Tag Archives: freedom

Blessing My Small Self

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

Four-days-unwashed hair.

Running late, always running, always late.

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

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

The voices of emotion.

The voice of smallness.

The voice of vulnerability.

The voice of longing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All Over My Face

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All Over My Face

Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
King of the Universe,
for the sudden rise of mirth
up through my torso,
rushing out my open mouth
to be heard: laughter.

Blessed are You
for the intimacy of a laugh,
bypassing my mental security system
to embrace a stranger.
Or, taking its place
at the dining room table
to remember for the hundredth time
when Papa split his jeans open
while trying a dance move.

Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
King of the Universe
for the relational
bridge-building
of laughter.
For a moment I forget
all other things
to enjoy the one thing.
I am released,
reduced,
re-membered,
and it’s written
all over
my face.

Freedom! From My Husband

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“You have time for everything but me.” Michael spoke with resignation from his side of the bed.

I sat tense on my side of the bed. We’d had this conversation many times, and it always sounded the same. We knew it so well we probably could’ve saved time and argued in our sleep.

Not sure what to say, I listed a few of the times I had spent with him recently—a three-hour conversation Monday night, a date last Thursday, a movie yesterday after the kids were in bed. It didn’t matter. He was talking about his heart, not my schedule.

We have been awkward partners in the dance of intimacy since we met. We were head-over-heels for each other and spent up to sixty hours a week together—every moment outside of sleep, classes, and our part-time jobs on the college campus. Sometimes I wanted space, but I didn’t know how to say that. Since I didn’t ask for space, I created space with busyness or emotional distance. This had the opposite of the desired effect. Whenever I created space, Michael came closer. He wanted more time, more talking, more touching—always more. I generally tried to keep showing up, but when I inevitably created space in an under-handed way, Michael would be hurt and ask for more from me to reassure him that we were okay.

This pattern continued into our marriage. We were happy together, made decisions with minimal drama, enjoyed each other’s friendship and company, and survived many difficult conversations. But the pattern of me moving away and Michael moving closer (until he lost hope and stonewalled) stayed the same, and perhaps became even more pronounced. When kids came along and being alone was my deepest desire and most cherished dream, it didn’t help the situation.

That thing they say about the only way out of your pain is through it?—they’re right. Over the last few years, we’ve had some awful days and weeks walking through our pain. We’ve both had to make peace with feelings of rejection. Michael feels rejected when I move away from him, and I feel rejected when he can’t respect my desire for space. We both feel wrong sometimes—about ourselves, about each other. But it turns out you can’t mechanically fix a person or a relationship.

Mainly we talked, we listened, we cried, and we felt a lot of pain we had been avoiding. Michael slowly came to believe that I like him and I’m not going anywhere, even though sometimes I crave space. I slowly came to believe that Michael likes me and will still be my friend even if I move away from him. I think this is called trust.

Earlier this month, as Michael was preparing for a work trip, I kept reminding him to give me his flight times so I’d know when he would be leaving and getting back. The info was on his work computer and never handy when I asked. One evening when I brought it up again, I handed him my laptop and asked him to put the info in my calendar. He still didn’t have it nearby. Instead of flight times, he blocked out four days with the heading “Freedom!”

While he was away the following week, I chuckled each time I looked at my calendar, and every time it felt like a small miracle that we could joke about me enjoying some alone time. What used to be a trigger, a subject so dreaded that we tiptoed around it, is now an open conversation and a relational dynamic to laugh about. Oh the joys of setting the thermostat however I want and having the bed to myself.

I can’t tell you how it happened, and I guess that’s why I use the word “miracle.” Yes, we walked through our pain, we went to counseling, we fought and cried and believed lies about ourselves and each other and had to pry those lies up with a crowbar to find the truth. But then there was an element of magic, a change in the weather, a glimmer of hope that turned into quiet trust. And that is something no amount of work can bring about.

Freedom!

I’m Breaking Up With This Advice

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“We have all failed, not only because we have sinned,
but because we have thought it wise to keep tabs at all.”

-Danielle Shroyer, as quoted in “Attached to God” by Krispin Mayfield, p. 135

I’m breaking up with this advice: “Stop and think.”

I have stopped to think and here I remain, thinking. It’s time for me to go and not think. I have lived my whole life under a microscope, evaluating everything. This is exhausting, cold, dehumanizing. It’s like looking in one of those concave mirrors that magnifies skin pores, obsessing over the health of each one. No wonder I’m weary.

The alternative is to zoom out a bit and smile. Zoomed out I see a face, a person, a life. God is inviting me to stop. evaluating. everything.

And I feel the freedom. “It is for freedom that Christ has set [me] free” (Galatians 5:1a, NIV). Imagine an unevaluated life. Just a life. Safe and free and homey. And maybe a little daring and vulnerable. I want to model this to my kids: an unevaluated life; a different way than school and work and self-help books, where everything is examined, measured, and labeled. “Bad.” “Good.” “Better.” “Best.” What if nothing was labeled? Imagine the chaos, the freedom, the delight. Imagine the curiosity, the seeing, the open hands receiving.

My calm and whole center where I know I’m okay seems to be growing. One morning I moved to it from a very distracted and unruly mind, and the calm felt bigger than it used to. In this holy center I don’t need to prove my worth or earn my keep. I am truly, deeply okay. In a strange way I feel perfect. The tension between where I am and where I ought to be doesn’t exist here. Imagine—a place where evaluation and measuring are a foreign concept. Breathing, smiling—these things come more easily.

If I can be free from scrutiny, how about everyone else? I feel a growing desire to stop evaluating others. I want to invite them to live freely, to zoom out and smile. See something beautiful here. Stop thinking for a minute—it’s revolutionary.

From Jesus Freak to Evangelism Phobia, Part Two

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In this post—as in last week’s post—I use words like “Evangelism,” “Witnessing,” “Christianity,” and “Religion.” Each reader will have a different understanding of these words, both in denotation and connotation. Personally, I’m in the murky depths, somewhere between a conservative upbringing and an emerging mystical faith, still feeling around for a vocabulary that doesn’t cause pain.

***

“Aren’t you the one with a blog talking about Jesus?” Khalid asked.

I was at the home of my friends, Khalid and Tiffaney. They’d been to a concert earlier that week, which I avoided because of the musician’s evangelistic bent. “I don’t like evangelism,” I said, which prompted Khalid’s question about my blog.

“I certainly hope people don’t think I’m evangelizing!” I deflected the question.

It had not occurred to me that my blog (and my social handle @jesusmyfavoritesubject) could be viewed as evangelism. I have written over 100 blog posts, with the premise that talking about Jesus is one of my favorite things to do. What is that, if it’s not evangelism? Suddenly, I needed to answer this question.

I asked my husband if what I’m doing is evangelism. In his typical style, he looked up the word on his phone and found half a dozen definitions, all of which involved the concept of convincing another person. A Google search tells me that to convince is: to bring (as by argument) to belief, consent, or a course of action; persuade; cause (someone) to believe firmly in the truth of something. Combine this with the gospel of Jesus Christ, and you have evangelism: teaching or preaching about Jesus with the aim to bring about belief or action. Is that what I’m doing? I don’t want to answer.

A gray Jeep with a “Jesus Loves You” bumper sticker kept showing up on B Street last week. I passed it on my way home from school pick-up, and it got me all up in arms. Rather than joy at the sweet reminder of how loved I am, my response was irritation. People have all different conceptions of Jesus; the person displaying the sticker has no idea how many painful ideas he or she is promoting along with the positive ones. “Jesus Loves You” doesn’t see people, it talks at them. It doesn’t have any idea what tragedies or triumphs are on the reader’s mind, and it cannot weep or rejoice with them. The sticker is evangelism. I don’t like that I don’t like it … but I don’t like it.

One Friday afternoon, while chatting with my friend Celina at her dining room table, I brought up the question of whether I’m evangelizing. She asked, “If you’re not trying to convince when you write, what are you trying to do? What do you hope will happen when people read your blog?”

“I want people to feel seen,” I said. “I want them to be able to take a deep breath. I want them to know they’re okay.”

If God is in the picture, I hope people will see God seeing them.

On the eve of my recent 38th birthday, I spent a couple hours making a mental list of 38 people who have influenced me. It included coworkers, authors, family, and friends. Every influence was gentle; not one produced an about-face change in my life. They were quiet but strong: my boss—Jerry Mason—who believed in me, gave me responsibilities I would never have pursued on my own, and whose confidence in me was a steady presence in my life for over eight years; the authors—Gregory Boyle, Barbara Brown Taylor, Anne Lamott—who gave me permission to breathe, to try life open-handed; our mom tribe—half a dozen ladies who see me and allow me to see them. This is the kind of influence I hope for in writing.

I suppose I’m inviting people to be at home in themselves, rather than reject themselves to be at home in Christ. Krispin Mayfield, in his book Attached to God, writes about the Christian experience of sinfulness, and compares it to the pain of disconnection described in attachment theory.

It struck me that the theology I’d been given and the attachment literature I was reading seemed to be describing the exact same thing but offering different explanations. The theology taught that this awful feeling of ‘inner deformity’ was because of things we’ve done—lying to our parents, disrespecting teachers, sneaking extra candy. The psychology suggested that the terrible feeling came from what has been done to us. … (pg. 169)

When we have an insecure attachment, we feel awful inside not because of our sin but because of our unmet needs. It is the feelings of distance and separation that create the intense pain of shame. … (pg. 170)

“We think that if we can get a little bit better, a little less sinful, we will feel better about ourselves. In reality, true connection heals shame. (pg. 173)

True connection. That I might be willing to shout from the rooftops. I want to offer the things I thought I had because I was a Christian, but slowly and devastatingly found out I didn’t have: hope, peace, love, joy. These are almost synonymous with Christianity, but they evaded me for decades. So as I’ve found them, I’ve also found different language. When I share hope, I talk about how it’s okay to not be okay. When I share peace, I talk about disentangling from perfectionism. When I share love, I talk about expansiveness. When I share joy, I talk about coffee and friends.

I guess I’ve always wanted people to know they’re loved, and for a long time I thought telling them about Jesus was the best way to do that. But I was “the blind, leading the blind.” Religion created a structure in which I could feel my way around while my eyes were closed. But at some point I started bumping into sharp corners, and I didn’t feel safe any more. God suggested I sit still and open my eyes. In that terrifying posture of stillness, I learned to hold hands with myself, let myself be loved, and let life be both brutal and beautiful—“brutiful,” as Glennon Doyle would say. The structure of religion was an external protection. The beauty of loving and being loved is an internal strength. I’m learning to be strong rather than safe, and that’s what I want share. Is that evangelism? I still wonder about that.

From Jesus Freak to Evangelism Phobia, Part One

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In this post I use words like “Evangelism,” “Witnessing,” “Christianity,” and “Religion.” Each reader will have a different understanding of these words, both in denotation and connotation. Personally, I’m in the murky depths, somewhere between a conservative upbringing and an emerging mystical faith, still feeling around for a vocabulary that doesn’t cause pain.

I was the teenage girl who painted “Jesus Freak” in giant letters on a bright yellow t-shirt, wrote songs about Jesus, spent two summers selling religious books door-to-door, and took a turn in every spiritual leadership position at my private school. I grew up in a small, rural church, and my eager interest was met with plenty of opportunities for involvement. I made floral arrangements and bulletins for church, served as Sabbath School superintendent and deaconess, led song services and provided special musics. Before I moved away for college, I preached a sermonette centered around a song titled “The Station,” in which Jesus’ followers are entreated not to take their heaven-ticket to the train station, but to go out into the streets where “there is work to be done.”1

I bought evangelism—hook, line and sinker—but I didn’t grow into it. It was baggy and ill-fitting. I don’t recall ever having a conversation in which I tried to convince someone of God’s existence, God’s love, or their need for a relationship with God. Rather, Christian community was like being on an athletic team. It was a great way to keep me active, connected, passionate, and out of trouble. I believed everyone needed to “know Jesus,” and I faithfully kept a prayer journal and participated in all faith-feeding activities, but mostly I was just happy to be a good person (ignorance is bliss).

Fast forward 20 years, from the late 90’s to the late 2010’s. I no longer felt like a good person, and I was nursing a decidedly bitter attitude toward witnessing. At one point I participated in a Bible study focused on “winning” souls for Christ, and “warning” friends and relatives of Jesus’ soon return to Earth. I found these ideas as unpleasant as a wedgie, and I wanted relief from the discomfort. When I thought about “winning and warning,” what came to mind were a number of messages from my church (and purportedly from the Bible), including: 1) you are bad (sinful) and I know what can fix you (Jesus); 2) there is a god who has great things for you IF you submit to him, but if you don’t he’ll punish you; 3) your heart matters and your behavior matters, so it is imperative to work toward a pure heart and loving actions at all times; 4) once you’re in, it’s your job to bring more people in.

None of these messages set me free, so why would I spread them around? All of this assumes that people whose spiritual journey is different than mine are wrong, and it’s my job to convince them I have the truth (and they don’t). The primary reason for treating people well is so they’ll want to become Christian. Every person I add to the church books is a “jewel for my crown in heaven.” Yuck.

I thought about people in my circle of influence. If I’m not being nice to them with an agenda—to “win them for Christ”—is there still a reason to be nice? Do I haphazardly shoot love-darts, hoping to penetrate a hard heart? Am I being nice to assuage my guilt for the rampant selfishness in my life? I think about neighbors, friends, strangers. What reason do I have to treat them as valuable, dignified human beings? If I’m not intent on witnessing and converting, why would I take interest or go out of my way to care for someone?

For a time, I found comfort in something Jesus said. “I tell you the truth, when you did it to one of the least of these my brothers and sisters, you were doing it to me!” (Matthew 25:40b, NLT). I know Jesus. I would go out of my way for Jesus. So if He is in every person around me, I am invested—in neighbors, friends, and strangers alike—because in loving on them I am loving on my bro, Jesus.

Jesus tells us to love our enemies, so presumably He does the same. He loves the people disinterested in His kingdom, and the people opposed to His kingdom. If this is true, then ought not my message to be that Jesus loves you? I don’t need you to come over here to where I am. I want you to know that Jesus loves you over there where you are.

But this comfort was short-lived. Even the phrase, “Jesus loves you,” started to feel risky. I know people who are gagging on religion, vomiting over and over, waiting for it to leave their system so they can breathe. Once they heal, they will be hungry. But not for what religion is putting on the table.

I’m deconstructing, along with thousands of evangelicals and exvangelicals in my generation. Yet while I reject churchy messages, my lifestyle for the last several years has included co-leading a house church, speaking for chapel at my kids’ school, blogging about my relationship with Jesus, and lending my favorite spiritual books to friends. If that’s not evangelism, Christianity, or church, what is it? If I’m not telling people they’re sinful and Jesus loves them anyway, who or what am I?

Next week, in Part Two, I’ll talk about finding new words and ways. There’s nothing final about it, and that’s okay. I’m getting more comfortable with uncertainty. Still, there is comfort in finding a toehold.

Endnotes:
1 Lisa Marie Buster is a favorite musical artist, and I still enjoy her song, “The Station,” on the album by the same name.

Atmosphere

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Atmosphere

Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
King of the Universe,
for atmosphere:
vigilant protector of earth,
gaseous, transparent blanket.
Through it I see lightyears away,
into eternity past.

Blessed are You
for this vastness,
and for the accompanying
sense of smallness,
releasing me from striving
to impress the world,
impress myself, impress You.

Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
King of the Universe,
for Your invisible, protective Spirit.
Your presence saves me.
Fear and shame combust on impact.
It is both profligate freedom,
and steadfast humility.
Your breath is my shield,
and my window to eternity.

Ain’t No Love Got Time for That

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I’m on the couch, 6:30 a.m., hungry for the re-membering presence of the Spirit. I feel anxious and sad and heavy. I also feel grateful and loved and okay. The kids were in my office so I came downstairs to journal. Phrank, our cat, is on the couch with me, his foot on mine. He meowed a very loud request to come inside, and I actually stood up and went to let him in.

I am not a high-energy person. In scientific terms, I have inertia. Once I sit down it’s hard to get back up. Once I get going on a project, it’s hard to stop. Everything is a project.

Sedentary pastimes are my go-to: crochet, reading, scrapbooking. I know how to do gardening and canning, but I don’t want to. Long days in the yard and kitchen sound overwhelming. These days my commitments are at a bare minimum. Other than taking my kids to school and participating in several small groups, my time is flexible. I am utterly spoiled, living in the extravagance of an unburdened schedule.

This state of unhurried flow is almost comical, given my upbringing and my high-energy plunge into teen and adult life. I always worked during high school—babysitting, custodial, cashier, fruit picking, door-to-door sales, school office, yearbook editor. I was never idle. My boyfriend in college, whom I married after my sophomore year, pushed me to work a little less and play a little more. Conversely, I pushed him to play a little less and work a little more. Marital conflict ensued. But, eventually I could watch a movie without crocheting at the same time to feel productive, and he could mow the lawn before it got out of control.

At age 27, after five years working full time, I quit work to stay home with our newborn daughter. That was the beginning of the end of having energy. I didn’t know sleep was my drug of choice until I could no longer reach for it at will. I became afraid, always afraid, of not having enough energy. I was too much of a purist to drink coffee, too independent to ask for help, and too naive to realize I was depressed.

Fast forward three years. I had a three-year-old and a one-year-old, who still often woke me at night. Exhaustion was so normal I couldn’t remember any other state. I was resentful and angry. I was too stubborn to consider working instead of staying home full time, too lonely in marriage to lean into my husband, and too resentful to take refuge in gratitude. At this point I became tired enough of myself that I started seeing a therapist. Her name was Beth. Together we turned directly into a swamp of pain that would take seven years to wade through.

It’s May 3, 2023. My babies are ages ten and eight years old. Tomorrow I will be 38. I like myself, more than half the time. I enjoy a hundred things—including hot showers (which I previously hated), my children (whom I previously resented), coffee (which I am no longer too much of a purist to drink), and friends (they’re not as scary as they used to be). I’m taking antidepressants, enjoying life-changing intimacy in my marriage, and practicing asking for help. I write poems of gratitude. I blog for fun. I rarely write a to-do list, and I’ve given up controlling my schedule and my loved ones (at least some of the time).

I am free in a dozen ways—fruit of the last five years spent dredging my murky depths. An ability to hold the stresses of life lightly is one of these freedoms. I could stress out when a friend stands me up on a lunch date, or I could enjoy the rare time alone and the gossipy conversation of sweet-smelling, wrinkled ladies at the next table. I could shame myself for not getting groceries until two days after the milk runs out, or I could enjoy making peanut butter and banana sandwiches for breakfast. I could be angry when a kid wakes up in the middle of the night, or I could be grateful I’m able to be there with them.

Please, please understand this is not about choice. I have very ugly, unresolved feelings toward whoever says we can choose to be happy. Maybe I’m an exceptionally difficult case, but I did not have access to the “power of choice” for many long years. The ability to choose love, grace, and the quirky flow of life—wow, it’s relief, like a warm bowl of soup after gardening in the rain.

I think God is having the last laugh when it comes to my anxiety about never having enough energy. After ten years (ten years!) it is apparent to me that stressing about everyone’s behavior (including inanimate things—watch out if the utensil drawer sticks when I try to close it) takes an incredible amount of energy. Possibly more energy than loving. I know, it’s a long shot. Finding my wholeness has given me courage to take long shots.

Here I thought God was asking me to do more, but actually He was inviting me to do less. My new mantra is: Don’t try so hard, don’t analyzing everything, just live. Love doesn’t have time to mull over every unmet expectation or frustrating inconvenience. It turns out open-handed receiving takes less energy than tight-fisted control.

I breathe, and my oxygen-starved heart says, “It took you long enough.” I smile, because I don’t have the energy to feel bad about ten years of struggle. Ain’t no love got time for that.

Wild, Strong Choice

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Wild, Strong Choice

Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
King of the Universe,
for the charity of choice:
not the weighty responsibility
I once thought it was,
but a wild freedom
and strength.

Blessed are You for choice,
release from resentment,
return to myself,
invitation to be brave
and to choose Love—
for myself, and for
the person in front of me.

Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
King of the Universe,
for the peace
of knowing
I invariably have choice.
I am not a victim; rather,
I am a victor—a chooser—
in Love.