Category Archives: both/and

Blessing My Small Self

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Lord, wash me not of my imperfections, but of the ways I try to hide them.

Four-days-unwashed hair.

Running late, always running, always late.

Hoping no one finds out how infrequently I launder the bedsheets.

I never before thought of blessing these things. Now I see them in need of blessing, of integration.

The voices of emotion.

The voice of smallness.

The voice of vulnerability.

The voice of longing.

Christine Valters Paintner writes, “Sometimes we need to welcome our ‘small selves’—the poor, meek, humble parts of ourselves—to allow our big radiant selves to be in service to them … Perhaps there is something even more profound than all of the amazing things we are doing in the world. It is this simple unadorned self that is blessed. The smaller selves are blessed.” (The Artist’s Rule, pg. 87)

The wisdom of these smaller selves is the wisdom of being human, of being malleable, of being unpolished and beautiful.

I want to make peace with my shadow side, my imperfections. I feel in conflict with myself, like half of me is inside a fortress, and half of me is huddled against the outside walls—like all of me is afraid.

Interior freedom feels like being present with myself, like saying “not today” to crappy thoughts. It feels literally spacious, permission to take up more room with my body and breath. Is there room to make mistakes? I feel small when I think about making mistakes.

In Celtic spirituality, “thin places” refers to locations or times where the veil between the physical and spiritual realms seems thin, where a closer connection to the divine arrives, perhaps unexpected. It is possible that no one else wants my small self, but God does. He meets me in the moments when I am aware of a limitation, a failing, a smallness. Maybe these moments are another “thin place.”

I notice that my sense of self is rigid, even brittle. Can I reimagine myself? Fleshy, muscular, vulnerable, more cottage than castle, more field than fortress.

I am meadow. No meadow has walls. No meadow tries to look the same every day. A meadow doesn’t look at its thin patches with embarrassment.

My whole heart longs for grace and mercy. I want to mete out mercy, because it is the right thing to do. But I’m not sure mercy can be “meted.” It is given out not so much in measure as in waves. It is oceanic, much bigger than I realize.

I am meadow, and in meadows deer graze, butterflies drink, shy rabbits and tiny mice feel at home. “Welcome home to myself,” I say.

My big self sets the table for my small self, and together we dine in the meadow.

Dear God, I’m Annoyed

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Dear God,

Do you receive enough letters every year to bury planet earth a mile deep in stamped and postmarked comments to the divine? Is there a team who helps you read them? Do you throw out letters that are too pious—or too irreverent? If a parcel comes to you “postage due”, do you pay the balance or return to sender? How many angels do you deploy every year in response to mail from earth? Do you keep statistics on what subjects are trending? Do letters from different parts of the earth have a distinct smell? Well, enough about that. I actually have a purpose for this letter.

I’m annoyed that using your name is so complicated. If I say I believe in you—whatever that means—I want to tell my story, not get coopted into someone else’s story. I’m scared of their assumptions and experiences. Does belief in God mean an agenda of fighting atheism? Evangelizing 3rd-world countries? Pro-life marches? Does belief in God mean you made the world, or that you died for our sins, or that you’re making some sort of “new heaven”?

Next time someone tells me they’re a Christian, does it mean they go to church but don’t pray? Or that they pray but don’t go to church? Does it mean they think you cause human pain, or relieve human pain, or both? Are you male or female? Do you live in humans or in heaven? How are you deciding when and how to make the earth new? Are you many, or one, or three-in-one? Is your love soft or hard? Do you ever feel afraid?

I guess my point is that, for my own comfort, I want you to be small. I don’t appreciate the need to explain what kind of Christian I am—if I say I’m a Christian—or that I have to explain what mysticism is if I say I’m a mystic, or that my swearing puts some people at ease and sets others on edge. And both responses to swearing feel somehow related to you—like we’re all basing our lives on you, whether we mean to or not, and we’re all uncomfortable with the fact that you remain shrouded in mystery. I’ve ceased to believe you have an agenda, but for some, an agenda is inherent in the word “Christian.”

Truthfully, I don’t want you to do anything about this. I just need to vent. Do you see how annoying the situation can be? The way you draw people together in a singular way and also divide folks violently? The way you bring us to peace with ourselves and offer us the most startling awareness of our love-less parts? Do you see how I experience you differently than the person next to me, and sometimes we admire each others’ representations of you, and sometimes despise them?

I find myself trying to assure some folks I’m not “that” right-wing Christian, and trying to assure other folks I’m not “that” far-left kind of Christian. I want people’s favor and I want yours and it’s all terribly messy and I blame you.

But, in conclusion, I admit it’s best for you to be slippery, mysterious, and surprising. Thank you for connecting with each of us in your own way without a thought of being consistent, following the rules, or managing outcomes. Your flagrant freedom in relationship to humans reminds me that I, too, have the freedom to look a little different to every person who knows me. Like you, we humans can be slippery, mysterious and surprising, and we need permission to embrace these traits in our relationships.

I’ll let you get back to that mountain of letters. And I don’t have the patience for snail-mail, so if you want to answer me, please send a text message.

Cordially,

Tobi

Two New Holes

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Shortly after my May birthday last spring, I acquired two new holes in my body. I had my ears pierced.

One aspect of the conservative Christianity I grew up in is an aversion to body piercings. And tattoos, lipstick, and clothing that reveals feminine curves. When I left home as a I teen, I bought a padded bra, colored my hair with a box of dye from Walmart, and called it good for my rebellion. As a young adult I said I didn’t want to pierce my ears or get a tattoo because I have a low pain tolerance. Also, I faint for vaccinations, blood draws, and if I hit my knee or elbow too hard. (I fainted at the dentist once, and I fainted when I went to the college clinic to get a wart removed from my foot. The nurse sent me to Walmart to buy the kind of wart remover you paint on yourself.)

Why this sudden body piercing urge, you might ask, as I’m nearing the age of 40?

Last year, my nine-year-old daughter Kyli decided she wanted to get her ears pierced. “Why don’t you have your ears pierced, Mom?” she asked.

“I don’t know. I don’t like pain.”

“Well, if you really wanted them pierced you would do it,” she countered.

Point taken. So I thought about it. I hoped quiet reflection might reveal something profound, but my reasons were a grab-bag—it hurts, most of my friends don’t wear earrings, it feels weird to do it now that I’m middle-aged, it seems unnatural to poke a hole in my body (morality aside), my parents won’t like it, and so on. Like I said, random, blah, blah, blah.

So I decided to give it a shot, get my ears pierced with Kyli, and see if I like wearing earrings. Rather than take the lead because of lived experience—my usual role as mother—I had the same questions, concerns and curiosities as Kyli. We’d be figuring this one out together.

We waited for the school year to finish since the kids attend a Christian school that doesn’t allow earrings (or colored nail polish—go figure). Kyli wanted to get earrings the moment school let out, so we made appointments at Ulta Beauty for 1pm on May 31st—one hour after school dismissal on the last day of the school year. We snagged Kyli’s bestie, got a bite to eat, and drove to the salon. Inside, past the rows of creams and powders and scents, we found a plump young lady ready to pierce our ears.

I signed the thing they handed me—a waiver?—while Kyli picked out studs. Her bestie pinched her arm hard to show her how much it would hurt. The plump lady drew dots on Kyli’s earlobes, asked us to examine them and approve the placement, then inserted a stud in a white hand-gun. Punch!—right ear done. Kyli’s eyes were wide, a combination of curiosity and alarm, as she took in the experience and tried to categorize it. Painful? Scary? No big deal? Before she could settle an answer, punch!—left ear done.

For the next minute, Kyli’s hands hovered around her ears, her instinct to squeeze them through the discomfort, at odds with her determination not to touch. I watched, ready to comfort. But I wasn’t needed. Bestie dragged her around the store, applying makeup until Kyli’s face was caked with several shades of foundation and blush and her fears forgotten.

Meanwhile, I warned the employee holding the ear-piercing gun that I’m a fainter. Judging by her look of alarm, I guessed she didn’t have a lot of experience with people fainting—either that or she had a memorably bad experience. “I’ll know if I’m going to faint, and I’ll tell you,” I assured her. She proceeded to draw dots on my ears, punch, punch, voilà! Little silver hearts rested on my earlobes. During those thirty seconds, I felt the same wide-eyed, uncertain curiosity Kyli’s face had conveyed, but when it was all over, decided the pain wasn’t worth mentioning. We took pictures, documenting this mother-daughter experience trying something new together.

All summer we cleaned around our earrings, front and back—twice a day at first, then less often. We cleaned them after showers, after swimming, after getting dirty in the yard. We twisted them around in the holes as we had been instructed, and left them in 24/7.

At first, earrings were more unnerving than I expected. It felt wrong to intentionally punch a hole in my body and take special care of it to keep it that way. Usually when I cut through my skin and flesh, I tend it carefully to facilitate healing. This was different. Also, for the first month or two, I felt slightly anxious about having something attached to my body that I couldn’t take off. When I went to bed and took off my watch and glasses, I wanted to put the earrings on my nightstand too. I wanted to take them out so my body could be just my body. During the night, I tried different positions with my pillow to put the least pressure on my earlobes.

After the prescribed six weeks, I hesitated to remove my earrings since they still oozed or bled occasionally. Kyli, tired of waiting to wear a favorite pair of earrings, took out the original studs and sported cute, sparkly flowers for a day. This joyous occasion deteriorated when I couldn’t find the right hole to get the original studs back in her ear. I had erroneously thought a hole was a hole, but the tip of the earring took it’s own course through the fleshy part of Kyli’s earlobe and came out the back in a different place!

Blood, tears, and parental concern and confusion ensued. We survived this try-to-find-the-right-hole circus two or three times over the next week, and eventually Kyli’s left ear was so unhappy she let it heal shut. When school began again in August, she wore a tiny clear stud in her right ear—which still oozed and bled sometimes. She didn’t want to remove that one, but also refused to get her left ear pierced again. We were deadlocked in pirate mode.

The first pair of earrings I bought came from a rock-and-mineral shop in a falling-apart historic building we stumbled across during a bathroom break on a road trip. They’re tiger’s-eye stones. I nearly passed out when I first put them in, but after lying on the bathroom floor and breathing deeply for a minute—usually an effective method to maintain consciousness—I returned to normal.

At this point, I’ve probably had as much fun buying earrings as wearing them. For more than six months, I didn’t leave my earrings out any longer than an hour—the holes still appeared tenuous. Either the original studs or one of my half-dozen new pairs of earrings stayed in my ears at all times. At last, a month or two ago, I slept truly naked for the first time. It felt good as good as I imagined.

In a few months, it will be a year since we pierced our ears. During that time, Kyli’s right ear developed big scabs and pus came out when I cleaned it, over and over, so a few weeks ago she took out the clear stud. It’s healing now, and she’s done with earrings for the time being. Meanwhile, I’m growing into the fun of it. My sister gave me a beautiful pair of iridescent hummingbird earrings for Christmas. Michael gave me a pair of book earrings for Valentines Day—I’d been looking and found surprisingly few options, and these are adorable tiny blue books with real pages. I wore them to the library this week, and felt that same satisfaction I get when my bra and underwear match—a covert sense of matching.

So, friend, if you’re forty-ish and thinking about earrings, here’s what I’ve learned: It’s a small adventure, and hey, maybe that’s what makes it fun. These years lean low on adventure—outside of parenting. And come to think of it, this adventure was tangentially brought to me by parenting—two new holes, the result of a question from my daughter.

How about you—any new holes in your life? Or body?

What Version of Me Belongs?

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I have chosen between attachment and authenticity a thousand times at least.

What do I mean by this?

I’ll loosely define attachment as a healthy sense of relational connection and belonging. And let’s think of authenticity as the ability to know ourselves and show up in the fullness of who we are, including the little quirks and details.

The choice between attachment and authenticity occurs when we must—or perceive we must—choose one of the two. For example, let’s say you’ve made a new acquaintance and you’re arriving at her house for the first time, with a plan to chat over a cup of tea. You might feel a little anxious, not knowing whether this will be awkward, and wondering about the future of your friendship. When you step in the door, your friend offers to take your coat. You’d rather leave it on until you warm up a bit, but instead you take it off and she whisks it away to a side room. Then she offers you scones, which are obviously hot from the oven and smell delicious. You accept and then notice there are raisins in them. You don’t like raisins. But rather than pick them out, you decide to eat them. In these moments, you are choosing attachment over authenticity. Sharing your preferences feels risky for the relationship, so you keep them to yourself.

Often, as in the above examples, we base our decision not on reality (you have no idea whether your friend would be offended by you picking out the raisins), but on a perception of what would best maintain your attachment—your relational connection—in the moment.

Let’s think about scenarios where the stakes are higher. A teen might have to choose between the authenticity of letting their parents know they’re transgender, or preserving attachment by not sharing that information. A pastor may have to choose between authentically and vulnerably requesting help for an addiction, or maintaining his position and his church relationships—his connection and belonging—because he knows he cannot have both. A person may choose to have sex with their partner because it’s easier to do what they don’t really want to do than it is to say the vulnerable truth and deal with the possible fallout of disconnection.

As children, and even as infants, when presented with a choice between authenticity and attachment, we choose attachment. Our survival depends on it. As we become adults, our circle of resources widens, and our options become more diverse. We don’t have to choose attachment over authenticity every time. Still, there is an element of risk to authenticity, and we weigh this consciously or subconsciously every day.

One of the most challenging environments to navigate this dynamic is religious circles—which in my case extend to my children’s private education, friends past and present, my readers, and even neighbors. Church seems a strange place to make a choice between belonging or being myself, yet I have felt it often there. Christians say, “Come as you are.” But I don’t think we meant it. Or, we mean it with a tag-on—“Come as you are, when you’re ready to change that to be like us.”

I have believed I can’t be me, because whatever improved version of me God has in mind is better than the current version of me—“sinful and selfish” me. Somehow being myself means heresy. I can’t be true to myself and to God at the same time. You know, something about “a house divided,” or how man’s thoughts are “evil continually.”

These days, I’m not sure I belong in church. But it doesn’t matter like it used to. I belong in myself, and that is sweet relief. I belong in the living room of God, who has become both mother and father to me. I am bonded spiritually, and it’s the safest place I’ve found yet to excavate and inhabit my authentic self.

God doesn’t ask Her children to choose between attachment and authenticity. Belonging is a foregone conclusion, and God’s favorite pastime might be holding your hand as you get acquainted with your authentic self. I think God emits joy-sparkles when He gets to witness you noticing yourself and connecting with the fun, complex, messed up, whole and holy person that you are.

Wherever attachment and authenticity occur together is sacred. These holy spaces may be inside us, in marriage or friendship, in nature or a good book. I’ve discovered that in settling into my own self, I can hold the paradox that I am okay and I am not okay. And it turns out God is way bigger than they said She was.

My understanding of these concepts leans heavily on Gabor Maté and Krispin Mayfield. Many thanks to them both for acquainting me with my own inner safety.

P.S. I posted an update today about trauma-informed writing groups. Check it out here.

Am I Delaying Jesus’ Coming?

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I may be impeding the second coming of the Messiah.

Let me explain.

As I embrace spiritual uncertainty, my Christian denomination is included in that uncertainty. My faith group of origin—and current community—is Seventh-Day Adventist (SDA), but I refer to myself as “badventist” to portray the distance I feel from the doctrines I signed my name to uphold more than 30 years ago.

The name “Seventh-Day Adventist” incorporates two of the church’s most precious truths: we rest and worship on the seventh day of the week, and we believe in the soon second coming, or “advent,” of Jesus Christ. According to SDA’s, biblical interpretation of Scripture predicts a worldwide decline before Jesus descends from “heaven” and carries away the saints—including those who resurrect upon His arrival. After that we sit around for 1,000 years, Earth incinerates, then gets made new, and we move back in. (Disclaimer: this is what my brain recalls of our church’s teaching. The well-studied may find errors.)

This pre-second-coming world decline involves an increase in “knowledge,” natural disasters, merrymaking, Antichrist, and moral decline. Many SDA’s also believe that every person in the world must hear the gospel of Jesus Christ before the second coming—hence, a focus on evangelism. Missionaries travel all over the world to tell people about Jesus and undertake projects like translating the Bible into local language.

In this worldview of planet-decline-followed-by-destruction, it can be considered wasteful to invest too much in taking care of the planet—I remember a sermon titled, “It’s All Gonna Burn.” Wouldn’t it also be wasteful, then, to care for people without telling them about Jesus? If they’re happy and healthy but don’t know about Jesus, they’ll go to hell happy and healthy. Not much “eternal value” there. (Although SDA’s don’t ascribe to an eternally burning hell, just a quick fiery death.)

At the time of this writing, I find myself on a quest to help people without telling them about Jesus, and it looks like this: I believe writing is healing, speaking and hearing our stories is healing, and in marrying those two healing forces, my desire is to guide small groups in writing together and reading aloud our writing. The goal is to create space for marginalized people (which is all of us, at times) to have a voice, to own our stories, and to find wholeness in the process. The goal is not to introduce people to Jesus. So, am I delaying the second coming, heaven, and the world made new?

When I was a kid, we had neighbors up the road who believed in God, but—I was shocked to find out—believed the world would gradually get better and better, instead of worse and worse. A google search informs me their belief may be called postmillennialism, in which Jesus essentially will return to a saved earth. This almost makes more sense to me.

It sounds like the SDA view is suggesting that the more people who know Jesus, the worse off the world becomes. Doesn’t that seem odd? Spread the gospel everywhere, and once everyone has heard about Jesus the Earth will be in the worst shape it’s ever been. Jesus will then swoop in to save the righteous few and burn up the rest. I’m having doubts about how all this will go down.

For the time being, I mostly leave the destiny of the world in God’s hands—surprise me. I don’t need to know. Anyway, humans have a pathetic track record when it comes to predicting the future—even from intensive study of Scripture.

Having said all that, I still experience a nagging feeling that it’s “wrong” to help people without telling them about Jesus. Am I delaying the glorious new earth by helping people get healthier and not introducing them to Jesus? Shouldn’t I introduce them while they’re acutely aware of their need of a Savior? Once they get healthy they might be less motivated to “convert.”

In all honesty, I’m not firmly settled on the question—or the answer. But I am sure about setting this aside, for now. God partners with me—or I partner with Her—to relieve suffering. If I’ve missed the mark by excluding overtly religious material from my writing group curriculum, I have complete confidence in God to point me in a new direction.

Who knows, maybe we’re all invited to make this world a better place in order to set the stage for the return of our Beloved.

In Five or Six Hours the House Will Be Quiet

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I’m not okay. This is how I know it’s time to write.

I’m sitting in the kids’ room by the fire I lit for them—my attempt to dote on them since they stayed home from school today.

Sore throat again this morning—it has been almost daily for weeks with my younger daughter, Kyli. The older one, Kayt, said probably nothing is wrong with her but she doesn’t want to go to school. Middle school “friendship” has been sucking the life out of her. I can’t help but wonder if her chronic exhaustion and headaches are as much social as they are physical.

I shone a flashlight down two throats this morning. Kyli’s looked red, and Kayt’s had a weird white blob that dr. google says is a tonsil stone. Never heard of those before.

By the time I sit down to write, it’s midafternoon. Homework time downstairs has devolved. My stomach clenches in response to unharmonious sounds, insufficiently diminished by their travel up the stairs to my ears.

Now Kayt has come upstairs to whine and writhe. Technically she came up to say Kyli is bugging her and won’t stop. Since I made clear arrangements for Kyli to come upstairs if they weren’t enjoying sitting together, I feel a gallon of frustration and a drop of empathy. So I tell her to send Kyli upstairs, and that’s why she’s begging, moaning, and asking unanswerable questions in a nails-on-chalkboard tone of voice. She has a weird thing about not being alone.

At 7:15 this morning, when I usually would have been seeing the girls off to the bus, instead I set up appointments at the urgent care center. This change in schedule involved calling the bus driver and texting, let’s see,—their teacher, my yoga instructor, my husband, and several people I had plans with later in the day.

Did I mention the power outage? Just got yet another automated call from the power company. I have an outage that should be restored by 4:30pm, says the message. The power has already been back on for half an hour, and it’s currently 3:30. Not to mention just a few minutes ago I received an automated call informing me that the outage was caused by wildlife (read “squirrel”), and my power had been restored.

I think I’ve received five automated calls, including one that announced an outage had been reported in my area and a truck had been dispatched. Yes, I’m aware. I reported the outage when an explosive BANG and corresponding flash of light outside the dining room window resulted in all powered devices in our home going blank.

My husband is in Denver for work.

My sister is home with a sick kid as well.

My younger daughter made a “fun cutting station” on the floor in her room, where folks can experience the satisfaction of cutting various materials—like blue yarn (now in pieces all over the floor), tiny foam squares, a rubber armband (okay, that actually is super satisfying), and a plastic packing sleeve.

On the kitchen counter downstairs is a bowl of homemade slime that looks like a hot-pink pile of animal intestines. The dining table is covered with rubber stamps and paper, ink pads and embossing supplies, dirty dishes, purple slime, saltines, and homework.

Finally. I breathe. Here’s a moment of peace. Kyli is taking a break from homework, so I allow Kayt to study upstairs with me.

Kyli is quietly making a creature out of air-dry clay (a substance which already covers a significant portion of the bathroom counter due to a previous creative session this morning).

I don’t like the multiplying messes.

Sibling snarkyness nauseates me.

Most of my day has born no resemblance to the Wednesday I thought would unfold when I opened my eyes this morning.

But I ran on the treadmill and took a shower this morning, and in an unplanned burst of self-care I even dried and straightened my hair, and put in earrings. I’m sitting here by the fire, cat on the hearth, journaling. I did a marvelous breathing meditation from The Artist’s Rule, and I laughed with my girls.

After our visit to urgent care, we went to school and picked up homework (the current quarter ends in two days and there is a small state of panic about grades). Then we filled the car with gas for “real low cheap”* at the station near the school, stopped at Walmart for grocery pickup, and came home for the whole slime-making, lunch-eating, power-outage bonanza, followed by the Sibling Homework Crisis of 2024.

So I’m not okay.

But also I am.

Because it’s okay to not be okay.

And I’m grateful my kids don’t have strep, and … this just in: Kyli is cutting a stick of gum into pieces, holding the scissors above her mouth so each piece drops in … back to gratitude—for the fire warming my feet, for furry and purry kitties, for a relatively small pile of dishes in the kitchen sink. I haven’t yelled at my kids, and I have listened to them. I’m going out with girlfriends this evening.

And—bless Mother God—in five or six hours we’ll (fingers crossed) be tucked in bed and the house will. be. quiet.

*If you want to acquaint yourself with the phrase “real low cheap,” watch this.

I Am Going to Start Living

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I Am Going to Start Living

I am going to start living like a monk,
though I have no brown robe or penis.
What I have is a love of silence.
“Be still,” You say
and I am moved.
You have seen straight through me.
You have revealed my desire
and answered it with abundance.
It is enough to hold hands in the silence.

I am going to start living like an artist—
comfortable clothes,
maybe a paint smudge here and there.
I will print my soul on paper,
allow it to be read.
I will notice the way leaves grow
and petals fall,
and I will study the delicacy
of a spider’s web
and the beauty of a human hand.
And You will be nudging me and pointing,
for always there is more wonder.

I am going to start living like a mystic
disguised as a mom.
The paradox of my children’s sass
is the perfect—daily—invitation
to discard right answers.
As I haul a bag of right answers
to the trash bin by the garage,
I smell how clean the air is,
and I hope when I return to the kitchen
the kids will smell it too—
life-giving molecules
dancing all around us.


Thanks to Christine Valters Paintner for the writing prompt that set me to writing this poem—from her book The Artist’s Rule.

I Tried Yoga. What Next?

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I sat on a yoga mat with the soles of my feet together in front of me, knees out to the sides. A feeling of connection and calm came over me. I had done this stretch many times and was surprised by the whole-body comfort. Rather than fighting against my body to force more flexibility, yoga taught me to work with my body. My bare feet pressed against each other, the stretch invited me to feel the muscles deep in my legs, and my spirit rested. I felt that I belonged to myself.

My exposure to yoga began in childhood, when my conservative Christian parents—who nevertheless had a habit of blazing their own way—bought a Bikram Choudhury yoga book. I loved watching my dad grunt his way into different poses—Eagle Pose, Tree Pose, Standing Bow Pulling Pose. My older sister and I would show off our youthful elasticity, easily getting into positions that our parents forced and contorted themselves into.

The Bikram’s Beginning Yoga Class book had funny cartoon illustrations, along with actual photographs of Bikram and his students—mostly leotard-clad, flat-bellied women. Bikram wore exceptionally small speedo-swimsuit-style briefs that left little to the imagination. The photos, taken during one of his Hatha Yoga classes in Beverly Hills in the 70’s, often show him steadying one of the willowy women, his face expressionless, a hand on her arm or leg.

In the 90’s, Christians—if I may generalize—spoke spitefully (or was it fearfully?) of “New Age” thinking. I’m not sure at what level I was aware that yoga made the naughty-new-age list, but the grunting and body-folding in our living room felt pretty safe to me. Any misgivings I may have had about yoga and its gateway-drug-to-eastern-religion qualities vanished sometime in my 20’s, and I accepted yoga as a healthy and legitimate practice. But until this year, I had never tried it as an adult. My time on a yoga mat typically involved sweating through lunges, burpees, and sit-ups, and those workouts were rare.

Last year, my friend Tiffaney started a yoga class with another young woman, in the fellowship room of a local church. It’s not called yoga class, because yoga is still associated with Eastern meditation, which allows evil spirits to inhabit you … or something. My sister, who is generally underwhelmed by the threat of evil spirits, has been doing yoga for years. She attended Tiffaney’s class, and around the time she mentioned it to me, Tiffaney invited me again.

So I came on a Thursday morning, late, and joined half a dozen barefoot women on yoga mats in the church basement. It didn’t take long to settle in to the quiet music and Tiffaney’s gentle voice, guiding me to breathe and stretch and count, hold and release. My body awakened, something like the expanding I feel when I step outside and take a deep breath after a rainy downpour. I felt invited to notice myself. I felt pleasure in the strength of my body, and deep release as I stretched muscle groups from head to toe. By the time I wiped down my mat at the end of class, I knew I’d be back.

Not long after my first yoga class, the group adjourned for summer. Around that time, I got a call from the local senior center, thanking me for a recent donation, and inviting me to join their yoga class. I arrived with some trepidation, expecting to be at least three decades younger than all the participants, but—in addition to the women in their 70’s and 80’s—a little girl probably three decades younger than me also attended.

“Hi,” I smiled. “I thought I was gonna be the youngest person here.” She smiled back politely but looked at me like I was about as easy to relate to as all the other strange old ladies. I laid my yoga mat down next to hers in the corner of the small, carpeted room, and a short, plump woman in her seventies began rolling her shoulders and inviting us to do the same—seven times forward, seven times back. As class progressed, I watched with respect as the circle of participants made their way through the stretches. Some were more flexible than me. Others adapted as needed for stiff joints or chronic pain. The little girl flailed and flopped in boredom, and I guessed she would have preferred her grandma took her somewhere other than yoga class.

Over the summer, I returned to the senior center whenever I had the time for Monday morning yoga. The teacher talked about opening my heart chakra, getting my synovial (joint) fluids moving, and keeping my arms against my head like ear muffs while stretching side to side. Rather than ending class with a Bible verse, she read a “thought of the day,” put her hands in prayer position, and said, “Namaste.” Five years ago that might have freaked me out, but after reading a couple of books on mysticism, and learning that “Namaste” is usually interpreted as, “the divine in me greets the divine in you,” I heartily embrace it.

There’s a wholeness to expansion and contraction. Rather than using my muscles only to hold body weight, dumbbells, or weird positions, I am invited to breathe deep and allow them to relax into the release of breath. There is safety in the guidance of a gentle voice. I don’t have to make decisions, or brace against a fitness pep talk. Rather, the teacher leads me in getting to know my body, feel my strength and my heaviness, and notice my capacity to loosen and lighten. This safety and wholeness is akin to what I feel with God, and I am delighted that it is built into my breath and my body.

Before I tried yoga, I thought it consisted of fancy stretching. Now yoga ranks among my top five bodily experiences. As I drove home from class at the senior center a couple weeks ago, I noticed that I sat taller, my muscles working together to hold me in a healthy posture. At the same time, I felt completely relaxed. Before yoga, I believed muscle tension and relaxation were mutually exclusive, but I have discovered they can coexist, and that opens a whole world of possibilities. Could a similar tension and relaxation also coexist in my spirit?

Since I’ve done yoga and remain uninhabited by evil spirits, next I’m planning to try meditation. Perhaps meditation is where the tension and peace in my spirit become friendly with each other. I aim to find out.

In the meantime, Namaste.

But Jesus Said

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Last fall I (shockingly) found something on Facebook I don’t agree with. As I scrolled through the first dozen posts on my feed, this graphic appeared at least three times.

Obviously it resonated with many of my friends and family. But, when I read it, I felt small, mute, powerless. I felt called to misery as my spiritual inheritance. I felt afraid of myself.

Then I thought, two can play at this game. You throw Bible verses at me, I’ll throw some back at you. (Side note: I’m working on being less defensive.)

#1) Jesus didn’t say, “Follow your heart.”

No, but He made my heart, and He likes to spend time there. My heart is where the physical and the spiritual meet—like the exchange of oxygen in my lungs, passing from air to blood, life-giving mystery. If I try to separate from myself, I end up separating from God. He is the substance of which I am made.

Jesus said to His Father, “I do not pray for these alone, but also for those who will believe in Me through their word; that they all may be one, as You, Father, are in Me, and I in You; that they also may be one in Us.” (John 17:20-21a, NKJV, emphasis added)

#2) Jesus didn’t say, “Be true to yourself.”

No, but He did say, “Every kingdom divided against itself is brought to desolation, and every city or house divided against itself will not stand.” (Matthew 12:25b, NKJV)

#3) Jesus didn’t say, “Believe in yourself.”

No, but He did tell this parable: “Suppose a woman has ten silver coins and loses one. Doesn’t she light a lamp, sweep the house and search carefully until she finds it? And when she finds it, she calls her friends and neighbors together and says, ‘Rejoice with me; I have found my lost coin.’” (Luke 15:8-9, NIV)

This is a woman who believes in herself. She doesn’t blame the kids for losing her coin, or berate herself. She takes action. She lights a lamp, sweeps the house, and looks carefully until she finds the coin. When she finds it, she doesn’t breathe a sigh of relief that no one found out how irresponsible she was to lose it. On the contrary, it appears she’s okay with mistakes and disappointments. When she finds the coin, she calls her friends and neighbors to rejoice. She knows that she belongs and that her triumphs are worth celebrating—not because she has done something extraordinary, but because she has showed up for the ordinary.

#4) Jesus didn’t say, “Live your truth.”

No, but He did make me different from everyone else. JJ Heller sings, “Maybe the best thing I can be is me.” I’m not Jesus, or Paul, or Ruth. I’m not the foster-mom, or the guy who evangelizes with fresh-baked bread. I’m not the one who remembers everyone’s name and their mother-in-law’s name. My home isn’t a clean and peaceful space people flock to. But I do create safe spaces for people to talk and grapple and say life is shitty. I do text friends when I’m thinking of them, and sporadically send cards in the mail. I ask questions and deliver coffee and buy birthday gifts.

I write bravely, and sometimes the person who reads feels seen. My truth is the truth I know because I’ve lived it and it’s deep in my bones. It is these deepest parts of me that touch the divine.

Jesus said, “For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son, that whoever believes in Him should not perish but have everlasting life. For God did not send His Son into the world to condemn the world, but that the world through Him might be saved.” (John 3:16-17, NKJV)

God didn’t come into the world to overshadow me or indict me, but to preserve and liberate me.

#5) Jesus didn’t say, “As long as you are happy…”

No, but He did say, “I have come that [my sheep] may have life, and that they may have it more abundantly. I am the good shepherd. The good shepherd gives His life for the sheep.” (John 10:10b-11, NKJV)

Jesus didn’t suggest that we sacrifice everything on the altar of happiness, but neither did He suggest that we pursue misery. He made us with taste buds and penises and clitorises, and He made a world bursting with taste and touch and life. He metes it out neither according to merit nor in submission to scarcity, but in wild abundance.

“Happy are the people whose God is the Lord!” (Psalm 144:15b, NKJV)

Prayer, Revised and Expanded

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My journal takes me back in time. September 25, 2015. Thirty years old. Married ten years. Two daughters—Kyli two months past her first birthday, and Kayt a month shy of her third. That means on the day I wrote this prayer I had a one-year-old and a two-year-old. No surprise that “broken,” “scared,” “no match,” and “tired” feature in this heart-cry, penned during a rare stolen moment. My heart bled out through the ink of my pen. I turned to the page and to my heavenly parent, because together they were the safest place I knew.

April 17, 2024. Thirty-eight years old. Married 18 years. Kyli and Kayt are now 9 and 11. We’re deeply settled into the house we were in the process of purchasing in 2015. And I’m writing, which I now realize is not only a safe place for me, but also a creative passion.

Today I’ll respond to myself in this prayer. A spiritual journey is a both/and experience, dense with contrast and contradiction. And so today maybe I disagree with my thirty-year-old self, but my experience and beliefs then were as valid as my experience and beliefs now.

Truthfully, I haven’t been writing spiritual content much recently. I’m weary of cultural Christian ideas, the sin-and-salvation language, the beliefs that tied my hands behind my back. But set all that aside, and there is a friendship. Prayer is a celebration of friendship.

Good morning, Lord.

I am in a place I know You do not intend for me to be. I’m literally sick with worry. I can’t stop my head from spinning and my heart from panicking. Please speak truth to my heart and save me from myself.

You can be in this place. It’s okay to not be okay. You won’t feel this way forever. And yes, keep believing there are better things ahead. You are held.

I believe the solution is walking with You, but I can’t even do that. I am so broken, so scared, so selfish. Please do it for me, Lord. Take my heart, take my marriage, take my parenting, take my responsibilities at church and book group and other places, take the move to the new house, take meal planning and grocery shopping, take the lies that cripple me. Take my heart of stone and replace it with a heart of flesh.

What does it look like to “walk with God”? You are beautiful and your life is beautiful. You are worn out. Ask for help. Take medication. Drink coffee. Watch TV shows. Cry. Plan a day for yourself—that is not selfish. Your heart of flesh is already there. And this grieving might be just the thing to help you find it.

I confess my selfishness, my desire for control, my fears, my misbeliefs. They are sin and they do not honor You. Please take them from me. Please fight this fight for me. I am no match for sin, no match for the devil, no match for life.

Overwhelmed, flooded, depressed, alone, trapped. You feel these things deeply. You are stronger than you think, and not as strong as you think. You might have to let get of what you’re holding tight, and holder tighter to the things you’ve been letting go. Don’t know what that means? Don’t fret. God really does have your back, and She’s not the least bit disappointed.

I can do nothing … but isn’t that a good thing? For Your strength is made perfect in weakness [2 Corinthians 12:9]. Please hedge me behind and before and lay your hand upon me [Psalm 139:5]. Please take away my addiction to negative emotions. Teach me to rejoice in Your victory in my life, to give You the glory, to have a heart of thanksgiving.

These things you dream of will happen. You will learn to enjoy feeling happy, to like yourself, to feel gratitude and joy.

Lord, I am lonely. I am broken. I am too self-centered to see the beauty of You and the many good gifts You are showering on me daily. I surrender to You, Lord. Please save me from myself, Lord.

God will save you from yourself by introducing you to your true self. It’s okay to be lonely and broken. You are also brave and kind and capable.

I need time with You daily in prayer and in the Bible but I feel helpless to make that time. Please do it for me.

God loves to spend time with you. She hears you.

Thank You that You see me as I am and love me. I am so tired of myself. I am so grateful that You are not overwhelmed by my brokenness. Thank You that You use brokenness for Your glory. Give me a testimony that will draw others to You. Lord, if I need a mentor, please provide.

Keep speaking these truths. And when you’re too tired to speak them, the Spirit will speak them for you. You don’t need a testimony; you are a testimony. And you always will be.

I am terrified of the day ahead of me. Take this from me, Lord. Give me eyes of faith. Remind my heart to lay everything at Your feet and let You do the heavy lifting. I want to take Your yoke upon me and learn of You, and accept the rest You promise [Matthew 11:29]. I want to be Your servant and friend so that others will be drawn to You.

Oh dear one, these days are so long and so hard. I see you. You can do hard things. And God is teaching you to rest, even now.

Thank You for my brokenness, thank You for trials and difficult times. Thank You that You are enough and everything else is a cherry on top. I choose by the power of Your Spirit to abide in You. Please let me be a branch today. [John 15:4, 5]

Way to go! You are receiving with open hands. But you know, “everything else” is the stuff life is made of, and it’s okay to want it to feel lighter. You are a branch. You are a badass. Many good things are coming for you, and one day you will feel excited about what the day holds. In the meantime, go get some coffee.