting in utter silence - no TV, no music, no people talking... just let God speak to me, to listen to my own inner voice and talk to God about those hurts, joys, emotions. I've learned that I do not need to speak to everything. Certainly, everyone does not want, and likely does not need to hear my thoughts on every available topic. Silence is a virtue that we've all but lost in our culture. One of my favorite authors, and one of my favorite of his quotes: 

“Silence frees us from the need to control others. One reason we can hardly bear to remain silent is that it makes us feel so helpless. We are accustomed to relying upon words to manage and control others. A frantic stream of words flows from us in an attempt to straighten others out. We want so desperately for them to agree with us, to see things our way. We evaluate people, judge people, condemn people. We devour people with our words. Silence is one of the deepest Disciplines of the Spirit simply because it puts the stopper on that. When we become quiet enough to let go of people, we learn compassion for them.” ~ Richard Foster, Celebration of Discipline

When someone says something that triggers anger, I do not have to respond right then. The world keeps spinning when I choose to walk away. It continues to spin when I let go of the everlasting need to be right. I may come back later and say something if that seems to be the most appropriate choice. Maybe not. It is such a relief to finally embrace the truth that I am really not all that important. God does not NEED me to fix all the things.

Again, to clarify, this does not mean we should be silent in the face of injustice. As the Body of Christ, we must be among the first to raise our voice in the face of injustice, to abuse, to hate - to be a voice for the voiceless. I will never believe the virtue of silence should be applied to standing with the marginalized. That is not the silence I am speaking to. The virtue of silence will lead to true peace, to letting go - not to ignoring the pain of others or enabling the oppressor. 

In silence, I've found peace again. I never felt I'd lost God in all of this, but I did feel I'd lost an anchor in many things I believed about Him or the Church or the Bible. I've found my anchor to be fully in Him again - and having that anchor has allowed me to begin to trust others again. I've learned I can laugh, love, find joy, all around me, even when there are parts of my life that are still very painful. When I give myself permission to sit with my pain, I've found it also frees me to feel my joy as well.

It is what it is, people. It is what it is.

I can continue to struggle and fight, I can continue to judge and critique, I can continue to control and manipulate. Or I can let go.

One day at a time, one moment at a time, I'm choosing to let go.

Recovery (Part 2 of My Soul-Excavation)

When life does not turn out in the way you have spent decades envisioning that it would (and I say "when" because very few of us get to see the life we envisioned actually play out), it can be crippling to face this new reality. I have been sitting in this space for several years now - watching a life I had not envisioned unfold - but, it just seemed to keep becoming more and more what I did not want it to be. What the heck?! I'd claimed all the promises, I'd believed and taught all the principles, I'd hung with all the people just like me (bad company corrupts good morals, ya know). Yet, here we sat... Life did not look like we'd dreamed as we sat dreaming so many years ago. As each domino would fall, I'd fall into a slump of overwhelming sadness, try to process all the reasons I had failed, why I hadn't been able to make it happen the way that SURELY God wanted it to happen... and then I'd pull myself back up, get my warrior boots on and get back in the fight. Because that's how I saw it - it was a fight that I had to win. There had to be something I could DO, something I hadn't said but could now say, to fix this. To fix them (whoever "them" was at the moment). I could go days - even weeks sometimes, feeling mostly pulled back together. And then the next domino would fall - and I'd start all over again.

When the most recent domino fell, I think something finally broke inside of me. I just couldn't muster up the muscle to keep fighting. So I quit. I quit fighting. I firmly believe now that this quitting, this giving up, was a good thing. However, I did not quit blaming myself. The self-condemnation was killing me. I could still say all the right words. After all, I'd been trained for 50+ years in all the right words - but I just did not believe most of them anymore.

After sitting in this space for a while, I finally came to the point that I wanted out of it. I didn't know what that would look like, or even how to begin, but I wanted out. I wanted to feel whole. I wanted to stop living in self-condemnation, in "not enough", in shame. Whatever else I couldn't understand, I KNEW that God did not mean for us to live this way. I started with a book - The Sacred Slow, by Alicia Britt Chole and slowly began to let God dig around in the dirt of my heart. About a month into going slowly through the book (I still haven't finished it), I decided to start attending a Celebrate Recovery support group. I struggled with that decision because I kept thinking, "but I'm not an addict" - but yes, come to find out, I am. As I sat with this group of women week after week, it became abundantly clear that I am addicted to control, to being the fixer, to managing outcomes. It's taken me a long time to face it and to face the pain I know I've caused others in that process. This can dress up really pretty in Church circles. It fits in perfectly with having a servant's heart and loving others unconditionally and taking up your cross daily. If you're good at it - and I am - you can disguise control as a caring, giving, martyr and saint of a person.

I'm learning that I cannot control outcomes. I can kick, scream, cry, beg, plead, manipulate. I can even believe I'm in control. But I am not. I am learning that sacrificial love does not mean carrying someone else's responsibilities around for them. Unconditional love does not mean saving someone from the natural consequences of their choices. Valuing excellence does not mean that I do a million things poorly because I don't want to give up control of the outcome or never allowing things to go undone. Following all the rules and claiming all the promises does not prevent others from making choices that bring pain to themselves and those around them. Caring deeply for others necessitates that I take care of myself first. I cannot give what I do not have. 

I'm learning to let go - "it is what it is" is a phrase I repeat multiple times a day to myself. Each of us gets to determine what our future will look like, what kind of person we're going to be. For good or for bad, we each choose. When I try to constantly redirect people that I've decided are on the wrong path, I'm usually just delaying the inevitable. I'm learning to just let them get on with it. Love them, yes. Control and manipulate, no. I let go. I pray they get to the end sooner rather than later, but the journey is theirs, not mine. (As a side note, I'm also learning that sometimes they're not wrong. They're just different than me, see things from a different perspective or have different goals and that's okay. Good even.)

I'm coming to terms with this part of myself, slowly but surely. I'm learning to catch myself much sooner in the process: when I'm trying to move from my responsibility to someone else's - from my life to someone else's. I have a couple of dear friends that I've leaned into in this process. They know my weaknesses, they know my fears. They will call me on it in lightening speed when I begin to veer into someone else's lane. One of them uses the phrase, "Keep your eyes on your own paper." This has been more helpful than I can say.

Our grandson is mobile now - crawling like a speed demon. He often gets into things that could cause him harm or perhaps to destroy something that belongs to someone else. I find myself saying, multiples times a day, when I have him, "No, that's not Harvey's work," as I move or redirect him. I've also begun to say this to myself. When I'm tempted to step into business that isn't mine, to try and manipulate others (with my carefully crafted words) into doing what I feel is best, to carry someone else's responsibilities, to save someone from their own choices... "Is this my work? Nope. It's not. Move on, Sherrie." Because the hard truth is, when I continue on in work that is not mine, I'm not just hurting myself - I'm hurting that person I'm attempting to "fix", and perhaps others around us as well. 

I'm learning that much of my overwhelming sadness came from the fact that I set ridiculous expectations on myself and others. (Also not my work.) When those expectations were inevitably not met, I would crash. I had dreams for people that were not mine to dream. I leaned into promises that were not mine to claim. I placed ridiculous expectations on God. "I do my part, You must do Yours." So, I found myself frequently, as Jonah, sitting "outside the city" pouting because God didn't do things my way. He's God. He gets to choose how things will go. And He chose, in His abundant, extravagant love for us, to let us choose. If He can do it, I can learn to do it as well.

I'm not saying we don't invest in others or that we don't help others when they are in true need. I'm not saying we don't sacrifice for the good of others. I'm not even saying we shouldn't speak up when we feel like someone is making dangerous or foolish choices. We often should. But I am saying we (and by "we" I mean "I") have to stop trying to control the outcomes of their lives. I have to stop intervening in every tiny detail. I must stop trying to manage emotions when I sense tension building between people I care about. I've come to believe that perhaps I should just let it fly. Let people figure it out. I'm not that important. I don't have to fix it.

God is big enough.

The plus in all this giving up? I'm finding myself. I can love better - even the people that I think are screwing up in royal ways. It's not my job to fix them. It's my job to love them. I can truly pray for them now - rather than just talking to God about how I can fix them. This giving up frees me to love better. It frees up a lot of time I spent worrying to laugh more. It frees up a lot of time I spent figuratively carrying other people around to experience Joy. 

More to come...

Starting Over (Part 1 of Soul-Excavation)

The last year has been one of the best and most painful seasons of my life. Much good was happening, but I was slowly losing my ability to rejoice in the good. Through a series of mostly unrelated events over the last several years, I had allowed myself to become jaded. Cynical. Angry. Critical. It wasn't pretty inside my head. Anger and cynicism are easily directed outward, allowing us to ignore what is happening inside our hearts. I think that's why often, when we see the angriest of people, we can almost certainly know that there is something else much deeper than anger going on inside their hearts. I heard someone say once that often anger is really grief in disguise. I believe that. And I was definitely grieving... But I was not dealing with it. Bless Brian - he has loved me so well through all of this. He clearly meant it when he said "for better or for worse". He has walked with me through my darkness and has let me vent and rage and cry and eat lots of potato chips and chocolate. He has listened with patience when I was totally irrational. He allowed me long stretches of quiet, almost reclusive times. He has kept encouraging me to balance - to keep running (physically, not emotionally), to talk it out, to hang with my girlfriends, to keep sitting in community. He is truly my better half. Again I say, bless him.

Church, even though we were not attached to any specific place for much of the time, did help. The comfort of scriptures read together, the common prayers, coming to the Table each week - the quiet, simple, peaceful routine of it, began to do it's work in my heart. We found a place to call home and I slowly began the process of building new relationships in a new place. God began to use that to chip away at the wall I had spent years  carefully constructing. This last Advent began to create some cracks in that wall - and then Lent blew it apart. For this I am thankful. The Anglican/Episcopal tradition leaves huge spaces for sorrow, for lament, that I somehow missed in the traditions I had been in up until this point. Perhaps they are out there, but I missed it and I needed that space. God began to give me the desire to look inward - to find the root of my discontent, my anger, my grief, and dig it out. So, in little baby steps, I began to dig around in there.

In the midst of this digging around the last several months, I've found myself wanting to write again. I had virtually given it up entirely, even personal, private journaling (which I have done for many years). I felt void of any thoughts that felt edifying enough to share. (This should have been a red flag that my heart and head were in trouble, but it was not.) I am still struggling to get words from head to fingertips to keyboard. I'm certain I will write and rewrite a thousand times, but I'm determined to try to find words again. I'm starting. I don't know how it will look, or how often it will be, but here's a start. God has taught me much about myself over the last several months, and I'm feeling strong enough, brave enough, ...just enough, to begin sharing parts of it, so maybe today, with these words, is as good a place as any to start.

In today's installment of what I've learned in this soul-excavation project:

For this last season of Lent, I gave up Facebook. This was not some super-spiritual decision. It was not a sacred or holy choice. I was angry. The newsfeed readily helped me feel justified in my anger. I was anxious - it was happy to feed this too. I chose to give it up because I snapped. Within the space of a couple of days, I found myself so angry over things said by people I rather enjoyed in real life that I just simply snapped. So I took it off my phone. I continued on Instagram (because this continues to be a happy space for me) and shared those pictures to Facebook. I still responded to private messages and I checked notifications once a week from my computer, but that was it. I spent zero time on the newsfeed. What I found during that 40+ days, was that Facebook was giving me a place to hide. 

Can't sleep? Facebook. 

Bored? Facebook. 

Waiting in a line or a doctor's office? Facebook.
 Need a break? Facebook. 

It kept my mind busy, occupied, distracted. Unfortunately, it was often feeding anger, anxiety and cynicism...making it easier to justify my feelings rather than looking inward to find their source.

During this time, I slowly began to replace that distracted time with other things:

Can't sleep? Pray. Meditate.

Bored? Read a book.

Waiting in line? Engage the people around me. Make eye contact.

Need a break? Read that same book. Call a friend and invite them to lunch.

Something funny/sweet/sad/puzzling happen? Again, call or text a friend and share it with one actual, in-my-life person, rather than my Facebook virtual world.

After finding better ways to fill that down time, I made a few other intentional decisions:

• I started in Genesis and I'm reading deliberately through the Bible again, this time, letting God answer some questions for me that I've been asking for a long time.
• I read a lot of books, both fiction and non-fiction.
• I take lots of long walks and short runs.
• I listen to podcasts.
• I continue to find peace and healing in the liturgy and sacraments.
• I am learning to embrace silence again, to allow my mind to wander, to feel my grief, to feel my joy. To feel.

I learned that I need to connect in real, substantive ways a lot more often than I had been. I'm not saying that sharing those things on Facebook is bad - some of it is good, edifying, connecting. Some of you use it in fabulous ways - it's another tool in your tool belt of healthy living. Though I began that way, that wasn't me anymore. Often, for me, and I know for others, it's a way to hide from real relationship. It filled in times and spaces that I needed to be using to deal with my crap.

I can present only what I want you to see on Facebook. Sitting across from you at lunch? It's going to be harder. Walking through hard things, in real life, with you? Dang near impossible. I value many of my online relationships and I'm thankful for connections I would not be able to have otherwise. But now, real-life, in-my-face, you-can't-hide-from-me, relationships are much more valuable - they are where I want to invest the best parts of my time and my energy. If something beautiful presents itself in my day, I'm much more likely to take a picture of it and send it to a particular person that I know well (or someone that I am building a new relationship with) and think they would appreciate it....connection. If I read an article or a quote that speaks deeply to me, I'll share it via text with a specific person that I believe would value its merit along with me...connection.  - but for the most part, I'm choosing to make what difference I can in the circle of people right around me - my family, my friends, at my office, in my neighborhood, in my church, in my community, with my vote, with my money. I'm trying to learn to use my voice in personal, close proximity ways.

I'm dabbling a bit on Facebook again, but not much. I may choose occasionally to share on Facebook - I will likely still make some of you frustrated with my opinions and the articles I share because I will continue to refuse to be silent on some issues. It's probably still a good idea to tag me if you need me to see something.

What I'd really love most is for you to call/text/message me and let's have lunch if you live close enough.