Tag Archives: Belonging

Latte and Lover

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Latte and Lover

Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
Lover of the Universe,
for this cardamom-orange latte,
moment of perfection
in a fretful day,
soothing my lips,
hospice for my tongue,
comfort in my throat.

Blessed are You
for the beans and the heat and the hands—
makers of this,
and for the joy You feel seeing me
sit and sip and sate,
and for the peace I ingest
seeing You seeing me.

Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
Lover of the Universe,
for the zest of orange,
the comfort of cardamom,
the sensuality of taste,
the weightiness of being held,
always held
by You my Lover.

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.

Alternative to Prayer Requests

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This morning I wanted to pray for friends, but instead I circled unsettling questions—questions I’ve returned to many times.

Why would I ask God to do something She’s already doing (i.e. Please be with this suffering person)?

Why does the Bible say Jesus will do anything we ask in His name?

Why should I have a say in God’s agenda for today? Especially when I’m pretty sure God doesn’t even have an agenda.

I want to pray for my friends—the text messages of prayer requests are waiting—but every way I know feels like useless chatter. I know countless book have been written and sermons preached to “answer” these questions, but I don’t really want answers. I want to acknowledge the awkwardness of prayer.

Talking to God about my frustrations—like this frustration with prayer—feels natural. She’s not offended when I call Her a liar for saying I’ll receive anything I ask in Jesus’ name. But today I’m annoyed because I don’t know how to bridge the gap between sharing my inner world with God and talking/asking/supplicating/mentioning my friends and their lives.

Our two tiger-striped cats sit at the window, attending to squirrels and whatever else moves outside the glass.

The sky lights slowly, cool gray clouds warming to creamy white.

I think about God and I sitting on the couch in His house, an image I return to often, always an invitation to relax into the overlap between us—His breath, my body. And it occurs to me that I could invite my friends to this couch.

I scoot over and invite Anna to the open spot between us. Her mother is dying in another country and she doesn’t know if she’ll make it in time to say goodbye. As she sits between us, something flows from her body, releasing her, and the three of us witness it together.

Next I think of Jen and her heaviness, hovering just under the surface of her pleasant and positive demeanor. Sitting with her creates space for the heaviness to stay or to go.

Then the couch shapes into a large, comfortable circle to make room for the family of a young man who passed away suddenly. His wife and children, his brothers and their families, all squeeze in to witness the grief in silent togetherness. Who knew coziness and pain could hold hands like this?

So God and I stand witness (or rather, sit witness) to each of my friends and family who come to the couch. No words are exchanged, no requests made, no answers given. We honor God with our presence as She honors us with Hers. We remember we are not alone. We see the depravity of our circumstances and the beauty of love, together.

When I finish praying, I know I will do this again. And I am touched and awed by the ease with which God converses with me in Her living room, whether in words or silence—the ease with which He engages my frustration and discomfort, and invites me to forego awkward requests in favor of sitting together.

Thank You, Papa.

Reasons for Self-Hatred

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“Many unhealthy behaviors begin as necessary coping mechanisms.”

I hear various versions of this sentiment repeatedly from therapists and psychologists. What may be a harmful habit today, they say, served us well in a previous season of life. I get how this applies to people-pleasing, secret-keeping, anger-stuffing, and high-performing. I’m less sure how it applies to self-hatred which, at first, sounds universally useless to me.

But maybe it did begin somewhere useful. Maybe my self-hatred sprouted when I couldn’t stop big feelings during infancy and toddlerhood, feelings that overwhelmed both me and the people around me. Flooded with emotion and its unwieldy side effects, what could I do but show my disagreement with the outburst by hating myself?

I buried self-hatred under the more acceptable coping behaviors of performing and pleasing. But whenever I couldn’t perform and please—when I showed up in the world in a way I didn’t like—self-hatred jumped out of the trunk to take the steering wheel.

There were more scenarios than I realized, as self-hatred tried every position in the car, from back-seat driver to navigation system, snack hoarder to complainer. Further exploration reveals at least a dozen ways self-hatred has served me:

  • It keeps me small, and being small keeps me from being seen, because being seen is risky.
  • It beats “them” to it. If I can make myself feel bad sooner and more than you can make me feel bad, I’m not vulnerable to you.
  • An excuse to be sad. When I don’t know why I feel depressed, loathing myself makes it seem legitimate … OR maybe I’m sad because I hate myself. Either way, it’s a handy excuse.
  • A layer of protection between you and my pain, and between myself and my pain. During the years of parenting my preschool daughters, hating that I was exhausted, angry, and shut down seemed easier than admitting I felt lonely, empty, scared, and inadequate.
  • A way to belong. When my mom got frustrated with herself, she often said, “I’m such an idiot.” I could fit in at home by thinking and speaking poorly of myself. And the church taught me not to toot my own horn. Apparently it’s not spiritually sound to think well of myself (leave that to God, I guess?), so self-hatred is also a way to fit in spiritually.
  • Keeps me from being perceived as naive as Pollyanna.
  • Protects me from trying to do things I’ll fail at.
  • A way of responding to failure—it spares me the time and energy of taking responsibility. (ouch)
  • A shortcut. It’s faster to process, “I did that because I’m bad,” than it is to process, “I did that because I’m human and humans get depleted and defeated sometimes, and what is depleting or defeating me right now?”
  • A form of power. When I had infants, I “couldn’t” be angry with them. In order to feel some control (power) over my anger, I directed it toward myself.
  • A way to remain in “relationship” with the unwanted parts of myself, even though the relationship is toxic.
  • It proves my loyalty to certain ideals. It allows me to act outside of my standards without confusing myself or anyone else by condoning the behavior. So self-hatred proves I have morals (even if I don’t live them out).

This all sounds so ridiculous.

And familiar.

All of a sudden, it sounds like a lazy way out, but it makes so much sense, and I feel sad, but grateful that I can see it, and profoundly grateful that other options are available to me. I don’t need to dislike myself to belong with people, and certainly not to belong with God. So maybe I can give it a break.

Go ahead, sit down and make your own list. It might be time to break up with one of your coping mechanisms.

Beach Body

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Beach Body

Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
King of the Universe,
for bodies all over this beach,
like a bowl of mixed nuts
tossed in saltwater
and spread on the sand to dry.
How I am tempted to sort them
by shape and size and color.

Blessed are You for the confidence of jiggling white cheeks, divided by a teal thong,
for laissez-faire, leathered breasts who’ve seen more sun than most faces,
for awkward couples not sure how much of one another’s bare skin to touch,
and couples who’ve been walking barefoot in the foamy tide since before I was born.

Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
King of the Universe,
for every brave body,
here for sun and water and sand—
but also to be seen,
to remind me that every body is a “beach body.”
To paraphrase Jesus,
“The beach was made for bodies,
and not bodies for the beach.”
Every salty nut belongs.

Aunties

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Aunties

Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
King of the Universe,
for my aunts,
who believe the best of me.
I still find it odd
that anyone thinks I’m smart
or capable, or decent,
but my aunts do
and for some reason
I trust them.

Blessed are you, aunties,
for unwavering kindness,
generous gift-giving,
craft supplies and gourmet meals,
giggles and connection,
honesty and creativity.
I never felt you had to invest in me
because I’m your niece.
I knew you wanted to.

Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
King of the Universe,
for the believing and belonging,
the handwritten cards and letters,
funny family stories,
warm welcomes, and celebrations.
You knew it would be hard for me to learn
that the best thing I can be is me,
so You created aunties.
Brave, they are, to be themselves,
and in so doing, to invite me to be myself.

Books I Read in 2023

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I read over 30 books in 2023. I’d like to think I choose what I read. But, as with many facets of life, the people I know—and whatever version of fate I ascribe to—play a large part. Last year I picked up nine books at a Writing For Your Life conference—none of which I would have read otherwise. Several were written by authors at the conference, others lay piled on a “free” table in the foyer, and another—Grace Notes—was a not-yet-published manuscript. The author and fellow conference attendee, Cheyenne Wilbur, agreed to let me try my copyediting skills on his book. Grace Notes was the only work of fiction I read last year. With no forethought or planning, I gravitated toward nonfiction.

In 2023 I read at least ten books recommended by friends and family—ranging from depression-era stories to books on writing. I selected books for a dozen reasons I know, and probably a score more subconscious reasons. I chose because of the author’s name—Richard Rohr, Rachel Held Evans, Anne Lamott; or because of the title—Intersexion: A Story of Faith, Identity, and Authenticity; or because I wanted to learn more about mysticism—The Big book of Christian Mysticism, and Wild Mercy. Some books, unread on my shelf since high school, had to be read or sent to the thrift store, making room for more recent acquisitions.

Eleven books by authors I know, or have connected with in some way, appear on my reading list. I treasure each of these connections, and find myself astonished by the quantity of people who write bravely, skillfully, and often while also attending to other full-time commitments.

A nurse and author of several books, Susan L. Schoenbeck, introduced herself to me on LinkedIn because of a mutual connection. Her experience—both personally and professionally—with near-death experiences piqued my interest and I purchased her self-published book Heaven and Angels.

My friend and cousin-in-law, Clair Gabriel, embraced her creative-writing skills and published a book on Amazon: Pregnancy, Birth, and Oh, Baby! It’s a quick and encouraging read, both important traits for a target audience of young mothers.

At the year’s end, I absorbed one last book, written by the former pastor of my childhood home church, Carl Wilkens. The book is titled I’m not leaving., with this singular statement on the cover: “Rwanda through the eyes of the only American to remain in the country through the 1994 genocide.” It was a thought-provoking read, ripe with unanswerable questions and the traits that empower a person to navigate such answerless queries and harrowing circumstances: love and connection.

Books by authors I met at the Writing For Your Life conference:

  • The Hundred Story Home: A Memoir About Finding Faith in Ourselves and Something Bigger, by Kathy Izard
  • Grace Notes, by John Cheyenne Wilbur
  • My First White Friend: Confessions on Race, Love, and Forgiveness, by Patricia Raybon
  • The Big Book of Christian Mysticism: The Essential Guide to Contemplative Spirituality, by Carl McColman
  • unbelieve: poems on the journey to becoming a heretic, by Marla Taviano

Books by authors in the Christian writing critique group I attend:

  • Surviving the Sand: My Family’s Struggle to Farm the Pasco Desert, by Helen Lingscheit Heavirland
  • Life Aboard a Sinking Ship: Mishaps and Mayhem on a Navy Tugboat, by Lee Yates as told to Blanche Yates
  • Building the Columbia River Highway: They Said It Couldn’t Be Done, by Peg Willis

Until last year, children’s books comprised nearly all my reading of poetry. Think Dr. Seuss and Shel Silverstein. When I started writing poems, I knew I needed to overcome my fear of poetry that isn’t illustrated and in large print. My sister helped by recommending several poets, and I read five books of poetry—including a compilation containing three of my poems, and the above-mentioned book by Marlia Taviano.

  • Swallow’s Nest: Poetry Journal, Fourth Annual Issue—December 2022, compiled by Linda L. Kruschke for Oregon Christian Writers
  • To Bless the Space Between Us: A Book of Blessings, by John O’Donohue
  • Stripped, by Cara Alwill Leyba
  • Devotions: The Selected Poems of Mary Oliver, by Mary Oliver

My reading last year included only one or two books from the self-help genre. I’d like to think this is because my mental and emotional health are improving. Or maybe I have that backward, and my mental and emotional health are improving because I’m not reading so many self-help books. Instead, I read more stories. There must be a technical term other than “story”—I’m sure “memoir” would apply to some—but to me these books are lovely because they are stories. The authors don’t tell me what to think. Rather, they invite me into their experiences. A good story is an offer of intimacy, a passageway to the inner workings of another human being and the wildness of their story. In addition to half a dozen of the above-listed books by authors I know, here are the stories I read last year.

  • Julie & Julia, by Julie Powell
  • Growing Up, by Russell Baker
  • Once Upon an Island: The Adventures of a Young Couple Who Did Buy Their Dream Island, by David Conover
  • I Went to the Woods: The Adventures of a Bird Photographer, by Ronald Austing
  • Faith Unraveled: How a Girl Who Knew All the Answers Learned to Ask Questions, by Rachel Held Evans
  • Intersexion: A Story of Faith, Identity, and Authenticity, by Cynthia Vacca Davis
  • The Face of Addiction: Stories of Loss and Recovery, by Joshua Lawson
  • Sealed: An Unexpected Journey Into the Heart of Grace, by Katie Langston
  • Love Warrior: A Memoir, by Glennon Doyle
  • Birding Against All Odds, by Joan Easton Lentz

Every one of the spiritual books I read felt like friendship. These books saw my heart and spoke both things I knew and things I didn’t yet know. They pushed me to try new things, think new thoughts, ask new questions. God and spirituality captivate me in a way nothing else does. I underline, write down page numbers, read aloud to my husband, and text paragraphs to friends. Although this happens with other books as well, it is spiritual books that most often invite me home, to a profound sense of belonging.

  • How the Light Gets In: Writing as a Spiritual Practice, by Pat Schneider
  • Attached to God: A Practical Guide to Deeper Spiritual Experience, by Krispin Mayfield
  • Small Victories: Spotting Improbable Moments of Grace, by Anne Lamott
  • The Tao of Pooh: The Principles of Taoism Demonstrated by Winnie the Pooh, by Benjamin Hoff
  • False Intimacy: Understanding the Struggle of Sexual Addiction, by Dr. Harry W. Schaumburg
  • Wild Mercy: Living the Fierce and Tender Wisdom of the Women Mystics, by Mirabai Starr
  • Forgive Everyone Everything, by Gregory Boyle, art by Fabian Debora
  • Seeking the Triune Image of God in You: A Glimpse Through a Keyhole, by Jeffrey D. Hill
  • Breathing Under Water: Spirituality and the Twelve Steps, by Richard Rohr

Re-reads. Finally, I read these three books a second time, because, in my humble opinion, they are just that good.

  • The Whole Language: The Power of Extravagant Tenderness, by Gregory Boyle
  • Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life, by Anne Lamott
  • Present Over Perfect: Leaving Behind Frantic for a Simple, More Soulful Way of Living, by Shauna Niequist

Thirty-seven books, and probably a few more I forgot to write down. It is a still-infant privilege, this copious access to written material. And yet, having grown up in America late in the 21st century, I can’t imagine anything else. Shelves of books are the backdrop to my office, my small groups, and my mental and emotional spaces. I am profoundly thankful for each author who puts their words into public spaces, and for the privilege of having time to pick up those words and hang out with them.

What did you read in 2023? Leave a comment and maybe I’ll add your recommendation to the list of books I want to read.

God Is Not in Control, Epilogue

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I never intended to write four posts about how God is not in control. What began as one question has evolved into piles of questions, most of which remain unanswered. But today I really am going to wrap up with a final post on the topic (at least for a while).

As I’ve reflected on what it looks like to move away from “God has a plan” and “God is in control,” I’ve found those sentiments everywhere—in books, emails, prayers, small group conversation. We are so desperate for control that we have assigned it to God with certainty and force.

Dare I say evangelism springs from a desire to control? We want people to be on our side. We want them to be “saved”—from what? Eternal burning? I don’t believe in that. Pain? We’re all on the pain train. A meaningless life? Okay, but fitness or family or any number of things can provide meaning in life. Are we proving we’re right by convincing other people to think the way we think? Are we earning God’s favor? Trying to avoid eternal separation from people we love?

Doggedly we seek to control how our lives turn out, how other people’s lives turn out, how the world and eternity turn out. We want to do our part. We want God to do His part.

Jesus wasn’t big on asking people to agree with Him before they followed Him. What if we invited people to follow us, to see what life is like for a human well-loved by God, taught by Jesus, and emotionally intimate with the Spirit? What would it look like if evangelism focused on showing what a messy life looks like with God, rather than on cleaning up the mess?

Church people like to talk about being “in” or “out” of the church. “Our neighbors aren’t in church any more.” “Her oldest boy stopped going to church.” When a kid is “out” of church, the parent doesn’t rejoice and say, “I’m so happy I have no control, and so grateful that God gives the power of choice. I can see the spiritual freedom in my daughter’s choice to not believe in God. It illustrates God’s character beautifully.” Nope. We go to battle, employing rigorous prayer and subtle (or not-so-subtle) manipulation; we adjust our theology; we feel sad and helpless; we obsess about it or refuse to think about it at all.

While eager to praise God for free will and the power of choice, we simultaneously do everything possible to control the people She puts in our lives. Is that because we’d rather trust Her control than Her goodness? Would we rather eradicate addition than accept discomfort? “Better safe than sorry,” we say, not realizing that our version of safety insulates us from God. Am I willing to trust in God rather than trust in the safety She provides? Harry Shaumburg put it like this, and it gives me pause:

As I learn to trust God, I acknowledge how little I really know of what it means to rely on God and demand nothing. I’ve seen only a glimpse of what it means to put my confidence in God in a way that goes beyond a demand for safety and comfort. Yes, I have tasted what it means to have faith in God … but I’ve only begun to trust … [T]rust is a decision to enter the reality of a fallen world that is at best disturbing.

– False Intimacy, by Harry Schaumburg, page 87

I used to think trust ought to take me out of reality. Schaumburg suggests the opposite—that trusting God will immerse me in the reality of our disturbing, broken world. Do I really want that? On the other hand, do I want God to control this spastic world into submission? I don’t respond well to the people in my life who control. I move away from them, subvert their efforts, focus on our differences, and even flaunt my choice to not do what they want. That’s not the response I hope to evoke in friends, or strangers. Am I willing to trust God while feeling the discomfort of humanity? Willing to not know what He’s going to do about this mess?

God invites me to exhale the need for life—mine and everyone else’s—to turn out well, then inhale love. Love is spontaneous, annoying kindness; food and forgiveness; boundaries and truth—in all places at all times. When control dies, an unexpected stream of creativity emerges and confirms my identity: made in the image of God who creates.

God Is Not in Control, Part 3

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When one person wants good things for another person, does that lead to a desire for control? In my relationships with my children, my parents, and my spouse, I’d say Yes. I have felt controlled by every family member, and in my turn I have tried to control them—often because I want good things for them. I want my kids to develop skills that will help them thrive as adults. I don’t want anyone to hurt them. I want them to be kind and confident and responsible. I want my spouse to get plenty of sleep and maintain a healthy weight. I want my parents to enjoy life.

But is the basis of all these good desires the fear of what may come if these things don’t happen—if things aren’t this way? Do I want a better marriage for my friend because I fear the marriage she’s in? Do I want better health for my spouse because I fear what poor health would do to our lives? Do I want my friend Alana to have better mental health because I fear her depression will affect the atmosphere of our small group? When life goes off the rails it may cost time, money, reputation, quality of life. Isn’t it better to stay on the rails?

I used to think so, but now I’m not sure. At what cost does a person stay on the rails? What is lost to the god of control? I don’t want to admit it, but likely what is lost is what I was trying to protect—peace, safety, belonging.

God’s way of moving in the world hardly resembles mine. He wants good things for us but has no desire to control. He is not fearful, because He is love. He is not trying to guard His resources or His reputation—He already gave both to us. God’s love is a love intertwined with loss and longing. It’s a love that accepts pain, and repeats the same loving action a 100th time even though there was no response the first 99 times. It is a voracious love, eager for more encounters.

Stacey Bess spent seven years teaching transient or homeless children, grades K-12, in a homeless shelter. Many of these children attended The School With No Name for only 90 days, the typical length of stay at the shelter. In her memoir, Nobody Don’t Love Nobody, Bess introduces Karen, a woman she connected with at the shelter through conversation and nights out. Later, when Karen had a baby, she moved in with Bess’s mom, who helped care for baby Liza. Bess and her mother provided safety, midnight taxi service, food and clothing. They did everything they knew to do to help Karen create a healthy life. But things didn’t turn out how they hoped. In Bess’s words:

Karen brought us to feel and know about tragedy in a completely new way. We wanted desperately to fix her. I picker her up every time she called, day or night, and my mother put up with her tantrums and drug use, both of us full of hope and confident in the power of love alone to heal all wounds. But what we learned from Karen was that sometimes the giving has to be enough.

Nobody Don’t Love Nobody, page 42

Karen didn’t lean in to a healthy life. Love didn’t “do the trick.” My immediate response is that Bess and her mom were overly optimistic. They needed better boundaries and a reality check.

But Bess’s conclusion was, “sometimes the giving has to be enough.” In other words, what they did was enough. Nothing was lost.

C. S. Lewis wrote, “Love is never wasted, for its value does not rest upon reciprocity.” This feels right and true to me, but … isn’t the value of God’s love that it saves us? What is the point if no one responds? Bess and her mother loved Karen and Liza, but it sure looks like the saving part didn’t happen. It is often said that Jesus would have died to save only one. What about none?

After “God so loved the world that He gave His only Son,” we have, “so that whoever believes in Him will not perish but have everlasting life.” Everlasting life—even if interpreted as fullness of life rather than living for billions of years and then more—is an outcome. Love does something. What happens if there is no “so that”? Could it be that God’s love affects us even if it doesn’t save us? Is that effect worthwhile?

I have no record of Karen’s inner world, but I’d bet she knew those women loved her. She certainly trusted them. Does God covet our trust more than a change in our behavior? More than a longterm relationship? Does He want us to know He loves us, more than He wants to save us? That could change everything.

A quick look in my Strong’s concordance reveals that the word “plan” isn’t in the Bible. I’m not by any means an advocate of returning to the King James Version of the Bible, but I find it intriguing that much-beloved Jeremiah 29:11, usually quoted as, “I know the plans I have for you,” reads this way in the KJV: “For I know the thoughts that I think toward you, saith the Lord, thoughts of peace, and not of evil.” Maybe God’s will isn’t a plan, so much as it is His thoughts toward us. Maybe Jesus showed us what God’s will looked like, more than what God’s plan entailed. Maybe love, the absence of control, leads directly to spontaneous liking, which is the soil of belonging.

Spontaneity is the antithesis of control. It requires presence more than planning, and curiosity more than control. As humans we often forgo belonging in pursuit of acceptance, “the action or process of being received as adequate or suitable, typically to be admitted into a group.” Pursuit of acceptance gives us control. If I can perform or conform my way into a group—if I can make myself suitable—I have some control. Belonging cannot be wrangled, and has a rather slippery definition: “an affinity for a place or situation.” I looked up the word “affinity” to put some flesh on that very short definition of belonging. Affinity is, “a spontaneous or natural liking for something or someone.” So, belonging is spontaneous or natural liking for a place or situation—or, I would add, for a person.

“Spontaneous liking” sounds terribly out of control. But it leaves room for imperfection and it embodies joy. If love is the pain of not being in control, is belonging the joy of embracing imperfection? Maybe I can want good things for a person—work for them, even—but ultimately allow the giving to be enough, and allow trust and belonging to matter more than saving.

Naked, Sacred Spirits

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Friendship drama. I feel it in my body. I watch my daughters ride the waves of acceptance and rejection in the classroom or at play dates. I listen to adult friends struggling with relational tension. I talk about my own social anxiety and parasitic desire to look good and be right. I try to help my children understand their own and others’ behaviors, to see with a heart of grace. But when there’s nothing left to do or say, tension lingers in my body. Why?

Relationships are tenuous and fragile. I don’t like that. The clock ticks, lies are believed, trust breaks, narratives are written into the brain, and suddenly I am aware that I still question my value, my belonging, my place. Maybe I was skating by on trusting that everyone, including myself, would behave maturely. Then a moment of triggering or misunderstanding cracks me open, revealing a child who is still asking if she belongs here. Is she worthy of love?

Seeing through the crack to another person’s inner child is as frightening and vulnerable as being seen through my own cracks. I don’t feel authorized to talk to another person’s inner child. I sense the import of this mutual seeing—my inner child gazing at hers through our cracks—and I freeze. The stakes are high. I know that even if she is gracious to me, I may hide in fear; and even if I reach a gentle hand toward her, she may perceive a monster, commissioned to hurt her or keep her in her place.

How will our spirits see and feel and hear each other? I have no control over this. Maybe our faces and our words will look like friendship, but our spirits will henceforth sleep with one eye open when the other person is in the room. Maybe our spirits will come out of hiding, hold hands.

Her naked spirit and my naked spirit are sacred. They live in the company of the Great Spirit, God who shaped and breathed and spoke them to life. The connections I make to prove myself, or break to save myself—God imparts holiness to each one.

The overused analogy about how we’re all God’s children may be useful here. We squabble. We finagle to divide God’s affections or allegiance, but He is unaffected. “You are my favorite,” He says. “You are my favorite,”—to a sibling who took the lion’s share of ice cream, or lied about what I did, or made a face at me when He wasn’t looking, or apologized in a sour tone. Ugh.

God is 100% on my side. God is 100% on her side. I will lean in to this challenge. I will say Namaste—the divine in me greets the divine in you.