Rest Already

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“Rest first.” This is God’s favorite thing to say to me. It’s incredibly irritating. I am terrible at resting, compelled to be a productive and functional human being. But God is provokingly persistent.

“Rest first.”

But I’m too messy to rest.

“Rest first.”

But there’s work to be done.

“Rest first.”

But people need me.

“Rest first.”

But I don’t deserve to rest.

“Rest first.”

But rest makes me feel restless.

“Rest first.”

But what if I get tired and sleep too long?

“Rest first.”

But what if I’m missing something? What if right now is the moment I need to grab what You have for me and hold on tight?

“Rest first.”

At this point I’m out of excuses, so I sit slumped down with arms crossed, pouting.

I have fought God tooth and nail on His invitation to rest first, and His corresponding refusal to “fix” me before I can rest.

In my defense, it’s impossible to rest when I don’t feel safe in my own skin. My journal bears witness to this ongoing struggle.

August 1 - What am I afraid of? Myself. And I think I’m afraid of admitting I’m afraid of myself, because it took me a long time to write that down, and I’m feeling really vulnerable.
September 22 - I wanted to be alone today, but it occurs to me that perhaps I wanted to get away even from myself, and this is hard (read “impossible”) to do. If I’m scared of me, anxiety is inescapable. Even if I get away from people and distract myself with busyness, in the end I’m still with myself.

I have been plagued with fear that I am a liability in life. Every time I fail, or don’t show up how I want to, it seems my fear is confirmed, and I am, in fact, a liability. Fighting this battle, against what I perceive as my own nature, sucks away time and energy like a board meeting. I struggle against my own self, day in and day out. I am a liability. I must protect myself and the people around me from this truth by performing well. Every. Single. Time.

But fighting and performing inevitably fails. I suppose the redeeming feature of failure is that eventually I become willing to consider what God is saying; consider thinking differently; consider rest.

I am allowed to be a mess.

I am allowed to skip out on some work.

I am allowed to take a break from meeting people’s needs.

I am allowed to rest.

I am worthy of rest.

I am not going to miss out on anything.

In her book Braving the Wilderness, Brené Brown uses the phrase, “Strong back. Soft front.” For me, this is a depiction of what it means to have an identity in Christ. I was created by God; I am inhabited by God; I am destined for perfect union with God. This is my strong back. I am not waiting to find out who I am today—to define myself by success or failure. I know who I am.

And today my soft front is three things: 1) love for people—especially my family, 2) grace for myself, and 3) holding things loosely—especially tiredness, fear, sadness, confusion, and loneliness in my marriage. These things are transient, but God and love and grace aren’t going anywhere.

I am able to have a soft front only when I have a strong back. If I have no back, I rely on an exoskeleton of performance to hold me together. But when I have a backbone of awareness that I am loved and righteous, I become soft and able to rest; and after rest, to embrace the person in front of me.

This freedom pokes its way into my consciousness through friendship, quiet time, reading. I write down moments of grace-full thinking and return to them:

“I am beautiful without adding or taking away anything, just like the lilies of the field. I am clothed by God, and my clothing is not distinguishable from me, just like a violet. I am clothed in dignity.”

“I am not a liability.”

“I am learning how to hold myself, receive comfort from God, and receive comfort from people. This is a valuable skill. I have survived without it, but I will thrive with it.”

“I have permission to enjoy my own company. I get to decide how I treat myself.”

Some time ago I wrote reminders to myself on a notecard, including: “I believe God is trustworthy,” and “I believe my husband is trustworthy.” With some trepidation I recently added, “I believe I am trustworthy.” After a lifetime of being told that sinful humans can’t be trusted, believing I am trustworthy may be what returns me to myself. I can be trusted to make decisions, manage my emotions, spend my time. In other words, I can be trusted to be in charge of myself. I am not on trial with God or anyone else, so all of these decisions are simply opportunities to learn. I can be curious about myself—about life—and I can be compassionate with myself.

Earlier this year I really got my panties in a wad, worrying that I wasn’t receiving what God had for me. After months of struggling I admitted things weren’t looking too good and set up an appointment with my counselor, Beth. When I told her I was worried and distracted by wanting God to fix me, and fearful I wasn’t letting Him do what He wanted to do, Beth said, “But you do know how to listen to the Holy Spirit and trust Him.”

After my long struggle I felt it would be necessary to claw my way back to peace and trust. But Beth said it’s just a tweak, a chiropractic adjustment, and I am back in trust with God. And so I journal again, choosing to trust God, and in so doing, to trust myself.

“God with the Welcoming Lap, I leave behind my perfectionist, outcomes-based thinking, and I return to trust. I am fully capable of responding to Your Spirit.”

In Zach Williams’ song, “Fear Is a Liar,” this line arrests me: “…you could be the one that grace could never change.” Despite (or maybe because of) being a lifelong Bible-believing Christian, I fear I could be the one who can get it wrong, miss out, not respond how or when I’m supposed to. This lie has felt so close to truth.

There’s a whole conversation about whether it’s hard to be “saved” or hard to be “lost,” which I’m not going to get into. I will say that believing it’s hard to be saved is a death sentence for a perfectionist. What helps me unclench is knowing “It is finished.” God already did the thing that rescued me. I can go with what He did, instead of what I’m doing. I can agree with Him, instead of my wretched feelings. He says I am righteous. Full stop.

And so I pray: “I leave behind my stubborn fear that I am the one grace could never change. I am capable of trusting You. I am not a helpless victim. I am able to hear You, trust You, and choose You. I am not in need of the right formula, or the right circumstances, or the future version of me that is better than this one. You created me with the ability to choose and to trust. ‘Being good’ was completed by Jesus, and there is nothing left for me to perform.”

Oh, sweet rest, how I longed to fall into your soft pillows, pull up a thick blanket, and be still. And here I am finally, with both feet tucked in, glasses off, curled up around my pillow, almost laughing with joy before I sink into peaceful stillness. Rest.

Desire

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Desire

Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
King of the Universe,
for lust,
alerting us to the depth of our hunger,
and our fear that we are not worthy
of wholeness.

Blessed are You
for addiction,
desire that overtakes us,
hiding us,
for we are afraid to be seen,
naked and ashamed.

Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
King of the Universe,
for becoming flesh,
hungering and thirsting with us,
inviting us to be seen,
and suggesting that we may be satiated—
embraced in the mystery
that Your desire meets ours.

Just A Daughter

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I write assuming a familiarity with the story of the “Prodigal Son.” If you are not familiar with this story, or would like to refresh your memory, it is found in the Bible, Luke 15:11-31. All quotes below are from the New Living Translation.

My sense of identity has wreaked havoc over much of my life. For my first thirty years I had an identity much like the older brother in the story of the “Prodigal Son”:

All these years I’ve slaved for you and never once refused to do a single thing you told me to. And in all that time you never gave me even one young goat for a feast with my friends. Yet when this son of yours comes back after squandering your money on prostitutes, you celebrate by killing the fattened calf!

I was good at being good. I excelled in work and school, often receiving certificates, awards, and promotions. I was valedictorian of my class in high school. In college I received the Washington State Student Employee of the Year Award, and graduated summa cum laude. I always went to bed on time and ate lots of vegetables. I was honest, hard-working, and kind. I married the first man I dated. We read the whole Bible together as well as several dating/marriage books within the first few years of our relationship. I volunteered in dozens of capacities at church and led a women’s small group for ten years. I suppose I was a poster child for “good Christian daughter.”

I don’t recall being angry—as the older brother in the story—but I did feel like the rebellious-turned-religious people always had the better testimonies. They seemed to be alive, to experience God in a way that I didn’t. I was jealous of their stories. For me, the fatted calf was the vibrant life of the converted person. I wanted to be filled with the Holy Spirit, bountiful in His fruit, and though I begged God for this I saw no changes.

The year I turned 30, two things happened: my daughters turned one and three years old, and our family decided to join another family in starting a house church. The combination of navigating the emotional minefield of parenting toddlers, while beginning a ministry that called on me to simply love the people in front of me, called my “goodness” into question. It quickly became apparent that I was short-tempered, controlling, emotionally fragile, and judgmental. As I watched myself fail every day, I quickly took on the identity of the younger brother:

Father, I have sinned against both heaven and you, and I am no longer worthy of being called your son.

I spent nearly six years with this as my constant narrative. I didn’t use those words exactly, but every day I felt worthless and ugly-hearted. Whenever I took a moment to feel my inner world, I invariably cried. All I could see was failure, after failure, after failure. Though I was still the older brother, staying home and working hard, I didn’t hear the voice of the Father:

You are always with me, and all that I have is yours.

Instead I rehearsed the speech of the younger brother: “I am no longer worthy.” This is the identity I received for myself. It is an identity rooted in lies from a foreign land where I am not a citizen. I felt bankrupt, lonely, and no longer good at being good.

There is no joy living in the mansion if in my head I am still reciting the speech of repentance. The younger son in this story was not literally dead or lost. He was breathing and he knew the way home. He was dead and lost because he didn’t know who he was. And while I lived in the Father’s house but didn’t know who I was, I, too, was dead and lost.

It is excruciating to have the identity of the prodigal while living in the Father’s house. I was dead, knowing I “should” be alive; lost, knowing I “should” be found. I felt like a zombie, walking dead in the land of the living. So although I never left home, I needed to look my Father in the face, admit my belief that I was unworthy and had squandered His inheritance, and hear His response (gender changed):

Bring the finest robe in the house and put it on her. Get a ring for her finger and sandals for her feet. And kill the calf we have been fattening. We must celebrate with a feast, for this daughter of mine was dead and has now returned to life. She was lost, but now she is found.

My identity here in my Father’s house is this: a daughter who is alive, found, celebrated, and given authority. I do not slowly earn these things. They are mine yesterday, today, and tomorrow.

Dead daughters say, “Thanks for the nice room, dad. I know I don’t deserve it. I’m still really sorry I wasted your money and disappointed you. I’m gonna work hard to become better today.” What a slap in the Father’s face! When He completely ignored my “I’m not worthy” speech and started a riotous party, that was my clue He’s not expecting recovery before relationship. If I’m still working hard and apologizing a lot, it’s because I didn’t hear what the Father said to me.

Maybe it’s time to realize that between me and God, nothing is lost by my bad behavior. There is nothing to be “made up” to God. When I am with Him, my identity is always that of an unblemished daughter.

I have been the older brother (self-righteous), the younger brother (self-loathing); now it’s time to be just a daughter.

Peace by Presence

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Peace by Presence

Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
King of the Universe,
for turmoil,
propelling me to seek Peace
and treasure it when I find it.

Blessed are You for insisting
You will be present with me,
though You are soiled by association
and condemned
for holding my hand.

Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
King of the Universe,
for showing up
to tell me who I am;
for taking up residence in me
and declaring,
“Peace in this place.”

Photo by İrem Meriç: https://www.pexels.com/photo/couple-sitting-on-brown-wooden-dock-11726374/

In Whose Image?

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Often we see God through who we are, but He’s inviting us to see ourselves through who He is. This is a funny thing, because I see God as judgmental, quick to withdraw, difficult to please, bored with me, hoping I’ll get things right, and tired out by having to deal with me. But God sees me as righteous, holy, treasured child, pearl of great price, a delightful companion, and gracious. He is not waiting for me to be more. He’s showing me I am already all things in Christ.

I have believed I will be loved as long as I don’t cause any stress, trouble or inconvenience for anyone, and therefore my identity revolves around being responsible and having a decent attitude. When I put this on God, here’s what it sounds like: God loves and accepts me if I am responsible and cheerful, and don’t stress, trouble, or inconvenience Him (or any of His children). Although I know that to be a bald-faced lie, I live out of that space, spending nearly all my energy and capacity trying to be good and do the right things. I will sacrifice my family and my own soul to appear above reproach and to have a defensible, “good” life. I have dragged God into this by insisting that His focus be on improving my behavior (which He steadfastly refuses to do), leaving little room for anything else.

As I move from the shack of conditional love to the estate of my trustworthy Papa God, I retrace my steps through a letter to my younger self.

Dear younger self,

I can see why you feel safe only when you are happy and responsible. You make sense. You didn’t have anyone to comfort you or help you process your inner world, so you disregarded your inner world to protect yourself, and your life became all about your outer world.

Control was modeled to you as the only method of security, so you adopted control as a way to manage yourself and the people around you, in order to feel safe. When this stopped working well for you it was very scary. You felt trapped and became depressed and angry. Safety as you knew it had been stripped from you.

You held on the best you knew how, sought help, and grew. You have always been an amazing person. From now on, Papa God’s got you. You are home, and you no longer need to prove or protect yourself.

You will continue to be the courageous, spunky and fun person you have always been, and you have my permission to enjoy yourself and enjoy life.

To life!

Love, Me
September 2022

When I make Him in my image, God can be dark, unpredictable, and hard to please. Fortunately for me, His agenda is to make me in His image. This changes everything. God becomes light, steadfast, and already in favor of me, and I become those things too. His Spirit is in me, inviting me to know in the dark what I have seen in the light, and to live not propelled forward by terror that I am not enough, but anchored in peace that I could not be better.

Alive

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Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the Universe, for breath,
the rise and fall of my chest,
bringing life to my body one moment at a time.
I cannot store up breath,
and breathing out is equally as important as breathing in.

Blessed are You for this gentle infusion of life,
without which I would die,
and yet of which I am hardly aware.
You would think, knowing if I stop breathing I’ll die, that I would obsess over it.
But I trust my mind and body to keep the rise and fall of my chest
and the beat of my heart
and to let me know if anything goes awry.

Perhaps Your Spirit in me is this way.
I don’t need to always be aware of it for it to be always there,
tending Life inside me,
centering me like a deep breath,
spreading life to the very edges of my body
every moment,
gently,
and so faithful that I need not give it a second thought,
except to pause in gratitude that I am inhabited by Life
and this is the Lord’s doing.

Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the Universe,
for the reminder that I can work hard to hold on tight,
or I can remember that You are inhabiting me,
and rest.

Roomy God

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Lord, I’m sorry that when we’re together I put pressure on You to fix me, to give me some transfusion or infusion, or end my confusion.

Maybe I could enjoy You instead of holding You at arms length until You make sense to me.

Maybe it’s ok to be sad and confused about pain and suffering, and to have unsettling “nots”— I do not:
know what to tell my kids about You
feel like I need to “save” people
have a church family or a ministry right now.

Perhaps dropping expectations would make way for curiosity.

What was Your resurrection like? Did the angel who came to Your tomb gently shake your shoulder and say, “It’s time to wake up, Jesus”? When did Your wounds become scars and not gaping holes? When You awoke were Your feet still calloused from walking? Did Your beard still have blood in it?

Maybe letting go of what I thought was important will make way for what is holy, for compassion—a sacred way to approach myself, other people, and the world around me.

What is compassion? Entering into the suffering of another.

Could I have compassion for You, Lord? That feels wrong somehow.

Why would I have compassion for a God who has everything? Oh, but You don’t have everything. You don’t have all Your children. Do You feel just a wee bit empty? Do You suffer?

Curiosity and compassion are roomy.

You are roomy.

Thank You for giving me room—permission to:
enjoy Your company
be sad and confused
ask questions
try on curiosity and compassion.

Truth be told, I don’t need to be fixed as much as I need to be loved. Thank You for always refusing to prioritize my behavior over me, and for enjoying me instead of fixing me.

Photo by Rodolfo Clix: https://www.pexels.com/photo/close-up-photograph-of-person-praying-in-front-lined-candles-1024900/

Invited

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Invited

Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
King of the Universe,
for inviting us
to see ourselves—
in You,
in child and spouse,
friend and stranger.

Blessed are You
for showing us
that whichever way we go
we are held,
and with all our imperfections
we are sacred.

Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
King of the Universe,
for inviting us
into ourselves
and hinting
it may not be
as scary as we thought.

Awe-full Gratitude

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I am over-aware that gratitude is a good idea. I’ve read books, heard the research, and mentored others toward gratitude, but I cannot find my own way to it. This leaves me feeling guilty and incompetent. But when I come out of shame, sometimes I see underlying issues feeding my tendency to be a pessimist, a cynic, a realist. One of these issues is survivor guilt. Every person alive today is susceptible to survivor guilt—a condition of persistent mental and emotional stress experienced by someone who has survived an incident in which others died.1 Our world is an incident in which others die. When I consider my life in comparison to most of the world population, saying I’m grateful somehow comes off as superior. Survival guilt leaves me just shy of getting the words “thank you” out of my mouth.

One morning I ponder this while watching birds out my window—hopping on the neighbor’s roof, sitting on telephone wires, strutting in the street, always fluttering here and there. And God whispers, everyone has the birds.

So then I suppose most everyone has sunrises and sunsets, trees and berry bushes, flowers, animals, stars. Even friendship, love, and the miracle of life. The lines of “lucky” and “unlucky” are not drawn between first-world and third-world countries. In all parts of the world we find sex slaves and starvation, abuse and death. There are Americans in solitary confinement, shut off from most blessings, and Americans confined by busyness, who for years haven’t stopped long enough to see a bird or a sunset. Loss or lack of freedom occurs on so many levels in so many places.

I know a subversive God, who “makes His sun rise on the evil and on the good, and sends rain on the just and on the unjust.” (Matthew 5:45) Not only that, “When He died, He died once to break the power of sin for all.” (Romans 6:10, emphasis added)

If God is not selectively blessing and saving people, I wonder why the world looks like it does. Could it be that starvation, loneliness, and slavery are human constructs? If they are constructed by humans, can they be deconstructed by humans? Perhaps I have an incredible opportunity to participate in their reversal. If these tragedies—which distort or destroy the good things God has provided—came at the hands of broken humans, then as a healing human I may participate in restoration.

So where does this leave me?

There are no easy answers.

It seems that God provides for all. My greatest gifts are gifts God has given to everyone, not just to me or those like me. I may feel gratitude in the sacred moments when I notice the sky, see a friend’s deepest heart, or awake to the sound of singing birds, knowing that these pleasures are gifts to all.

At the same time, I may grieve for those who do not experience these blessings, who are locked away physically, mentally, emotionally, or spiritually—which is all of us, some of the time; and some of us, all the time. For this I cry, and so does God—God whose dream for us is a life characterized by love, friendship, and beauty.

This corporate sense of gratitude and grief gently moves me from cynicism to awe. I am in awe both at the beauty and the pain of the world. I am called to work for the good of the just and the unjust. I am invited to stare in wonder at the sun setting, and stare in wonder at a starving child, and allow both to wreck me. And for this I am grateful.

Endnotes:
1New Oxford American Dictionary

Blessed Bodies

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Blessed Bodies

Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
King of the Universe,
for human love,
made in the image of divine love,
inviting us to receive ourselves
as we are received into the arms of another.

Blessed are You
for warm hugs,
eyes that see a hurting heart,
not looking away,
but wrapping with compassion
the raw insides,
too much to hold alone.

Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
King of the Universe,
for interlaced fingers,
a shoulder soaking up tears,
and the surprise of surplus:
freely you have received, freely give.