Tag Archives: Belonging

Holy Homemakers

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Holy Homemakers

Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
King of the Universe,
for taking up residence in me.
I don’t think You are an implant,
sewn to the tissues of my brain, or heart.
You must live in that part of me
we humans fail to define,
the spirit or soul,
breath of life first passed
from Your lips to Adam’s
all those years ago.

Blessed are You for co-signing
on the mortgage
for these bones and flesh,
and putting Your name
next to mine
on the mailbox.

Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
King of the Universe,
for showing me how to belong
here in myself,
trusting what Your presence indicates—
that this is home—
my spirit, my body, and Your divinity
as homemakers.

Storms, and Other S-Words

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Storms, and Other S-Words

Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
King of the Universe,
for sex.
I am drawn by passion
or a desire for passion.
I am drawn to celebrate the joy
and relief of belonging.

Blessed are You
for storms,
set to kill, or thrill,
or water the earth.
Thunderstorms ground me—
flashes of light,
beating of great sky-gongs,
loud but gentle fall of rain.
The smell of washed earth
says I belong here.

Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
King of the Universe,
for the safety of You—
a safety that embraces
mystery and madness,
skepticism and silence,
and humankind’s violent and dark
underbelly—human trafficking,
and other tragedies.

When there is not a wisp of cloud
over endless, hellish desert,
there is a whisper that you belong
in yourself and in the heart of God.

One Year on Antidepressants

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The year after my daughter Kayt was born felt like three years. I guess that’s when my depression began. I often said I would’ve rather given birth a second time than gone through that first year with an infant. After a lifetime of receiving praise and recognition at work and school, the transition to an unnoticed 24/7 job was rather like being plucked from the heart of New York City and dropped in backwoods Alabama. Nothing worked the way it had before.

Kayt was perfect. Even the nurses in the birthing ward said she was one of the cutest babies they’d ever seen. I liked many aspects of caring for her, but I didn’t like being tired all the time, and I didn’t like having little control over how I spent my days. As months and years passed, my resentment grew. I was angry that I didn’t get to rest. Rest always felt like a liability because it could be interrupted at any time by someone else’s urgent needs.

Depression runs in my family—both sides—but I understood little about depression. I thought it meant feeling dark all the time, being unable to get out of bed, unable to accomplish anything. Since my go-to when I’m stressed is to do more, my productivity was rarely affected by my sense of well-being (or lack thereof). I plodded on, day and night. Cook, clean, shop for groceries, open mail, plan birthday parties. Nurse babies, read to toddlers, remind preschoolers to get dressed, fight with kindergartners about the letters of the alphabet, drive kids to and from school. I was often up at night. My kids never did that magical thing the parenting books call, “when they start sleeping through the night.”

When Kayt was 21 months old, our second daughter, Kyli, was born. A year later we moved to a larger house in the same town. The girls woke several times every night for weeks after we moved. A few months later, I started counseling. I was perfectly miserable in my perfect life, and I wanted help.

My counselor, Beth, became a trusted partner on my journey. She saw me—the real kind of seeing—and she started me on the path to seeing myself with compassion. But after seven years of intermittent personal therapy and marriage counseling, Michael and I found ourselves in a dark period. My depression deepened around April that year, and by the time it leveled out in June, it had made a significant negative impact on our marriage. I resisted our marriage counselor’s nudges toward trying antidepressants, until the moment I decided that if I could do something to spare my husband from a hollow wife, and my kids from an angry mother, I ought to try it.

My kind doctor offered to see me one morning before her first patient, so I didn’t have to wait months for an appointment. She prescribed Fluoxetine, and in mid-July last year, I began the drug experiment. Four days in I wrote, “I have had a significant increase in difficulty with sleeping (which is usually a non-issue for me). I have had trouble falling asleep, staying asleep, and going back to sleep, and twice I’ve been awake long enough in the wee hours of the morning that I start to feel nauseated and have to eat something before I can go back to sleep. Michael and I both feel that I do have improved emotional capacity. It has been a tiring week, but my ability to handle things without getting overwhelmed and shutting down seems to be better than usual. And I would say I feel less dark and discouraged, despite the difficulty sleeping and the resulting tiredness.”

A few weeks later my sleep had mostly returned to normal. By October I was settling into feeling more alive than I had in ten years, so when Michael suggested that the medication was affecting my libido (it was), I told him in no uncertain terms that I would not sacrifice my mental health for an orgasm. After working through that with our counselors, it was smooth sailing.

Fall became winter and I marveled at my capacity to enjoy life. I felt a renewed sense of agency as I regained the ability to choose a response other than anger to life’s frustrations. I knew I was lucky to have responded so well to the first medication I tried. A few friends had cautioned me or expressed concern about antidepressants, and I was well aware that a wide range of negative effects were possible. But the primary effect the medication had on me was to make me feel human again.

As spring approached, I wondered what my annual spring depression would look like. Three years in a row I’d darkened inside as the days grew longer and trees blossomed. My doctor said I could increase my dose of Fluoxetine if needed. Three weeks into April, I did. In my notes I wrote, “To this point, I have only positive things to say about being on Fluoxetine. I have come alive, enjoy so many things, and am more flexible and joyful. Started feeling my spring depression a few weeks ago, so I’m planning to try the higher dose for a month. Then hoping to go the opposite direction and maybe stop taking it later this year.”

Five days later I wrote, “I feel blank, like this higher dose of antidepressants has removed all ability to feel, all motivation, and almost all thought. I’m not sure I’ll be able to keep it up for a month. I write from my mental and emotional activity, so if there isn’t any, I’m not sure I’ll be able to write. I do have three topics in mind though, so I will try to write, and I will drink coffee and text friends and maybe do some yard work, definitely take a shower, force myself to cook, invite myself to enjoy the sunshine, maybe color some birthday cards for friends. I know I am okay, but I miss feeling it. I guess the plus side of being emotionally numb is that I don’t respond to everything with anger.”

Ten days later: “Thirty mg of Fluoxetine is a mixed bag. Motivation is down, libido is down, I don’t feel much emotion, haven’t cried except when Phred died (the family cat), and it seems like writing is more of a struggle. I’m just more numb, more blah. On the other hand, I feel pretty calm, not very angry. I’ve been more easily in touch with what I like and what I want, instead of what I should do, and I’ve been doing more fun things with the girls—a little less focused on tasks and more oriented to quality time. It’s weird to in some ways be more connected and in some ways more disconnected.”

After only two weeks on the higher dose, I was unable to refill one of my prescriptions and I dropped back to 20mg of Fluoxetine. A few days later I wrote, “I’m feeling good about it, now. I was pretty ‘muted’ and I’m feeling a bit more alive the last couple of days, and not too heavy.”

My spring depression slowly receded, and this summer has been the least stressful summer since kids came along 11 years ago. There’s no way of knowing how much of this has to do with antidepressants. My relationships, personal growth, the ages of my children, and even what I choose to eat and read are all in the mix. Ultimately, I’m glad I threw some drugs in there. I feel like I got my life back this past year, and I rediscovered the version of me that isn’t bitter and exhausted.

What have I learned about my mental health during this past year? I’ve noticed some things that don’t help me: exercise, to-do lists, a full schedule, guilt and shame (which can come from self-help books, religion, and—most often—my internal dialogue). There’s a longer list of things that do help me: small groups, one-on-one time with friends and with my spouse, coffee, writing, stillness, being flexible (I’ve learned this significantly reduces anger), learning to stay in friendship with myself and live out of my Spirit center, time in nature, recognizing when I fear myself, and allowing myself to experience intimacy and connection out of my imperfections (not my perfections).

My doctor encouraged me to take antidepressants for one full year and go from there. I’m a few days past the one-year mark, and trying to make a decision. I slept like shit last night and I feel like shit this morning, which makes me hesitant. On the other hand, I know what to watch for when I decrease medication: anger, loss of friendship with myself, feeling overwhelmed/helpless, moving from enjoyment to duty, feeling afraid. I’ll start my lower dose on Friday and see how it goes. There’s nothing to be afraid of. God and I and most of the people in my life are on my side. I’m not in a battle against myself (despite what the church taught me). I’m part of a big, dysfunctional human family, where everyone belongs simply because we are alive. And ultimately, belonging (and drugs) is the way out of depression.

State of the Union

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Marriage is inconvenient. I have to check with my husband, Michael, about lunching at a different-than-usual time. I can’t turn the bedroom light on in the mornings because he’s still asleep. If I want to be alone, I have to announce it and arrange for it (children are also culpable for this one). The bedclothes are always in disarray, the toilet a mess, and one word at the wrong time can tip us sideways for a day or three.

Michael has his own list of inconveniences, probably much longer than mine—if he took the time to write them down. But he doesn’t keep track much. I know marriage counseling was (mostly) fun for me, but inconvenient for him—more nerve-wracking and stressful than interesting or inspiring. He participated nonetheless, and we sorted some things out. We talked about allowing ourselves and each other to “just be.” In fact, we talked about this for years. I can’t say exactly when or how it moved from an idea to a reality, but I know that facing our most terrifying fears was a long stop on the way to freedom. Our marriage is buoyant now in a gracious and spacious way that allows for inconvenience. Relational blood pressure is down to a healthy range.

Our counselor had a Gottman Institute resource for everything, including a weekly marriage check-up titled “State of the Union Meeting.” The basic idea is to have a weekly, guided conversation about your marriage. The first bullet item on this handout is, “Start with what is going right in the relationship.” Next item, “Give one another five appreciations each.” Of course we disagreed on whether these were actually one item or two. Were we to start with what is going right by sharing appreciations? Or were we to make some general statements about what we felt was going right, followed by five specific appreciations? We haven’t settled that yet.

Last week I was sitting in my ugly, brown prayer-chair, when God asked me out of the blue, “What do you think is going well in our relationship?” I was surprised and delighted. The question itself, even unanswered, was joyful, even celebratory. I immediately thought of the Gottman worksheet, and began a list:

– There are deeper roots. I don’t have to hover over our relationship like it’s a new transplant.

– We like to be together, especially in stillness.

I paused—peaceful, grateful—and wrote, “I’m just so happy about the question, I can hardly think of answers.” But more answers came.

– We assume the best about each other.

– We at least interlock pinky fingers in the situations that seem to drive us apart.

– Our dialogue is not as one-sided as it used to be. We hear each other better and don’t miss the mark in our communication as much.

– I’m more willing to engage with what is, instead of what “should” be.

– I’m more aware of the fears I bring to the table.

– We don’t always try to make sense of each other or understand everything between us.

– We’re getting better at feeling, together.

Underneath the list I wrote, “I’m blown away. We actually have a better relationship than we used to. And it’s certainly not from trying hard.”

I used to do a lot of what I call “pre-work” in my relationship with God. When I sat down with Him, I’d fret and plan and beg and argue, read or study the Bible, and write long pages in my prayer journal. In most of this I avoided the real issues—albeit unintentionally. I wanted God to make me patient and happy, and show up in a predictable manner. Christian theology had taught me these were reasonable expectations in a relationship with God. But in all of this “work,” I avoided the real work. As I noted in my journal, growth in my relationship with God is “certainly not from trying hard.”

Dealing with the real issues—deep anger, fear, disappointment and depression—was hard, but all I had to do was show up. I didn’t try hard. I accepted hard. I allowed myself to feel a lot of hard things, and learn that I was not in control, and neither was God—at least not in the ways I wanted Him to be. I released my knotted “try hard” mentality and accepted that life is hard, and no amount of trying hard is going to fix that. To my surprise, I found God in the real work of accepting and walking through the stuff I didn’t want in my character or in my life. No holy avoidance or miraculous patience. Instead, a togetherness that gifted me a sense of belonging.

Here I am, healthier, mostly because God and I agree that it’s okay for me to be a mess, and for life and love to be, at times, a long list of inconveniences. I can “just be.” The state of our union is, “spacious enough for inconvenience.”

Love Everyone, and Everywhere Love

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Love Everyone, and Everywhere Love

Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
King of the Universe,
for Your rooted, yet whimsical, love.
It stands, unmoved by my inner turmoil;
it moves, to stand wherever I am.

Blessed are You
for taking up residence
everywhere, like air.
I breathe Your life
when I remember You
and when I forget You.
I dine at Your expanding table
where there is room for one more
and then one more.

Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
King of the Universe, for this:
because You are a safe place, so am I.
We are haven of emotional safety,
home for anger and doubt,
aware that despite their bulky size,
they are effortlessly held within love.
Love is a home big enough,
always big enough.

Taste and Swallow

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Taste and Swallow

Reflections – week 5b

Welcome to the second half of week-five reflections inspired by my current small groups. Together with some of my favorite women, I’m exploring these books: Father’s House: The Path That Leads Home, and The Whole Language: The Power of Extravagant Tenderness. This is week five of eight.
I’m finding joy here, and I’m pleased you’re with me on this journey.

Communion as Helplessness

Babies get spoon-fed. Adults with declining health get spoon-fed. Those who can feed themselves, feed themselves. Except at wedding receptions. Bride and groom hold out thin slices of cake for each other, while family and friends hold their breath—will it be romantically delicate, or smash-in-your-face fun? If they’re really brave, a couple will do the same with drinks. God bless them if they stain the wedding dress.

Holding a drink to another person’s mouth, or putting a bite of food on their tongue, is an intimate interaction. You’re participating in the entrance of a substance into another person’s body. The muscles in your hand and arm are ultra-focused, working in awkward tandem with another’s lips and tongue and throat.

In the Father’s House week 5 visualization, I’m invited to see myself at the table in Papa’s house, receiving communion from His hands.1 Imagine God Himself putting food in my mouth, holding drink to my lips, intimate, connected. This involves so much receiving, which I have never been good at. It involves not doing it on my own. Does God have time for such shenanigans?

As I swallow bread and drink, it occurs to me that tasting and swallowing are nearly the only bodily sensations I will experience with this food. After esophageal muscles carry the food to my stomach, it travels through my body unnoticed by me, yet is giving of itself for hours, sustaining my well-being. But over all this I have no control and very little awareness.

I wonder if my goodness—God’s gift to me—is this way. I hunger for belonging, rest, wholeness, so I open myself to receive. After tasting and swallowing, my mouth may return to neutral—no sensations—but a hundred things are happening inside me, producing life. Resting my hands in my lap and allowing God to feed me, trusting that I was made to receive, and trusting receiving to be life-giving and ongoing—maybe this will calm the hustle and quiet the perfectionism. Maybe being dependent will feel like peace, not prison. Maybe receiving as if I am helpless to do it myself will usher me in to abundance.

When I receive, I’m not generating something new. I’m depending on what already is. Swallowing is a surrender. I have invited something into my body, to become part of me. In the same way, receiving God’s goodness—my goodness—is a surrender to life. It’s not a structure I build brick by brick, but rather a piece of toast with butter and honey, sweet to the tongue, trusted to enter my body and do me good.

As Gregory Boyle says, “Then we stop being ‘spiritual,’ moving from here to there. Instead, we want to move from there to here.”2 God is inviting me to take up residence in myself and to taste my real life and allow it to nourish me. I am not trying to get somewhere so much as I am opening my mouth to partake.

I Declare

Father’s House encourages declarations—statements we can write down and speak aloud in order to internalize new ways of thinking. I’m not much for formulas, and I haven’t been practicing my declarations with any regularity, but writing them even once can be impactful. I had fun this week re-writing in my own words some of the scripture-based declarations from the book.

I am innocent.

I am powerful in my own self.

I live within the walled city of God’s love, my refuge and place of peace.

The greatest power in the universe is for me. All powers against me are lesser.

I am an abider.

I am whole, because this is Jesus’ gift to me.

I am alive. Good things flow through me.

I am an enjoyer of abundance.

God is never on the other side.

Jesus’ faith is my doorway out of law prison.

Slavery to the law falls off me like water off a duck’s back.

I am spirit-inhabited, married into the trinity.

My Papa is compassionate with me. Always.

Let Him Sing

Every week of Father’s House closes with a letter from Papa God, fresh with edibles for my hungry spirit. Excerpts from this week’s letter:

I am singing My promises over your soul. Let them wash over you and fill your mind and body with confidence.
I am putting opportunities in your life to grow your trust and faith in Me. How do I do this? By giving you endless encounters with My goodness.
The prize of My promises is a relationship with me.
… practice the language of possibility! You’re learning to be content using a new muscle – the muscle of rest and trust.
As you wait on My response with a carefree heart… I am holding you in my perfect embrace.

All My Love, Abba Daddy.3

Here’s to endless encounters with God’s goodness—bread and drink—and bulging muscles of rest and trust.

Photo by Ketut Subiyanto: https://www.pexels.com/photo/girl-feeding-her-father-with-a-cake-4815325/

Endnotes:
1Father’s House, Session Five video visualization
2The Whole Language, page 84
3Father’s House, page 94

The Light Between Us

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I’m taking a break this week from Father’s House and The Whole Language, to write about a different small group I’m in. There are four of us, meeting via Zoom to share our experiences through a compassion and wholeness workbook. The author of this workbook is my beloved sister, Dr. Jody Washburn. “Dr. Washburn” doesn’t roll off my tongue right, so at the risk of being an impudent younger sister, I’ll refer to her as “Jody.”

The full title of the workbook is, “Compassion & Wholeness: Engaging with Care and Curiosity on the Healing Journey.” This makes me smile. I love every beautiful word strung together into an invitation. Compassion… my invitation to care for another. Wholeness… my invitation to care for myself. And each of these spaces explored with curiosity, which is the antidote for judgement and shame—a healing journey indeed.

Jody writes about two barriers to belonging: 1) feeling “we have to hide or downplay who we are in order to belong,” or 2) feeling like belonging will come when we can “fix” others so they are more like us. Is there a space in which we can maintain our individuality, allow others to maintain theirs, and experience intimacy, belonging?

I have often felt this tension between hiding me or fixing you. I’m certain I will only be accepted if I meet expectations—not just in the workplace, but in friendship and at home as well. Therefore much of my energy goes into meeting expectations (real or imagined). Yet I know from painful experience that performance does not breed intimacy. People may “like” me, but they don’t know me. They know my performing self, or my “representative,” as Glennon Doyle would say. My real self suspects that if she were known, she would be rejected. Each time I allow my tired or confused or sad self show, there is a real possibility of shame-reinforcing rejection. People need me to make sense, to show up consistently, and to manage my own emotions. I suppose the most awful thing about this is that there is some truth to it. But this truth no longer has my loyalty. I have left it behind for something else.

I suppose my “something else” could be described as discomfort, but it is a discomfort leading to delicious comfort, to an internal wholeness I didn’t know was possible, and an intimacy with others I could not imagine. The discomfort is in losing control (or the illusion of control), receiving my own impossible-to-understand internal experiences, and receiving the experiences of others. No fixing. This is a terrifying freedom and a portal to a new dimension, a tangled and beautiful garden of love.

“Connection with [myself] and connection with others,” Jody writes. Yes, I respond. Yes.

Jody illustrates these two connections with pairs of words from various authors and speakers:
individuation and intimacy
authenticity and attachment
individuality and belonging
and my personal favorite, from Maya Angelou: “I belong to everyone. I belong to no one.”

Jody is a Hebrew scholar (I know, my sister is super cool). She describes the Hebrew word “Shalom,” which we often equate with peace, as “the harmonious working of a complex system”—another way to imagine this space we occupy of belonging both to ourselves and to others. Shalom makes an outrageous suggestion, that the complexities of ourselves and our world are somehow beautifully compatible. My own existence and the existence of each person I know, is an invitation to dance. I am invited to dance with myself, and I am invited to dance with you. Together we find a balance we could not find alone. This balance requires authenticity—a willingness to see and share my own insides, and to see and receive your insides. This seeing shines a lights into the shared spaces we occupy and allows us to dance the dance of intimacy, a miraculous, harmonious duet emerging from what seemed like incompatible notes and unwilling instruments.

As my friends and I talk on Zoom about all these ideas, we are drawn repeatedly to our own desire for an increased capacity to show compassion. As mothers, we lament our bitterness, anger, and attempts to control our children. Yet it is clear that compassion is not a “fake-it-till-you-make-it” prospect, nor is it achieved by trying harder or learning more. How are we to cultivate something that cannot be wrestled or prayed or shamed into being? How do I move from desiring compassion to a real response of curiosity and care when my children are battling for the upper hand in an insult war, or waking me up for the fifth time in one night? I am certain compassion must come from my core, yet I know I cannot surgically place it there. Oh, how I wish for a compassion pace-maker to fill in my glitches and keep me alive.

My sister’s workbook holds hints about what it looks like to move into compassionate space. One hint is embodiment. Hillary McBride writes, “Embodiment is a coming home, a remembering of our wholeness, and a reunion with the fullness of ourselves.” This remembering is the beginning of creating. Before I create, I need to make friends with my body. I answer Jody’s workbook questions. “What messages have you received, growing up and at other times in your life, about your body?” My answer surprises me. I had not put this into words until now: “My body is useful apart from my spirit/emotions/mind. It is useful for showing up where I don’t want to be, doing what I don’t want to do, accomplishing things for other people.” It makes sudden sense that I have felt divided against myself, ill with chronic internal bickering. I have used my body, and allowed others to use it. I didn’t know my body was me. I think this is what “dis-integration” means. Resentment and a lack of agency follow disintegration, and all at once it makes sense that I have been mired in a stinking swamp of resentment.

Another hint about compassionate space is “compassionate witnessing,” which includes the ability to hold space for what feel like mutually exclusive experiences. How can I feel comforted and fearful at the same time in my husband’s arms? How can I desire time alone and long for connection in one moment? How can my friends be both graceful and judgmental? How can my world be crammed so full of pain and beauty that I find the two squashed together in uncomfortable proximity? Jody talks about expanding circles of compassionate witnessing, encompassing self and others. She closes her workbook with these words from Stephanie Foo.

So this is healing, then, the opposite of ambiguous dread: fullness. I am full of anger, pain, peace, love, of horrible shards and exquisite beauty, and the lifelong challenge will be to balance all of those things, while keeping them in the circle. Healing is never final. It is never perfection. But along with the losses are the triumphs.

Little by little, I find the spaces inside me where compassion resides, and I step into those spaces more often. Compassion lives in my awareness of my body. It comes to life in my imagination and springs forth from my inherent creativity. I am shocked to discover that as I occupy these spaces, I walk out of fear into love. I see without squinting and I touch without recoiling. My life appears before me as a patch of wildflowers to enjoy rather than a blotch of weeds to destroy. An invitation to compassion is ultimately an invitation to joy and pain. It is the wonder of occupying what at one time seemed untouchable—the space between two people. Jody shares the words of Orland Bishop: “Future is the space between two or more human beings.” God invites me into that future, into what Jody describes as an emerging, co-created, relational space, and what I like to call, “the light between us.”

Dr. Jody Washburn’s “Compassion & Wholeness” workbook is available here. All quotes in this post are from her material.

Photo by Ray Bilcliff: https://www.pexels.com/photo/antelope-canyon-arizona-1533512/

Fearless Curiosity

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Fearless Curiosity

Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
King of the Universe,
for invitations,
offers,
questions.

Blessed are You
for openings that invite curiosity
about myself
and about the opportunity in front of me.
I hold the two up together,
see if they match—
like socks in the laundry.

Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
King of the Universe,
for valuing me categorically,
which allows me to be interested
rather than fearful,
curious instead of compelled.
Whatever is in front of me
will neither shackle me
nor set me free,
for only You hold the keys
to love and belonging.

Home and Healing

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I get confused about Healing and Home, in a chicken-or-egg sort of way.

By Healing, I mean what Christians often call sanctification—the sacred pathway of becoming.

By Home I mean, “It is finished.” (see John 19:30) Christ accomplished all, and all is mine and His, and we are one. (The Christian ideas of justification and glorification may both be included here).

Which comes first, Healing or Home? Home leads to Healing because it tells me the truth about who I am, but Healing brings me Home because it enables me to believe the truth about who I am.

Wondering which one follows the other may be a distraction from the miracle that both are forever true. Home stands complete, perfect, sure and strong as granite. Healing takes the journey, bearing witness to growth and death and life—transformation on repeat. Healing leads me Home … but Home permits me to Heal.

The Bible—which at this time is an enigma to me—says much about Home and Healing. It speaks about what we have now, and what we are moving toward; about how things are, were, and will be. It’s all mixed up together. Take the first chapter of Ephesians, for example.

I pray that your hearts will be flooded with light so that you can understand the confident hope He has given to those He called—His holy people who are His rich and glorious inheritance. I also pray that you will understand the incredible greatness of God’s power for us who believe Him. This is the same mighty power that raised Christ from the dead and seated him in the place of honor at God’s right hand in the heavenly realms. Now He is far above any ruler or authority or power or leader or anything else—not only in this world but also in the world to come. God has put all things under the authority of Christ and has made Him head over all things for the benefit of the church. And the church is His body; it is made full and complete by Christ, who fills all things everywhere with Himself.

Ephesians 1:18-23 NLT

I feel a bit woozy after I read this passage. Past, present, future—it’s all there. And what a lineup of shocking statements. I am part of God’s inheritance (why does He have an inheritance?). God’s power for me is the power that resurrected Jesus. Jesus has authority over all authorities, “not only in this world, but also in the world to come.” The church is Christ’s body (say what?). “All things everywhere” are filled with Christ (really? All and everywhere are VERY inclusive words).

But I’m gonna roll with it. God my Father placed Christ above all things, and He placed me in Christ. He is “far above” because He is bigger and more alive than power and dominion and rules and authority.

I am in Him. By His stripes I am healed from control, because He is above control, and I am in Him. (see Isaiah 53:5) His authority supersedes the illusion of human control (the illusion that I can control myself or another person, or that I can be controlled by another person).

Even the apostle Paul seems astonished by (yet very confident about) this craziness.

What shall we say about such wonderful things as these? If God is for us, who can ever be against us? Since He did not spare even His own Son but gave Him up for us all, won’t He also give us everything else? Who dares accuse us whom God has chosen for His own? No one—for God Himself has given us right standing with Himself. Who then will condemn us? No one—for Christ Jesus died for us and was raised to life for us, and He is sitting in the place of honor at God’s right hand, pleading for us. Can anything ever separate us from Christ’s love? Does it mean He no longer loves us if we have trouble or calamity, or are persecuted, or hungry, or destitute, or in danger, or threatened with death? No, despite all these things, overwhelming victory is ours through Christ, who loved us. And I am convinced that nothing can ever separate us from God’s love. Neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither our fears for today nor our worries about tomorrow—not even the powers of hell can separate us from God’s love. No power in the sky above or in the earth below—indeed, nothing in all creation will ever be able to separate us from the love of God that is revealed in Christ Jesus our Lord.

Romans 8:31-35, 37-39 NLT

As I consider what little I can grasp from this shocking passage, I am surprised by this comfort: I belong. This is a relief.

I belong in (inside) Christ. I don’t need to worry, because I’m Home. I have arrived.

Sometimes I may feel lost—as if trying to read a map through tears. Or frozen still, breathing shallow, as shape-shifting shadows approach.

Yet nothing can separate me from the love of Jesus. I am always Home. I am always in His heart, His thoughts, His body. Whether I am thriving or dying, grieving or joyful, begging or praising, suffering or sitting pretty, married or divorced, addicted or sober, giving or taking …

I am Home, which is an invitation to Healing.

I am Healing, which is my invitation Home. The door is always open.

I’m Afraid Being Me Will Ruin Every Relationship I’m In

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“Life is a journey,” we say. I want a rest stop. I want to stay at a posh hotel for, I don’t know, a couple of years. But in a rash moment I decided healing is a priority. Discomfort is part and parcel with healing, so I carry on. I receive the affirmation of my friends and of my own spirit and I keep taking steps.

My current discomfort comes from the fluctuations and changes of intimacy in marriage. I feel like I’m on a chain and I don’t know when it’s gonna get jerked. It seems we oscillate between politeness and passion, and both extremes are uncomfortable. The truth is I’m really scared to be me. Around all the actual dynamics and realities of our relationship is a cloud of fear. My thoughts are fearful, terrified. Though I’m acting peaceful, some inward part of me is frozen, and if it gets poked it will likely either fight or flee.

What if this fear is not me, not true to who I am? What if it doesn’t belong here and I can send it away?

What if being me is never a mistake? There can be fallout, but it doesn’t mean I ought not to have been me. I am not the mistake. I make mistakes, but I am not a mistake. I’m gonna agree with Papa God and Jesus and Holy Spirit on this one.

“A feeling is just a feeling,” I say, quoting Josh Straub. What is under this fear? What is my internal space without the fear?

I journal the fears. I allow myself to explore them and feel them and write them down. Then I do the same with healing messages. Sometimes it helps to call them “lies” and “truths.”

Lie: I am not and cannot be enough.
Truth: I am enough.

Lie: I am not worthy of connection or belonging.
Truth: I am worthy of connection and belonging.

Lie: Vulnerability may cause permanent damage to my sense of self.
Truth: No matter how someone reaches out to me or responds to me, they cannot touch my identity of wholeness. Vulnerability involves sharing my inner world, but it does not involve putting my value up for negotiation.

Lie: Rejection says something about who I am.
Truth: Rejection is a normal human dynamic, a part of processing experiences in a shared space, and grappling with fears. Rejection does not tell me the truth about who I am or about who the other person is.

Lie: Being different means someone is wrong.
Truth: Being different probably means we’re both right, both have something to contribute. We bring our flat realities and together make a 3D reality.

Lie: I should be able to avoid hurting someone if I try hard enough.
Truth: I cannot avoid hurting other people. Hurting someone does not declare that I am a hurtful person. It means that my movement in the world interacted with another person’s movement in the world in a way that was painful—similar to accidentally stepping on someone’s toe, or elbowing your kid in the head while unloading the dishwasher.

Lie: I am not a safe person.
Truth: I am a safe person when I am a real person. Being me is the greatest gift I can give.

Lie: I can unwittingly ruin a relationship.
Truth: I can unwittingly cause pain, but I cannot unwittingly ruin a relationship. Relationships are bigger than the stimulus of pain. Relationships always hold the potential for repair and shared understanding, connection and healing. Even when there is a rift in a relationship, the relationship continues to hold that potential.

And so it seems I am a lot less dangerous and powerful than I thought I was. The success or failure of each relationship I’m in—including my marriage—is not mine to carry. I am me, and that is good. I will keep showing up because relationships are life, and I was made to live.