This week, I have found myself caught in a difficult place I have found myself so many times before.
To families I work with, I have often called myself a "nontraditional Christian". Perhaps that's prideful, perhaps it's a cop-out so that I avoid judgment, but I'm really not 100% sure of my motivation. A professor in college once called my personality "slippery". I didn't like that, but he's not wrong. I avoid, as much as possible, any and all definition, even though there's nothing more satisfying than feeling known.
I am a question asker. I am a person who needs to know "why". I am a fighter and a seeker, and that can come off wrong. Many times, people have judged that as not being a faithful Christian because they see it as a sign of doubt or disbelief. In my mind, I see it as a sign of faithfulness, of belief. Why fight for something you don't believe in? No, you fight for that you do believe in.
Throughout my life as well, I have been in puddles of "perfect" people while at the same time having a knack for collecting broken people. Maybe I love the broken because I know that we are all broken. Everyone is broken. Everybody has their fissures and canyons in their life. That's why we need Jesus. But there's something beautiful about broken people's inability to hide theirs. You can see Jesus better when you can't hide where he's working, or wants to be working.
Perfect people, people with rock solid testimonies and veneers, bother me. They bother me at some level because I distrust them and their stories. God is good; yes, all the time. But he is also working all the time. In true community, you share. If we are supposed to be in true community spiritually, then why are we not sharing? Why are we judging instead? I posit that we judge out of our own insecurity, out of our fear that we ourselves are seen as being imperfect. Because maybe we won't be respected anymore or get that job at that Christian foundation or be thought of as a "struggler."
Because we have seen how those labels have power and have seen their impact on lives, as people start to believe what they are called. We're responsible for our own development, but it is hard not to feel the sear of the rejections and the names.
My broken collective has all gone different directions. Some have become their labels, some have overcome their labels. All grow, just in different ways.
Have you ever sat down to "judge" someone's faith walk for one reason or another? Walk that line with prayer and petition. Just because one person has chosen to be vulnerable and share where they honestly stand does not mean that they are necessarily more or less "solid" than the person who stands in front of you and says that they're rock solid in Jesus. No man knows another's soul. No one has "arrived" in their spirituality or their walk with Christ. One man's plateau or peak period may be during another's valley. Give them six months. The man you thought couldn't be shaken might have proven himself weak and the "weak" man may still be standing strong.
We are called to love, to lead back to Christ, to be diligent and prayerful and gracious. We correct when we need to correct, but we should always start with love and with God.
I am a person with the propensity for very strongly worded opinions, This is something I am challenged about daily and something I try daily to be more wise about. However, with regards to this topic, I know that I speak truly when I say that above all other subjects, this one should be treated with more gentleness, wisdom, diligence, and prayer than any others before words come out of our mouths.
Paul writes, "may your love abound more and more in knowledge and depth of insight so that you maybe able to discern", "approve what is excellent" "and may be sincere and blameless for the day of Christ--filled with the fruit of righteousness that comes through Jesus Christ".
The first definition that comes up for "sincerity" is "without pretense." Without our masks.
When I read this verse, I hear, "If you are following God with your whole heart, then he will cast aside all human-coated thoughts, leaving behind only what is true and good and holy."
Follow God, listen to his voice while turning yours off, and speak out with a voice that is not your own, one not coated all over with your pride, your position, your particular brand of sinful.
Showing posts with label brokenness. Show all posts
Showing posts with label brokenness. Show all posts
Thursday, March 22, 2018
Friday, December 1, 2017
I Know You By Name
If you've never read The Book Thief, you're missing out.
Found for a quarter at a garage sale down the road, this book was a steal in and of itself.
The Holocaust is not something to be taken lightly, but it gets as close as you can without crossing any lines. Why is that important? Because humor, even dark, is part of the human experience, and Book Thief's purpose is to show the human experience as colorfully as possible, the whole of it, not just in part.
The entire narration is from the point of view of Death. It's the first I've read of its kind, but the most interesting part is how Death describes himself. As "amiable. Agreeable. Affable. And that's only the A's" (Zusak 1). He calls himself a result. And, when asked to describe himself, he says for humans to only but look in a mirror. Humans, he posits, are the real carriers of death.
However, in my English II course, we explore how that's the most powerful and hopeful statement. We have the capacity to carry death, but that also means we have the power to carry life, to promote joy and healing and goodness.
Death searches, throughout the entire novel, to answer the question of why human existence is worth it. He knows it is, but he is on a quest to show how.
So, that is our course thesis for this novel: Human existence is worth it.
At the end of each class period, we spend time answering the half statement, "Human existence is worth it because..."
It's my second time teaching through this book, but this semester has hit nerves so much deeper inside me and, I believe, my class.
There's something about this semester at my university that has just been a little off-kilter, a darkness felt by so many of our students, faculty, and staff. As a believer, I do believe that spiritual warfare is alive and well and that the enemy seeks to steal, kill, and destroy, especially when there is so much life and light in a place.
I have, thus far, had 3 students drop my course out of overload. Two stayed at the university, one withdrew due to suicidal ideations. Another yet is taking next semester off because of similar mental and psychological stress. And then there's [Claire].
If we are being honest, Claire bothered me. She came to even the first day of class late. She would sit there and I just felt uncomfortable by her presence because it came off as almost hostile. She rarely turned in assignments. It was as if school--and my class--were below her. Which surprised me, as she is an English major.
Then, one day at Walmart, I saw her with another student of mine who I had recruited, a student I dearly love. Call it Jones' Effect, but if she's friends with my student, she is a good person. My whole perspective changed, and I felt it deeply that I needed to reach out. Her tardiness had gotten much worse, if she showed up at all.
She shared with me of her depression, how she wasn't coming because she couldn't get out of bed. She hadn't turned in her major paper because she had never even started her paper.
We talked. We met together. We made compromises and worked through her missing pieces. I told her how valuable her feedback in class was to course discussion. She didn't even know she had been "seen."
She started showing up to class right on time. With assignments. Good assignments. Blew me away with her next paper. I thought everything was going better, going better than better.
Then came an email telling me she was hospitalizing herself for self harm.
Then came emails from the registrar asking if she would succeed if she came back; I confirmed.
Then came an email from her asking what work she had to make up, if she could.
Then came the first day of class back after Thanksgiving. Late. No paper.
Then came the second day of class back after Thanksgiving. No Claire.
Then came the classified ad posts desperately asking for help toward this "new treatment" and a public expose on her mental illness.
Then came the text from the university at 10pm last night saying they were searching for a student they believed had self harmed.
Then came heartbreak.
A reassurance of her life was sent about 20 minutes later, but so much damage had already been done. There isn't anything that could convince me that it wasn't her. I'd be delighted to know it wasn't, but it was. I know the evidence too well.
Human existence is worth it because...
The heartbreak is because I know the answer to that question. I know it for me, and I know it for her. In fact, I could write a full list for any one of my students about why their specific human existence is worth it.
It doesn't matter if a person is Christian or not. Their human existence is worth it because they each have the capacity to love and be loved. To bless and be blessed. To care. To listen. To give. To write and think and create and dream and dance and play and BE.
To me, today, human existence is worth it because I know the Lord. I know that he has the capacity and desire to restore the broken and to pour love and compassion and grace out on us. Human existence is worth it because I am known by name by the creator of the world, and he has given me life and the ability and opportunity to love and individually care for so many people around me--and to forgive me when I sometimes suck at loving and individually caring for those around me.
I know that he sees Claire. I know that he sees her hands full of tears and the pieces of her life and that he loves her and has a plan for how to make her broken world into a stained glass mosaic full of light and color and loveliness.
Human existence is worth it because we have potential. No matter how old or young or broken or ignorant, we have potential.
There is so much more than we can see in our frozen moments of life.
*student name changed to protect privacy
Found for a quarter at a garage sale down the road, this book was a steal in and of itself.
The Holocaust is not something to be taken lightly, but it gets as close as you can without crossing any lines. Why is that important? Because humor, even dark, is part of the human experience, and Book Thief's purpose is to show the human experience as colorfully as possible, the whole of it, not just in part.
The entire narration is from the point of view of Death. It's the first I've read of its kind, but the most interesting part is how Death describes himself. As "amiable. Agreeable. Affable. And that's only the A's" (Zusak 1). He calls himself a result. And, when asked to describe himself, he says for humans to only but look in a mirror. Humans, he posits, are the real carriers of death.
However, in my English II course, we explore how that's the most powerful and hopeful statement. We have the capacity to carry death, but that also means we have the power to carry life, to promote joy and healing and goodness.
Death searches, throughout the entire novel, to answer the question of why human existence is worth it. He knows it is, but he is on a quest to show how.
So, that is our course thesis for this novel: Human existence is worth it.
At the end of each class period, we spend time answering the half statement, "Human existence is worth it because..."
It's my second time teaching through this book, but this semester has hit nerves so much deeper inside me and, I believe, my class.
There's something about this semester at my university that has just been a little off-kilter, a darkness felt by so many of our students, faculty, and staff. As a believer, I do believe that spiritual warfare is alive and well and that the enemy seeks to steal, kill, and destroy, especially when there is so much life and light in a place.
I have, thus far, had 3 students drop my course out of overload. Two stayed at the university, one withdrew due to suicidal ideations. Another yet is taking next semester off because of similar mental and psychological stress. And then there's [Claire].
If we are being honest, Claire bothered me. She came to even the first day of class late. She would sit there and I just felt uncomfortable by her presence because it came off as almost hostile. She rarely turned in assignments. It was as if school--and my class--were below her. Which surprised me, as she is an English major.
Then, one day at Walmart, I saw her with another student of mine who I had recruited, a student I dearly love. Call it Jones' Effect, but if she's friends with my student, she is a good person. My whole perspective changed, and I felt it deeply that I needed to reach out. Her tardiness had gotten much worse, if she showed up at all.
She shared with me of her depression, how she wasn't coming because she couldn't get out of bed. She hadn't turned in her major paper because she had never even started her paper.
We talked. We met together. We made compromises and worked through her missing pieces. I told her how valuable her feedback in class was to course discussion. She didn't even know she had been "seen."
She started showing up to class right on time. With assignments. Good assignments. Blew me away with her next paper. I thought everything was going better, going better than better.
Then came an email telling me she was hospitalizing herself for self harm.
Then came emails from the registrar asking if she would succeed if she came back; I confirmed.
Then came an email from her asking what work she had to make up, if she could.
Then came the first day of class back after Thanksgiving. Late. No paper.
Then came the second day of class back after Thanksgiving. No Claire.
Then came the classified ad posts desperately asking for help toward this "new treatment" and a public expose on her mental illness.
Then came the text from the university at 10pm last night saying they were searching for a student they believed had self harmed.
Then came heartbreak.
A reassurance of her life was sent about 20 minutes later, but so much damage had already been done. There isn't anything that could convince me that it wasn't her. I'd be delighted to know it wasn't, but it was. I know the evidence too well.
Human existence is worth it because...
The heartbreak is because I know the answer to that question. I know it for me, and I know it for her. In fact, I could write a full list for any one of my students about why their specific human existence is worth it.
It doesn't matter if a person is Christian or not. Their human existence is worth it because they each have the capacity to love and be loved. To bless and be blessed. To care. To listen. To give. To write and think and create and dream and dance and play and BE.
To me, today, human existence is worth it because I know the Lord. I know that he has the capacity and desire to restore the broken and to pour love and compassion and grace out on us. Human existence is worth it because I am known by name by the creator of the world, and he has given me life and the ability and opportunity to love and individually care for so many people around me--and to forgive me when I sometimes suck at loving and individually caring for those around me.
I know that he sees Claire. I know that he sees her hands full of tears and the pieces of her life and that he loves her and has a plan for how to make her broken world into a stained glass mosaic full of light and color and loveliness.
Human existence is worth it because we have potential. No matter how old or young or broken or ignorant, we have potential.
There is so much more than we can see in our frozen moments of life.
*student name changed to protect privacy
Tuesday, November 29, 2016
The Orange Ceiling
It's been three weeks since the election results, and I still can't come to grips with what has happened.
I woke up on November 9th feeling lost and grieved. Texts from friends across the world flooded my phone with fear and empathy and horror. Oh God, what have we done?
In my office and in my family, I hear people talk of his policies. That's how they justified casting their vote for the Grabber. At best, I hear the phrase, "lesser of two evils." At worst, I hear actual praise of him. My heart is grieved to its very core that this is who we've become.
They say it's not about who they are as a person; it's about what they will do in policy.
In my job, I am known as the "face" of the university.
I dress, walk, talk, and make myself think as such. No matter where I go, no matter what I do--especially when I am on the job--I am conscious of that responsibility.
I may be the best at my job, the most thorough and practically compassionate, but if my words and behavior are ugly, then that is what people see and what people will believe the university I stand for is.
In the same way, the principle is true across the globe. They see him first. They hear him first. My God, follow the man on Twitter if you don't understand my point. We are being led by a hissy-fit of a man.
My Hispanic minority friends are afraid.
My LGBTQ minority friends are afraid.
My foreign friends are afraid.
My female friends are afraid.
Just before the election, I was in a Walmart and was sexually harassed. These guys just followed me through the whole store cat-calling and making comments and laughing to themselves because they saw how clearly uncomfortable they were making me.
When I got back in the car, I had myself a long, angry rant. Right now, we have a president who has made decisions I do not always agree with, but I know, at the end of the day, he is a good man who promotes kindness and mutual respect.
The man who is now our president elect has been caught on camera bragging about how he can do whatever he wants to women because he is a powerful man.
Any God-fearing man who can imagine himself explaining what "grabbing [a woman] by the pu**y" to their young daughter means when she asks and can still put himself behind that man is a disgrace.
Adults should know better. They may use a truly awful man to justify their choices, but kids don't know any better. The leaders of our country help shape who they become. We now have chosen a model for behavior that communicates to them that sexual misconduct and disrespect is normal and acceptable in society, just as long as you're in the power seat.
We have a Republican house and senate. They hate Hillary enough that they would have curbed anything nutty. Now, though, we have an absolute whack-job in the hot seat of the same party. A man who got grounded from his Twitter account in the final days of the election because he was making a fool of himself is now in charge of the nuclear codes.
I hope to God I am wrong. I hope his unbelievably horrendous behavior is beaten out of him as the reality of this new position sinks in. Until then, we pray, we seek peace, we choose not to completely lose it in political conversations with our families, and we hope tomorrow will be different.
I woke up on November 9th feeling lost and grieved. Texts from friends across the world flooded my phone with fear and empathy and horror. Oh God, what have we done?
In my office and in my family, I hear people talk of his policies. That's how they justified casting their vote for the Grabber. At best, I hear the phrase, "lesser of two evils." At worst, I hear actual praise of him. My heart is grieved to its very core that this is who we've become.
They say it's not about who they are as a person; it's about what they will do in policy.
In my job, I am known as the "face" of the university.
I dress, walk, talk, and make myself think as such. No matter where I go, no matter what I do--especially when I am on the job--I am conscious of that responsibility.
I may be the best at my job, the most thorough and practically compassionate, but if my words and behavior are ugly, then that is what people see and what people will believe the university I stand for is.
In the same way, the principle is true across the globe. They see him first. They hear him first. My God, follow the man on Twitter if you don't understand my point. We are being led by a hissy-fit of a man.
My Hispanic minority friends are afraid.
My LGBTQ minority friends are afraid.
My foreign friends are afraid.
My female friends are afraid.
Just before the election, I was in a Walmart and was sexually harassed. These guys just followed me through the whole store cat-calling and making comments and laughing to themselves because they saw how clearly uncomfortable they were making me.
When I got back in the car, I had myself a long, angry rant. Right now, we have a president who has made decisions I do not always agree with, but I know, at the end of the day, he is a good man who promotes kindness and mutual respect.
The man who is now our president elect has been caught on camera bragging about how he can do whatever he wants to women because he is a powerful man.
Any God-fearing man who can imagine himself explaining what "grabbing [a woman] by the pu**y" to their young daughter means when she asks and can still put himself behind that man is a disgrace.
Adults should know better. They may use a truly awful man to justify their choices, but kids don't know any better. The leaders of our country help shape who they become. We now have chosen a model for behavior that communicates to them that sexual misconduct and disrespect is normal and acceptable in society, just as long as you're in the power seat.
We have a Republican house and senate. They hate Hillary enough that they would have curbed anything nutty. Now, though, we have an absolute whack-job in the hot seat of the same party. A man who got grounded from his Twitter account in the final days of the election because he was making a fool of himself is now in charge of the nuclear codes.
I hope to God I am wrong. I hope his unbelievably horrendous behavior is beaten out of him as the reality of this new position sinks in. Until then, we pray, we seek peace, we choose not to completely lose it in political conversations with our families, and we hope tomorrow will be different.
Wednesday, December 16, 2015
Into the Fold
I cried at work today.
We were doing our morning devotions, and today, we decided to do a devotional thought over "O Come O Come Emmanuel", which happens to be my favorite Christmas song.
It also happens to correlate with my favorite Bible verse, which had been weighing on me heavily for the past week or so. This is what I shared and what brought me to big tears of remembrance and of thankfulness and humility.
It re-appeared in my heart last Thursday. I was sitting there beside my boyfriend, our mothers, and our fathers, in the Candlelight service at my university.
As I sat there, I marveled at how far removed and redeemed both our families (and us) had been in the past two years. In the past two years, both our parents had been at places where they thought they had lost their children to darkness forever.
We had thought the same about ourselves.
And in the past two years, we have been restored to joy, to God, and to our families. Granted, more work is yet to be done, but God is so good.
My heart felt full to burst, and the words of Psalm 126 pushed their way into my thoughts:
That's the verse I shared this morning after we sang.
I reflected on my own "return from Babylon" two years ago tomorrow.
I was broken. I was ugly. I was beyond all reckoning.
And my parents opened their arms up and loved me. My aunt, my uncle, my cousin, my grandmother. They loved me and took me as I was: broken. ugly. lost.
And yet, and yet!! the Lord has done great things for me.
Though Decembers cause me to get way too deep in my head and heart and ache with the past woundedness, I know too of the deep joy of restoration to hope and light and life.
The Lord has done great things for us, and we are filled with joy.
We were doing our morning devotions, and today, we decided to do a devotional thought over "O Come O Come Emmanuel", which happens to be my favorite Christmas song.
It also happens to correlate with my favorite Bible verse, which had been weighing on me heavily for the past week or so. This is what I shared and what brought me to big tears of remembrance and of thankfulness and humility.
It re-appeared in my heart last Thursday. I was sitting there beside my boyfriend, our mothers, and our fathers, in the Candlelight service at my university.
As I sat there, I marveled at how far removed and redeemed both our families (and us) had been in the past two years. In the past two years, both our parents had been at places where they thought they had lost their children to darkness forever.
We had thought the same about ourselves.
And in the past two years, we have been restored to joy, to God, and to our families. Granted, more work is yet to be done, but God is so good.
My heart felt full to burst, and the words of Psalm 126 pushed their way into my thoughts:
When the people returned to Jerusalem from captivity in Babylon, they became as those who dreamed. Their hearts were filled with laughter; their tongues with shouts of praise. The people of Earth said to them, "The Lord has done great things for you." Indeed, the Lord has done great things for us, and we are filled with joy.
That's the verse I shared this morning after we sang.
I reflected on my own "return from Babylon" two years ago tomorrow.
I was broken. I was ugly. I was beyond all reckoning.
And my parents opened their arms up and loved me. My aunt, my uncle, my cousin, my grandmother. They loved me and took me as I was: broken. ugly. lost.
And yet, and yet!! the Lord has done great things for me.
Though Decembers cause me to get way too deep in my head and heart and ache with the past woundedness, I know too of the deep joy of restoration to hope and light and life.
The Lord has done great things for us, and we are filled with joy.
Tuesday, December 15, 2015
In Decembers
In Decembers, I miss God.
I recognize that that's an odd sentiment to share (and to have) but it's the closest way I can think to communicate how I feel.
Belfast and I have reconciled. We are good friends now. My second semester there was beautiful in every way, and even the first semester was necessary.
But in Decembers....I get in my own head. Can't shake it.
Decembers taste like unending, UK-attempted green bean casserole, apples, puzzle dust, cold tea, grief, and vomit. It smells like I need to shower. It sounds like "Merry Christmas, Here's to Many More" and "Dark Horse" and songs I still can't listen to. It feels like darkness crushing into each cell.
Last December, I spent my time with friends at graduation in Belfast, laughing with my housemates, loving and being loved by my handsome boyfriend, holding my family. It was a good time.
This December, I'm so happy at work, at home, in Tulsa. I am so blessed. I am so happy.
and yet.
and yet.
In Decembers...I feel it all. As though nothing present were present.
As though I were still there.
Still alone.
Still dying.
Which, I recognize, seems like an incredibly hyperbolic thing to say. But I never felt as dead-souled as then. In all the other months, I don't think about it, I don't feel about it, I don't write about it. In this month, though, it is around every email, song choice, nap, bend in my drive.
You know when you're sick and all you want is your mom?
No matter your age or situation, your mom is your first instinct to call out for. You want her. You need her.
Even though I'm better--wonderful, in fact--that's how I feel. I feel sick. My mom wasn't there, couldn't be there, the first time it happened. The one who took care of me--geez. the only one in that whole stinking country who cared about me, it seemed at the time--was God.
So now, when I feel sick at heart and soul from feel-backs and uncontrollable sentiments, I miss God. We aren't separated, but we aren't together in the same way.
My mom and I talk all the time. We go shopping, we enjoy one another, but our relationship is very different when I'm ill.
It's the same with God. We spend time together, but it just isn't the same kind of need.
Either way, here I am. Feeling. Sick at heart with no reason to be. Missing God, and thankful for my savior. Thankful to have been saved and loved and have my life and my favorite country redeemed.
I recognize that that's an odd sentiment to share (and to have) but it's the closest way I can think to communicate how I feel.
Belfast and I have reconciled. We are good friends now. My second semester there was beautiful in every way, and even the first semester was necessary.
But in Decembers....I get in my own head. Can't shake it.
Decembers taste like unending, UK-attempted green bean casserole, apples, puzzle dust, cold tea, grief, and vomit. It smells like I need to shower. It sounds like "Merry Christmas, Here's to Many More" and "Dark Horse" and songs I still can't listen to. It feels like darkness crushing into each cell.
Last December, I spent my time with friends at graduation in Belfast, laughing with my housemates, loving and being loved by my handsome boyfriend, holding my family. It was a good time.
This December, I'm so happy at work, at home, in Tulsa. I am so blessed. I am so happy.
and yet.
and yet.
In Decembers...I feel it all. As though nothing present were present.
As though I were still there.
Still alone.
Still dying.
Which, I recognize, seems like an incredibly hyperbolic thing to say. But I never felt as dead-souled as then. In all the other months, I don't think about it, I don't feel about it, I don't write about it. In this month, though, it is around every email, song choice, nap, bend in my drive.
You know when you're sick and all you want is your mom?
No matter your age or situation, your mom is your first instinct to call out for. You want her. You need her.
Even though I'm better--wonderful, in fact--that's how I feel. I feel sick. My mom wasn't there, couldn't be there, the first time it happened. The one who took care of me--geez. the only one in that whole stinking country who cared about me, it seemed at the time--was God.
So now, when I feel sick at heart and soul from feel-backs and uncontrollable sentiments, I miss God. We aren't separated, but we aren't together in the same way.
My mom and I talk all the time. We go shopping, we enjoy one another, but our relationship is very different when I'm ill.
It's the same with God. We spend time together, but it just isn't the same kind of need.
Either way, here I am. Feeling. Sick at heart with no reason to be. Missing God, and thankful for my savior. Thankful to have been saved and loved and have my life and my favorite country redeemed.
Friday, November 13, 2015
We Made Them This Way
Last night, I went to a college night in a very small town that I'm sure is very nice, but I've only had weird experiences in.
Sometimes, Arkansas lives up to its reputation and, unfortunately, this is one of those towns that keeps the stereotypes alive.
The reason I admit this is because it became very clear that it isn't personal prejudice--this is what they are seen as by the general public.
How do I know this?
We were put on a panel and each "college" spoke for 3ish minutes on the highlights of their schools.
Each and every one of them talked about their welding programs, their mechanical programs, their 8 week programs, their agriculture programs. Even the non tech schools focused the entirety of their elevator speeches on their technical programs.
Two of them even told the kids in prettier terms that college wasn't meant for them and they would drop out/fail out if they tried.
Ultimately, the message being sent to these kids from 20 different presenters was: "You can be anything you want to be!!!!...in the technical industry."
What I have disliked about these kids before last night is that they are undisciplined, they've got gnarly test scores, they are rude and loud and crass, and they seem to just not care about themselves at all.
What I realized last night is that for their entire lives, these kids have probably been sent the message that they aren't smart or good enough to succeed, that they are meant to be future garbage collectors, mechanics, chicken collectors.
There is absolutely nothing wrong with those careers, no shame in them at all. However, when they are presented to you as your only aspirations, I get this twinging feeling that something is wrong.
Maybe it's the millennial in me that says, "No! We can do anything we want to do!" or maybe its the deep seated sense of justice and fairness in me that thinks that maybe if these kids were raised to believe that they had worth and meaning and the capacity to learn and grow and be then they would maybe take more time with their studies and personal care.
Speak words of truth and hope always, to old, to young, to those you know you'll see every day after, to those you know you'll never see again. Never allow yourself to contribute to the self-fulfilling prophesy of worthlessness in another person's life.
Because no matter their age, no matter their station in life, no matter how sticky or stinky or snarly a person is, everyone has value and purpose, even if they don't see that yet.
Sometimes, Arkansas lives up to its reputation and, unfortunately, this is one of those towns that keeps the stereotypes alive.
The reason I admit this is because it became very clear that it isn't personal prejudice--this is what they are seen as by the general public.
How do I know this?
We were put on a panel and each "college" spoke for 3ish minutes on the highlights of their schools.
Each and every one of them talked about their welding programs, their mechanical programs, their 8 week programs, their agriculture programs. Even the non tech schools focused the entirety of their elevator speeches on their technical programs.
Two of them even told the kids in prettier terms that college wasn't meant for them and they would drop out/fail out if they tried.
Ultimately, the message being sent to these kids from 20 different presenters was: "You can be anything you want to be!!!!...in the technical industry."
What I have disliked about these kids before last night is that they are undisciplined, they've got gnarly test scores, they are rude and loud and crass, and they seem to just not care about themselves at all.
What I realized last night is that for their entire lives, these kids have probably been sent the message that they aren't smart or good enough to succeed, that they are meant to be future garbage collectors, mechanics, chicken collectors.
There is absolutely nothing wrong with those careers, no shame in them at all. However, when they are presented to you as your only aspirations, I get this twinging feeling that something is wrong.
Maybe it's the millennial in me that says, "No! We can do anything we want to do!" or maybe its the deep seated sense of justice and fairness in me that thinks that maybe if these kids were raised to believe that they had worth and meaning and the capacity to learn and grow and be then they would maybe take more time with their studies and personal care.
Speak words of truth and hope always, to old, to young, to those you know you'll see every day after, to those you know you'll never see again. Never allow yourself to contribute to the self-fulfilling prophesy of worthlessness in another person's life.
Because no matter their age, no matter their station in life, no matter how sticky or stinky or snarly a person is, everyone has value and purpose, even if they don't see that yet.
Tuesday, November 10, 2015
Prozac Nation: A Confession of Allegiance
Today, I am starting anti-depressants.
It's a decision I have made willingly but have a history of staunchly refusing for the majority of my life.
No, I'm not depressed, but episodes of depression, headaches, nausea, and a whole host of other symptoms have added up to a long, frustrating history with chronic anxiety.
Whether it's social anxiety or the anxiety disorder I've been struggling to conceal since I was a child, anxiety has dominated most every conversation and interaction and self-reflection I've ever had.
I have long feared making this decision because I feared the consequences of what would happen if I were to go off of the medication. Would I be plunged into an even deeper pit than before I started them?
I think I was also scared of feeling "normal."
I've never felt normal.
My happiest moments in life have all been tinged with anxiety. Happiness in itself scares me. I've always worried that if I'm happy, it just means that unhappiness is about to catapult itself toward me in the subsequent moments.
I've gone to counseling, I've joined support groups, I have an accountability partner from group I don't even know the last name of, I've coped, I've exercised, I've gotten fidget tools, I've taken homeopathic helpers, I've prayed. It. Doesn't. Help. Not long-term, at least.
There's a weird mentality about being Christian that if I am a good enough Christian, if I pray hard enough, if I am prayed over, then this will subside. There's a mentality that this is spiritual warfare, not serotonin.
The truth is, this doesn't have anything to do with my faith:
I love God.
I lack the necessary amounts of serotonin receptors.
It is as uncomplicated as that.
I've never wanted to start them in the midst of a major depressive episode because that would be admitting defeat. If there's one thing anyone knows about me, it's that I'm tenacious. I'm insanely tenacious. If I can fix it, I will fix it.
Another frustration in friends and family pushing pills is that they don't deal with my anxiety. They may deal with the effects of my anxiety, but they have no idea what my disorder feels like. They just want me to chill the heck out.
You aren't taking pills! You don't know!!! Don't sell me on something you know nothing of other than researching them.
A year ago, I joined a support group. It's all online, just enough to troll through responses and whatnot. Through that, I met Lubs. She and I are similar ages, struggle with the same thing at the same level of severity, and get on really well. I never went back to the forums after that; we communicate, commiserate, and collaborate.
Her symptoms temporarily subsided around 6 months or so ago, and we lost touch.
Last week, she reappeared and we started our talks again. She had tried all that I had as well and finally had given in to trying medication for her anxiety.
For me, now, the timing is perfect. I'm still striving against my anxiety, but I'm not debilitated. I have a friend who is starting this process with the same struggles I do. I have camaraderie and I have sensibility. No one is pressuring me. It's finally my choice.
Shocker, I'm worried.
What is life without anxiety? Or rather, what is life with chemical stabilization?
I guess I'll find out.
It's a decision I have made willingly but have a history of staunchly refusing for the majority of my life.
No, I'm not depressed, but episodes of depression, headaches, nausea, and a whole host of other symptoms have added up to a long, frustrating history with chronic anxiety.
Whether it's social anxiety or the anxiety disorder I've been struggling to conceal since I was a child, anxiety has dominated most every conversation and interaction and self-reflection I've ever had.
I have long feared making this decision because I feared the consequences of what would happen if I were to go off of the medication. Would I be plunged into an even deeper pit than before I started them?
I think I was also scared of feeling "normal."
I've never felt normal.
My happiest moments in life have all been tinged with anxiety. Happiness in itself scares me. I've always worried that if I'm happy, it just means that unhappiness is about to catapult itself toward me in the subsequent moments.
I've gone to counseling, I've joined support groups, I have an accountability partner from group I don't even know the last name of, I've coped, I've exercised, I've gotten fidget tools, I've taken homeopathic helpers, I've prayed. It. Doesn't. Help. Not long-term, at least.
There's a weird mentality about being Christian that if I am a good enough Christian, if I pray hard enough, if I am prayed over, then this will subside. There's a mentality that this is spiritual warfare, not serotonin.
The truth is, this doesn't have anything to do with my faith:
I love God.
I lack the necessary amounts of serotonin receptors.
It is as uncomplicated as that.
I've never wanted to start them in the midst of a major depressive episode because that would be admitting defeat. If there's one thing anyone knows about me, it's that I'm tenacious. I'm insanely tenacious. If I can fix it, I will fix it.
Another frustration in friends and family pushing pills is that they don't deal with my anxiety. They may deal with the effects of my anxiety, but they have no idea what my disorder feels like. They just want me to chill the heck out.
You aren't taking pills! You don't know!!! Don't sell me on something you know nothing of other than researching them.
A year ago, I joined a support group. It's all online, just enough to troll through responses and whatnot. Through that, I met Lubs. She and I are similar ages, struggle with the same thing at the same level of severity, and get on really well. I never went back to the forums after that; we communicate, commiserate, and collaborate.
Her symptoms temporarily subsided around 6 months or so ago, and we lost touch.
Last week, she reappeared and we started our talks again. She had tried all that I had as well and finally had given in to trying medication for her anxiety.
For me, now, the timing is perfect. I'm still striving against my anxiety, but I'm not debilitated. I have a friend who is starting this process with the same struggles I do. I have camaraderie and I have sensibility. No one is pressuring me. It's finally my choice.
Shocker, I'm worried.
What is life without anxiety? Or rather, what is life with chemical stabilization?
I guess I'll find out.
Thursday, October 1, 2015
Pregnancy, Weight
Though it's called the miracle of birth, and we get so excited when we learn of a friend's pregnancy, there's something sinister about pregnancy.
For some women, like my mother, it actually has the potential to be kind of a miraculous experience. My mama and her birthing hips had a lovely time during pregnancy.
For others, not so much.
Currently, all of Siloam is pregnant it seems.
I've got a whole theory about the role that essential oils is playing in this (they are not an alternative to birth control, friends), but nevertheless, cute pregnant bellies fill the streets here.
A friend of mine (home birth types) just gave birth (in a hospital) after being more than 2 weeks late and after more than 48 hours of labor.
Another friend has been ill every evening at 5pm since she first learned of the human in her belly.
The wife of a professor friend--the one responsible for getting myself and Julius initiated and integrated with our church--has horrible pregnancies. Horrible.
He is a compulsive coffee drinker. I remember as a student in his class during her last pregnancy that he made his coffee on the porch of his house because it would make her vomitous.
During her last three pregnancies, she's been ill to the point of hospitalization.
This one was awful as well. But with pregnancy, unlike other diseases and abnormal growths, there's a heightened layer of joy and anticipation to pair with the anxiety and nausea. At the end, you'll have a squirmy life.
However, though she was an invalid for a couple of months, she found joy and comfort in the fact that through pregnancy acupuncture and other homeopathic remedies, she had been able to avoid the hospital and had finally made it back to church and most of her normal life.
Today, we received a short email from our pastor--The family mourns the loss of their unborn child...pray for her as she'll have to go through delivery soon.
I've heard mothers compare labor and delivery to a lot of things I can't unhear, like volcanic eruptions, dinosaurs escaping, being dipped in acid.
None of those are comforting images.
Again, though, they are mixed with this peace because it's worth it. It's worth it to finally be with this creature that you and your beloved have created together, procreated in the image of God. And it's beautiful. And it's valuable. And it's good.
I've just got this image in my head, though, that I can't release myself from.
We are not meant to grieve like those without hope.
But finding hope in more than "We'll be together one day in Heaven" is surely impossible in the midst of excruciating pain that will leave to the inevitable delivery of death.
Today is a reminder to be thankful for children, thankful for nieces and nephews, thankful for our own lives and the lives of the women who gave birth to us.
Some miracles become people. Some, hidden miracles I suppose, are an opportunity to grow closer to Christ, as that is the only option, the only source of true reprieve when our hearts feel like they're being torn out.
Thursday, April 23, 2015
Crucified at the Crux
We are a culture and a people of extremes.
Obese or anorexic.
Unshutupable or brick silent.
Dramatic or dead pan.
When I go to my work twitter or Facebook and read all my students posts, they are full of the feels. Just...all the feels. All screaming, "Notice me notice me notice me!!!"
They post about:
Loneliness
Not fitting in
Feeling stupid
"Love"
I am not saying their posts don't reflect their reality, but I think they make us believe that we're seeing the total reality.
Because the kids we're hearing from are the ones we expect to hear from, because they're the ones who never stop whining about how lonely they feel instead of wiping off some of their makeup and trying out their own skin. A lot of times, it's part of their identity to be misunderstood.
Don't get all huffy; I'm not being a jerk. If you find me offensive, it's probably because you were once one of those kids. I work with kids, I was a kid, I am a kid. I know kids. Let me talk.
What we don't get is the honest look at the structural identity of other human beings.
We either stigmatize to the point of normalcy or we cloister problems into oblivion.
Let's have an honest discussion about what happens when you come to "the crux."
"The Crux" has been on my mind today because we have been going through our promotional material for re-vamping. Several of the smiling faces on our shining boards are students I knew very, very well.
And they aren't here anymore.
They didn't graduate.
Their cruxes crucified them.
That doesn't make them lesser people, and that doesn't make them failures. They just lost that one particular round of mental monopoly.
Yet there they are, smiling, holding a stack of books, pointing to a white board, reading with friends, about to sing another original song.
They are literally our poster children.
I'm sure they can think of nothing more ironic.
In one sense, it's the perfect example of "putting on your church face".
We obliviate their stories with glossed on smiles, whether that's our goal or not.
At the same time, I don't find it ironic at all for them to be our poster children. I actually love that we didn't choose all the seemingly perfect students. Because that's not who we are. We're all broken people. Their "cruxes" just made that more obvious.
"The Crux" is the moment when what you have been taught and raised to be drops off, and you have to grow new skin all on your own. The Crux is when you are faced with something so personal, so intimate, that 20 years of "life lessons" are insufficient to suffice for an answer.
We search.
We listen.
But who do we listen to?
Though we would like to say, "God", like a good Sunday schooler, often we can't.
It's hard to admit, but we can't listen to him. We aren't ready.
More than that, maybe we truly do not yet have the capacity to hear the decibels he's speaking in.
Who do we listen to?
Them.
Whoever our "them" is.
And we "run to the things they said could restore [us]//restore life the way it should be".
And it doesn't work.
It doesn't work and doesn't work and doesn't work, and we're trapped in this horrible Dante-esque second circle of Hell running running running .
It breaks us.
It broke my friends.
It broke me.
Brokenness is ugly and unspoken.
In our shame, we hide because that's what feels correct to do. Because a snide "nobody loves me" comment on Facebook is one thing, but the genuine vacuum in our hearts, the kind that feels unrecoverable, isn't one you can post.
We publish the present.
We present the version of ourselves that we feel reconciled with, even if we don't love it. We can deal with it. We can stand by it.
The intimate pain is something we can't own because its muchness has too much muchness. That means, when we are sucked under the current, drop out of school, overdose, attempt suicide, no one sees it coming.
In times I have felt the most alone, the most broken, I have ached for someone to tell me they've been there too and not another God-awful repetition of Jeremiah 29:11 or a "I felt sad once, but I'm better now".
I wanted to read someone else admitting, with humor, hope, and honesty, that they were there as well.
At the same time, I am most usually unwilling to be that person for other people. The closest I've ever come to it is attempting to speak the truth of myself in my posts.
We're broken, but we retain such a capacity for forgiveness, for partnership, for love, and for redemption. We are capable of connection, to make pain into partnership, to turn someone's "I hope I can do this..." to "We can do this. I know we can do this."
How often do we opt to halt our thinking about our public images in deference to thoughts of how we can love other people through letting them in on the truth of our pain and of our regrowth?
We need the in-between.
That's what we're missing.
No more attention-seeking, connectivity-defying Facebook statuses of how nobody understands but no more hiding either.
Rather, with patience, with humility, and with discernment, let us all practice letting people join us where we stand. Or sit. Or kneel. Or are crawled up in.
Let's practice letting ourselves be seen.
Obese or anorexic.
Unshutupable or brick silent.
Dramatic or dead pan.
When I go to my work twitter or Facebook and read all my students posts, they are full of the feels. Just...all the feels. All screaming, "Notice me notice me notice me!!!"
They post about:
Loneliness
Not fitting in
Feeling stupid
"Love"
I am not saying their posts don't reflect their reality, but I think they make us believe that we're seeing the total reality.
Because the kids we're hearing from are the ones we expect to hear from, because they're the ones who never stop whining about how lonely they feel instead of wiping off some of their makeup and trying out their own skin. A lot of times, it's part of their identity to be misunderstood.
Don't get all huffy; I'm not being a jerk. If you find me offensive, it's probably because you were once one of those kids. I work with kids, I was a kid, I am a kid. I know kids. Let me talk.
What we don't get is the honest look at the structural identity of other human beings.
We either stigmatize to the point of normalcy or we cloister problems into oblivion.
Let's have an honest discussion about what happens when you come to "the crux."
"The Crux" has been on my mind today because we have been going through our promotional material for re-vamping. Several of the smiling faces on our shining boards are students I knew very, very well.
And they aren't here anymore.
They didn't graduate.
Their cruxes crucified them.
That doesn't make them lesser people, and that doesn't make them failures. They just lost that one particular round of mental monopoly.
Yet there they are, smiling, holding a stack of books, pointing to a white board, reading with friends, about to sing another original song.
They are literally our poster children.
I'm sure they can think of nothing more ironic.
In one sense, it's the perfect example of "putting on your church face".
We obliviate their stories with glossed on smiles, whether that's our goal or not.
At the same time, I don't find it ironic at all for them to be our poster children. I actually love that we didn't choose all the seemingly perfect students. Because that's not who we are. We're all broken people. Their "cruxes" just made that more obvious.
"The Crux" is the moment when what you have been taught and raised to be drops off, and you have to grow new skin all on your own. The Crux is when you are faced with something so personal, so intimate, that 20 years of "life lessons" are insufficient to suffice for an answer.
We search.
We listen.
But who do we listen to?
Though we would like to say, "God", like a good Sunday schooler, often we can't.
It's hard to admit, but we can't listen to him. We aren't ready.
More than that, maybe we truly do not yet have the capacity to hear the decibels he's speaking in.
Who do we listen to?
Them.
Whoever our "them" is.
And we "run to the things they said could restore [us]//restore life the way it should be".
And it doesn't work.
It doesn't work and doesn't work and doesn't work, and we're trapped in this horrible Dante-esque second circle of Hell running running running .
It breaks us.
It broke my friends.
It broke me.
Brokenness is ugly and unspoken.
In our shame, we hide because that's what feels correct to do. Because a snide "nobody loves me" comment on Facebook is one thing, but the genuine vacuum in our hearts, the kind that feels unrecoverable, isn't one you can post.
We publish the present.
We present the version of ourselves that we feel reconciled with, even if we don't love it. We can deal with it. We can stand by it.
The intimate pain is something we can't own because its muchness has too much muchness. That means, when we are sucked under the current, drop out of school, overdose, attempt suicide, no one sees it coming.
In times I have felt the most alone, the most broken, I have ached for someone to tell me they've been there too and not another God-awful repetition of Jeremiah 29:11 or a "I felt sad once, but I'm better now".
I wanted to read someone else admitting, with humor, hope, and honesty, that they were there as well.
At the same time, I am most usually unwilling to be that person for other people. The closest I've ever come to it is attempting to speak the truth of myself in my posts.
We're broken, but we retain such a capacity for forgiveness, for partnership, for love, and for redemption. We are capable of connection, to make pain into partnership, to turn someone's "I hope I can do this..." to "We can do this. I know we can do this."
How often do we opt to halt our thinking about our public images in deference to thoughts of how we can love other people through letting them in on the truth of our pain and of our regrowth?
We need the in-between.
That's what we're missing.
No more attention-seeking, connectivity-defying Facebook statuses of how nobody understands but no more hiding either.
Rather, with patience, with humility, and with discernment, let us all practice letting people join us where we stand. Or sit. Or kneel. Or are crawled up in.
Let's practice letting ourselves be seen.
Tuesday, April 22, 2014
Hurt People Hurt People
One of my university professors from back home, Dr. Nick Ogle, says, "Brokenness cries out to brokenness."
Those two catch phrases, if you will, are very similar, I think.
It's similar to the old cliche, "Misery loves company."
We're all pretty messed up, it's true. And we're all messed up both the same and different than one another.
And yet, and yet, we all like to think our messed-up-ness is completely unique. Nobody in the entire world understands!!!! To a certain degree, that's true. There has never been another person like you, so no other person has experienced or processed pain in the same way as you.
However, in our confusion and in our partial/poor processing and understanding of our problems, we act out.
We become cagey, reckless, electric.
We find people who are similarly cagey, reckless, and electric and form destructive, dependent bonds with them.
Or/and we lash out at everything that moves.
"She looked at me weird."
"He sent me a smileyface emoticon as her entire text response."
"How hard is it to take two seconds and return an email?!."
"GET OFF MY TAIL, JERK! I'M GOING THE SPEEDLIMIT"
"Slam that door one more time. C'mon. I dare you."
Anything can set off the trigger.
All that self-anxiety and tumbles of frustration (that honestly we may not even recognize what the source of it is) is then tunnel-visioned onto whomever gave that twitchy finger the go-ahead.
In response, the squinter/emoticon abuser/slow emailer/butt-face driver (who, in defense of shootey-mcgee over there, probably deserve at least a paintball to the gut or an airsoft gun bruise or two) receives an avalanche of venomous slush.
Nearly all of it deserves displacement.
That's not what it seems, though. And it's definitely not how it feels.
But we don't take the time to analyze that.
We let it happen.
We, the offended, leave that interaction burning hot with rage, all at the offenders.
The offenders leave angry, hurt, and confused at what the heck just happened??
And, in response, transfer their anger, hurt, and confusion onto their own personal trigger people.
And honestly, at the end of the day, it doesn't make a whole heck of a lot difference if we do recognize what we have done and why we have done it.
Apologies are great. Recognizing and verbalizing that you have wronged is an incredible step forward. And it could indeed mend that acid-burned relationship.
But it still happened. And those dominos still fell.
Your words have power. Your actions have power. Don't be so smallminded as to think you can do whatever you want without broad consequence.
Be careful not to let tumble from your lips words that do not deserve existence.
That's not to say hoard offense. Rather, seek God, seek truth, seek understanding, and seek ways to word your pain which demonstrates knowledge that you are not only one in the battle.
Everybody's got their stuff.
Take the time to ask.
To give the benefit of the doubt.
To exercise mercy even if they deserve your wrath.
Because hurt people hurt people, yes.
But blessed people bless people.
It works both ways.
Those two catch phrases, if you will, are very similar, I think.
It's similar to the old cliche, "Misery loves company."
We're all pretty messed up, it's true. And we're all messed up both the same and different than one another.
And yet, and yet, we all like to think our messed-up-ness is completely unique. Nobody in the entire world understands!!!! To a certain degree, that's true. There has never been another person like you, so no other person has experienced or processed pain in the same way as you.
However, in our confusion and in our partial/poor processing and understanding of our problems, we act out.
We become cagey, reckless, electric.
We find people who are similarly cagey, reckless, and electric and form destructive, dependent bonds with them.
Or/and we lash out at everything that moves.
"She looked at me weird."
"He sent me a smileyface emoticon as her entire text response."
"How hard is it to take two seconds and return an email?!."
"GET OFF MY TAIL, JERK! I'M GOING THE SPEEDLIMIT"
"Slam that door one more time. C'mon. I dare you."
Anything can set off the trigger.
All that self-anxiety and tumbles of frustration (that honestly we may not even recognize what the source of it is) is then tunnel-visioned onto whomever gave that twitchy finger the go-ahead.
In response, the squinter/emoticon abuser/slow emailer/butt-face driver (who, in defense of shootey-mcgee over there, probably deserve at least a paintball to the gut or an airsoft gun bruise or two) receives an avalanche of venomous slush.
Nearly all of it deserves displacement.
That's not what it seems, though. And it's definitely not how it feels.
But we don't take the time to analyze that.
We let it happen.
We, the offended, leave that interaction burning hot with rage, all at the offenders.
The offenders leave angry, hurt, and confused at what the heck just happened??
And, in response, transfer their anger, hurt, and confusion onto their own personal trigger people.
And honestly, at the end of the day, it doesn't make a whole heck of a lot difference if we do recognize what we have done and why we have done it.
Apologies are great. Recognizing and verbalizing that you have wronged is an incredible step forward. And it could indeed mend that acid-burned relationship.
But it still happened. And those dominos still fell.
Your words have power. Your actions have power. Don't be so smallminded as to think you can do whatever you want without broad consequence.
Be careful not to let tumble from your lips words that do not deserve existence.
That's not to say hoard offense. Rather, seek God, seek truth, seek understanding, and seek ways to word your pain which demonstrates knowledge that you are not only one in the battle.
Everybody's got their stuff.
Take the time to ask.
To give the benefit of the doubt.
To exercise mercy even if they deserve your wrath.
Because hurt people hurt people, yes.
But blessed people bless people.
It works both ways.
Thursday, January 23, 2014
The Powerful Play Goes On
We all fall apart. That's the naked truth of it.
Despite what I felt was a miraculous recovery from my depression, I, once again, dissolved just a few days ago in a pretty major way. It seems when faced with the actual pressure and reality of my return to Northern Ireland, my mind ceased to act out of its state of renewal and repair.
I got sent to counseling later that afternoon and, in the space of three days, have completed three sessions.
It's been good, but it's also been a solid reminder that "getting better" is a process of ebs and flows, a one step forward two steps back kind of situation. That won't change when I go back to NI either.
Not all, certainly, but many of the same struggles will be waiting for me the moment I get off the plane there. I'm not going to be able to (nor do I want to) wean off the Lord's grace or sufficiency or daily bread.
No matter where I go, no matter who I'm with, I will always be an Israelite with a full dependency and hope in the fact that when I walk out of my tent in the morning, there will be manna enough to sustain and strengthen me for the day ahead. In exact measure for my needs.
So, I leave yesterday and the day before where they are in their graves of time and tomorrow in its den, and I hold up the 12 hours in front of me for inspection and growth.
We are well aware that "in a minute there is time/For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse."
But we are equally aware that every decision, every minute is a chance to change the world.
Every decision, every minute we are writing new sentences in the books of our lives.
The neverending story continues.
Despite what I felt was a miraculous recovery from my depression, I, once again, dissolved just a few days ago in a pretty major way. It seems when faced with the actual pressure and reality of my return to Northern Ireland, my mind ceased to act out of its state of renewal and repair.
I got sent to counseling later that afternoon and, in the space of three days, have completed three sessions.
It's been good, but it's also been a solid reminder that "getting better" is a process of ebs and flows, a one step forward two steps back kind of situation. That won't change when I go back to NI either.
Not all, certainly, but many of the same struggles will be waiting for me the moment I get off the plane there. I'm not going to be able to (nor do I want to) wean off the Lord's grace or sufficiency or daily bread.
No matter where I go, no matter who I'm with, I will always be an Israelite with a full dependency and hope in the fact that when I walk out of my tent in the morning, there will be manna enough to sustain and strengthen me for the day ahead. In exact measure for my needs.
So, I leave yesterday and the day before where they are in their graves of time and tomorrow in its den, and I hold up the 12 hours in front of me for inspection and growth.
We are well aware that "in a minute there is time/For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse."
But we are equally aware that every decision, every minute is a chance to change the world.
Every decision, every minute we are writing new sentences in the books of our lives.
The neverending story continues.
Sunday, January 19, 2014
Verbal Nudity
For the past four days, I have been in Siloam Springs.
A lot of people challenged me on this decision (for a variety of reasons), but I went because I graduated early, and all my friends are still on campus, not to mention my professor friends.
Three and a half absolutely packed days of meetings, friend dates, coffee, and Jenga.
There wasn't a friend specifically assigned to Jenga, but I've found over the years that if I ever have an awkward space of time on campus, if I sit in Walker Student Center for 5 or more minutes, someone I know and like (but unfortunately neglected to schedule time with) will show up.
And, because sometimes interactions with friends like that--the ones you really like but don't always know what to talk about with--can be a bit awkward, Jenga. It's the perfect amount of social distraction. Not so focus-necessary that you can't focus on your conversation but just enough that you can focus energy on it if the conversation feels slow.
In this way, my free time was enriched by several people I haven't been able to have a chance to speak with in months, and it added so much flavor I would have entirely missed out on.
Going to Siloam also offered me an opportunity to make a few new acquaintances, some I very much enjoyed making and a couple that were necessary to make. Both were a stretch.
More than that, though, the journey of the past few days was one of verbal nudity.
As far as the 5 Love Languages test goes, I usually classify myself high on Words of Affirmation. However, I am not usually a verbal affirmer. Instead, I write.
Most times, actually, when I need to address something particularly saturated with sentiment, I write instead of speak. Thus, this blog, and my letters and emails. Raw, but hiding.
It's not as though I think writing is wrong--indeed, letter receiving is one of the greatest things, and I love sending them. However, when all big conversations (or really any big conversation) is done via the written word, I think there is a problem.
70% of communication is non-verbal. So when I'm not forced to look in your eyes, weigh the immediate impact of my words and decisions on your heart, watch your body language, I miss out. And even if my letters or blogs are extremely vulnerable, they lack that intense intimacy that comes through individual communication.
Over three days' time, I had three different conversations with three different girl friends.
In one, I sought for forgiveness; in the second, I offered an admission of cowardice; in the third, I opened the understanding . In all three, I opened the door for rejection.
In a previous post, I defined "intimacy." With intimacy, there is a tension and an opportunity for the other person to either accept and grow or reject and let die.
Incredibly, all three chose the former.
It wasn't just that choice that impacted me so much, though. Rather, it was that I felt the power of having to fully engage, to admit some pretty deep and sacred feelings in the immediate presence of the ones capable of decimating my attempts. The result was access to depth that I didn't know was available to me in those friendships. Our God is an awesome God.
Wednesday, December 25, 2013
The Christmas that Could
I love my family.
Anyone that knows me knows that one fact. That, and my deep love for the three best friends, but that's a given. :)
My family, no matter how uncommunicative or overcommunicative or awkward or spazzy, is where I intrinsically sense to go when I feel unsure or so sure. They're the ones I want to share my most happy moments with and the ones my heart immediately needs when it gets broken.
They're the base line. Even when I lose sight of my identity and everything else in my life, I know who I am with them. I am a little sister to three big brothers, a sister-in-law to three as well, a niece, a cousin, an aunt of five, a daughter. I am my family. And what a wonderful one to be known by.
I needed them. And by the grace of God I got them.
Christmas Eve went as expected. Jansie and Daisy Ree whirlwind cleaned, and I putsed about, wandering, disappearing, holding the dog so it looked like I was actually doing something. Useless creature, me. I think it's my learned defensive behavior. My ma gets frenzied near holidays (or any event of any kind at our home. Though, admittedly, she has gotten so much better) and cleans/throws away everything in sight. It ain't pretty. You'd hide, too. I've never gotten as good as Chon, though. He was a master at getting out of things without anyone noticing that he was doing nothing.
The evening was at First Methodist Church, a lovely carol service. Our wee group was comprised of my parents and me, my aunt Joycer, uncle ed, Krissy, her husband Jeff, and my cousins Crista and Noah.
I'm not going to lie. I almost didn't make it. Christmas Eve, I didn't pull it together. I tried. The heaviness took me. I felt like the grinch, and I could see how my darkness was hurting my parents and grandma. I just wanted to be alone and cry. Throw it in my face: "But you so wanted to come home!" Yeah, I know. But not yet. You've got to understand. I so wanted to come home because nobody else wanted me, and the idea of sitting 4,000 miles away from familiar, soaking in minute by minute that knowledge on top of the horrors of the past four months? Acid to my soul. I could not do it.
Yes, I want to be home. I am so terribly thankful to be home, but being home and having to reconcile my brokenness with the expectations of behaving like a normal creature and contributing to a positive atmosphere is hard. And it's hard on my family. I'm hard for my family.
That's who I went into that Christmas Eve service as. Amazing how a guy snoring behind you, really great black singing, and family that can make you laugh and forget can change your inner atmosphere. (nerd moment: laughter really does chemically alter your mood.) I came out better. So much better.
I'd like to give a shout-out of thanks to serotonin for carrying over until today. Despite bad, exhausting dreams (usually a signal for an awful day ahead), it was a truly wonderful Christmas.
A skype with my brother joey, his wife Cristin, and their two kiddos: harrison and gianna.
Later, we were joined by my other two siblings, the kids opened a few presents (the siblings decided to skip Christmas with one another) [side note: thank you to whoever invented gift bags. Honestly, if you ever receive a present from me which is wrapped in something other than a gift bag or a sweat shirt, I probably love you more than any other person in my acquaintance arsenal], and we snacked while watching home movies. It's kind of a tradition of ours. One of my absolute favorites. In a way, it makes it feel as though we're all a part. With them, my Jesus-resting Papa can be with us (now who was in the manger? mary and joseph and the baby.) and my uncle johnnie, aunt lynne, cousins, ruthie and charlie, jojo, all of us.
It's funny how our personalities really haven't changed either. Chon trying to steal the camera, incessantly talking, and being goofy always, Jacob the ultimate caretaker (I dare you to find a single scene in any picture or video from my childhood which features me without him), and Joey...well...Joey actually has changed. He didn't really know he was alive back then. He was sweet boy. He became a great man.
And my niecer Ella actually looks a ton like what I did at her age. Hadn't noticed before.
The rest of the day, we ate, drank, made merry, and were rejoined by joycie, ed, kris and jeff, and daisy marie. We were all relaxed, played some games, doted on the darling kiddos, and were just your basic, garden variety happy. It was very nice.
Merry Christmas from the Odoms.
We probably love you.
Or we will learn to.
Or we will relearn to.
Or we've never met you, but we're sure you're very nice.
Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.
Anyone that knows me knows that one fact. That, and my deep love for the three best friends, but that's a given. :)
My family, no matter how uncommunicative or overcommunicative or awkward or spazzy, is where I intrinsically sense to go when I feel unsure or so sure. They're the ones I want to share my most happy moments with and the ones my heart immediately needs when it gets broken.
They're the base line. Even when I lose sight of my identity and everything else in my life, I know who I am with them. I am a little sister to three big brothers, a sister-in-law to three as well, a niece, a cousin, an aunt of five, a daughter. I am my family. And what a wonderful one to be known by.
I needed them. And by the grace of God I got them.
Christmas Eve went as expected. Jansie and Daisy Ree whirlwind cleaned, and I putsed about, wandering, disappearing, holding the dog so it looked like I was actually doing something. Useless creature, me. I think it's my learned defensive behavior. My ma gets frenzied near holidays (or any event of any kind at our home. Though, admittedly, she has gotten so much better) and cleans/throws away everything in sight. It ain't pretty. You'd hide, too. I've never gotten as good as Chon, though. He was a master at getting out of things without anyone noticing that he was doing nothing.
The evening was at First Methodist Church, a lovely carol service. Our wee group was comprised of my parents and me, my aunt Joycer, uncle ed, Krissy, her husband Jeff, and my cousins Crista and Noah.
I'm not going to lie. I almost didn't make it. Christmas Eve, I didn't pull it together. I tried. The heaviness took me. I felt like the grinch, and I could see how my darkness was hurting my parents and grandma. I just wanted to be alone and cry. Throw it in my face: "But you so wanted to come home!" Yeah, I know. But not yet. You've got to understand. I so wanted to come home because nobody else wanted me, and the idea of sitting 4,000 miles away from familiar, soaking in minute by minute that knowledge on top of the horrors of the past four months? Acid to my soul. I could not do it.
Yes, I want to be home. I am so terribly thankful to be home, but being home and having to reconcile my brokenness with the expectations of behaving like a normal creature and contributing to a positive atmosphere is hard. And it's hard on my family. I'm hard for my family.
That's who I went into that Christmas Eve service as. Amazing how a guy snoring behind you, really great black singing, and family that can make you laugh and forget can change your inner atmosphere. (nerd moment: laughter really does chemically alter your mood.) I came out better. So much better.
I'd like to give a shout-out of thanks to serotonin for carrying over until today. Despite bad, exhausting dreams (usually a signal for an awful day ahead), it was a truly wonderful Christmas.
A skype with my brother joey, his wife Cristin, and their two kiddos: harrison and gianna.
Later, we were joined by my other two siblings, the kids opened a few presents (the siblings decided to skip Christmas with one another) [side note: thank you to whoever invented gift bags. Honestly, if you ever receive a present from me which is wrapped in something other than a gift bag or a sweat shirt, I probably love you more than any other person in my acquaintance arsenal], and we snacked while watching home movies. It's kind of a tradition of ours. One of my absolute favorites. In a way, it makes it feel as though we're all a part. With them, my Jesus-resting Papa can be with us (now who was in the manger? mary and joseph and the baby.) and my uncle johnnie, aunt lynne, cousins, ruthie and charlie, jojo, all of us.
It's funny how our personalities really haven't changed either. Chon trying to steal the camera, incessantly talking, and being goofy always, Jacob the ultimate caretaker (I dare you to find a single scene in any picture or video from my childhood which features me without him), and Joey...well...Joey actually has changed. He didn't really know he was alive back then. He was sweet boy. He became a great man.
And my niecer Ella actually looks a ton like what I did at her age. Hadn't noticed before.
The rest of the day, we ate, drank, made merry, and were rejoined by joycie, ed, kris and jeff, and daisy marie. We were all relaxed, played some games, doted on the darling kiddos, and were just your basic, garden variety happy. It was very nice.
Merry Christmas from the Odoms.
We probably love you.
Or we will learn to.
Or we will relearn to.
Or we've never met you, but we're sure you're very nice.
Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.
Thursday, December 19, 2013
One More Time With Feeling
I had a dream once. Not like Martin Luther King Junior. The real kind. The kind your sleeping self creates.
In this dream, there was a path. A silent man to my left, but to my right were two people standing with their backs to me talking a ways down the sloped road. But I walked past them, walking straight and toward a hill.
I walked with big strides up the pathway, hooking my feet into the creases in the cracked dirt and making good time.
The hill got steeper, though, and as I looked forward, I saw it wasn't a hill at all but a mountain. The nearly ninety degree up kind, and the air was thinning. I got slower. Still long strides, but with so much more effort and not enough oxygen to keep up even that pace.
The man wrapped his fingers into my rib cage. He was having no problem keeping a consistent pace and now steel-grip, half-dragged me up along with him. I could feel his fingers bruising into me.
Feet no longer catching hold but slipping. Air coming less. Rim of sight fuzzing, darkening. Dizzy. Still those fingers in my ribs pulling me up.
We came up and I saw the burning edges of the sunset over the crest of the mountain. And passed out.
_________________________________________________________________________________
There was one more chapter to my pain. I left Siloam perfect. My memories there, perfect. And they needed to be rewritten into reality.
I prayed extensively beforehand, knowing that I was to be watched and knowing I would face questions.
Lord, What do I say? How am I to be gracious? How am I to speak the truth? With what words do I fill my mouth?
Then came the moment when I fully grasped it: No matter what I say, no matter what I do, others will believe what they will believe. I cannot make for myself my reputation. It is the Lord who writes my name.
Therefore, whether it makes me look weak or undone, I will speak the truth. I will speak the truth with deep humility and without shame. "The Lord has dealt with me."
In Siloam, I learned of more betrayal, of secrecy, of broken, broken journeys, and of pain.
I was left with nothing but compassion and a deep ache, knowing of self-destructive bonds forged out of ignorance. You know not what you are doing, but it is your journey. Not mine.
To my supervisors, professors, and friends, I told the truth of my current state and of my own journey. Never have I been not more open but more raw or present in my answers. Never have I been less lovely.
And yet, and yet, the Lord was seen. In the wreck that is my body and my life, the ones who know me spoke over me favor. I, who have sought my whole life for that favor and respect; I, who have twisted myself mangled to achieve honor; I, who have always fallen short of what I wanted, am only to receive it now, when I am the least deserving of the words I once fought so hard to win.
Then, I walked away and didn't look back. I did not get my closure. I did not seek my closure. I chose my closure. I chose to walk alone and allow The Lord to do his own work without me putsing about in somebody else's path.
Muted by pain and so present in my pain, but I am so thankful.
My future husband and children and friends will bless, bless, bless these past four months. I myself will bless these past four months.
I am changed, told I even look it.
My story is not my own. The Lord has closed my journal and opened a new book, writing my pathway with blood and tears and truth.
I am home, but I am not better yet, and that is difficult for me to accept. However, a whooped boxer doesn't spritz away dainty after his rounds. He is taken out of the ring, cradled away, and nursed back into battle mode.
I have been taken out of my ring. I have been cradled. And now, I just need time to heal.
At the end of the day: Jesus.
At the end of the day: soundness of mind, right alignment of body and spirit, grace, humility, forgiveness, love, compassion, shameless truth, and the deep recognition and value of friendship and of being human.
At the end of the day: hope.
In this dream, there was a path. A silent man to my left, but to my right were two people standing with their backs to me talking a ways down the sloped road. But I walked past them, walking straight and toward a hill.
I walked with big strides up the pathway, hooking my feet into the creases in the cracked dirt and making good time.
The hill got steeper, though, and as I looked forward, I saw it wasn't a hill at all but a mountain. The nearly ninety degree up kind, and the air was thinning. I got slower. Still long strides, but with so much more effort and not enough oxygen to keep up even that pace.
The man wrapped his fingers into my rib cage. He was having no problem keeping a consistent pace and now steel-grip, half-dragged me up along with him. I could feel his fingers bruising into me.
Feet no longer catching hold but slipping. Air coming less. Rim of sight fuzzing, darkening. Dizzy. Still those fingers in my ribs pulling me up.
We came up and I saw the burning edges of the sunset over the crest of the mountain. And passed out.
_________________________________________________________________________________
There was one more chapter to my pain. I left Siloam perfect. My memories there, perfect. And they needed to be rewritten into reality.
I prayed extensively beforehand, knowing that I was to be watched and knowing I would face questions.
Lord, What do I say? How am I to be gracious? How am I to speak the truth? With what words do I fill my mouth?
Then came the moment when I fully grasped it: No matter what I say, no matter what I do, others will believe what they will believe. I cannot make for myself my reputation. It is the Lord who writes my name.
Therefore, whether it makes me look weak or undone, I will speak the truth. I will speak the truth with deep humility and without shame. "The Lord has dealt with me."
In Siloam, I learned of more betrayal, of secrecy, of broken, broken journeys, and of pain.
I was left with nothing but compassion and a deep ache, knowing of self-destructive bonds forged out of ignorance. You know not what you are doing, but it is your journey. Not mine.
To my supervisors, professors, and friends, I told the truth of my current state and of my own journey. Never have I been not more open but more raw or present in my answers. Never have I been less lovely.
And yet, and yet, the Lord was seen. In the wreck that is my body and my life, the ones who know me spoke over me favor. I, who have sought my whole life for that favor and respect; I, who have twisted myself mangled to achieve honor; I, who have always fallen short of what I wanted, am only to receive it now, when I am the least deserving of the words I once fought so hard to win.
Then, I walked away and didn't look back. I did not get my closure. I did not seek my closure. I chose my closure. I chose to walk alone and allow The Lord to do his own work without me putsing about in somebody else's path.
Muted by pain and so present in my pain, but I am so thankful.
My future husband and children and friends will bless, bless, bless these past four months. I myself will bless these past four months.
I am changed, told I even look it.
My story is not my own. The Lord has closed my journal and opened a new book, writing my pathway with blood and tears and truth.
I am home, but I am not better yet, and that is difficult for me to accept. However, a whooped boxer doesn't spritz away dainty after his rounds. He is taken out of the ring, cradled away, and nursed back into battle mode.
I have been taken out of my ring. I have been cradled. And now, I just need time to heal.
At the end of the day: Jesus.
At the end of the day: soundness of mind, right alignment of body and spirit, grace, humility, forgiveness, love, compassion, shameless truth, and the deep recognition and value of friendship and of being human.
At the end of the day: hope.
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