Tag Archives: healing

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!

Between Grace and Perfection

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My parents did just about everything right. They read the Bible together every day, consumed a home-grown whole-foods diet, kept the house clean and the yard weeded, and if there was a squeaky door my dad fixed it within an hour. They kept cream-colored carpet clean for thirty years, while raising two children. Need I say more?

Things turned out right most of the time for my parents. Their kids turned out well (ask around if you don’t want to take my word for it), none of the fruit from their 40-plus fruit trees spoiled on the ground, and never was a penny wasted or a sock lost. We lived below the government-defined “poverty level” income my entire childhood, and rumor had it that one neighbor thought we were millionaires. My dad has always been an expert at making his money work for him, even if it meant a three-squares-of-toilet-paper limit and eating freezer-burned garden produce.

If anyone could make the claim that doing things “right” actually works, my parents could. They didn’t waste anything—not a drop of hot water, not a plate of food, not a moment of time. My parents liked their life and the way they lived it—at least most of the time. I observed them and assumed if I did everything “right” I would like myself, as well as my life. And for a while my experience affirmed this idea. Then it didn’t. When I discovered a seething dislike for myself, I was confused. Why was I perfectly miserable?

It turns out a performance-based value is no value at all.

With much effort—which involves releasing my grip more than trying hard—I have s l o w l y learned to like myself. The claws and flaws of perfectionism are still imprinted on me, but I practice living from a different space, acknowledging that growth is not about becoming better, so much as it is about healing. My sister shared an Instagram post with me that describes this well:

Healing is not becoming the best version of yourself. Healing is letting the worst version of yourself be loved. So many have turned healing into becoming this super perfect version of ourselves. That is bondage. That is anxiety waiting to happen. Healing is saying every single version of me deserves love. Deserves tenderness. Deserves grace. When we get to a place where we can see and empathize with every version of ourselves, even the version of ourselves we can sometimes be ashamed of, that’s when we know we are walking in a path of healing.

@somaticexperiencingint

Some days, I have both feet on that path. I get ugly with my kids and I embrace the ugly me. I forget something important, and I find a new way to handle it. Some days, I’m back on the perfectionism path, scrutinizing every move, finding fault everywhere; or feeling self-righteous (the alternative to self-loathing when value is performance-based).

Most days I’m hopping back and forth. I accept grace for losing my temper when a website loses all the information I entered, but swear under my breath when I find a dirty sock that didn’t make it in the wash with the rest of the load. I walk by the overflowing kitchen counter without a single shaming thought, but get panicky when I text a friend about a change in plans. I calmly pay the overdue penalty on a bill that got buried under piles of unopened mail, but flog myself for losing it with the kids while trying to leave the house for a school program.

One gift of imperfection is acceptance that sometimes I will still try to be perfect. Even this urge to perform is worthy of tenderness and grace. There is room for it within my wholeness and healing. I will keep dancing this dance in which both grace and perfectionism get time on the dance floor.

Righteous Rest

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Righteous Rest

Reflections – week 4

Welcome to the fourth week of reflections inspired by my current small groups. Together with some of my favorite women, I’m exploring these books: Father’s House, and The Whole Language. Gregory Boyle, author of The Whole Language, founded Homeboy Industries, the largest gang intervention and rehab program in the world. The Whole Language is his third book, and my favorite. Boyle frequently refers to “mysticism,” and if—like me—you’re not sure what that is, I invite you to just roll with it. Thank you for journeying with me.

Dead

I have a tenuous relationship with metaphors around the cross of Jesus—bridge, sacrifice, torn veil. I’m also unsure why we’re excited about a symbol of brutal, torturous death. We don’t wear miniature gold guillotines or electric chairs on delicate chains around our necks. But even if I can get past crucifixion pedantry, I still have questions. Did Jesus die as me or for me? Did He take punishment, or natural consequences, or did He simply enter into human suffering? Did He free all humanity, or only those who confess His name? Do I reap the reward of what He accomplished today, or only in the afterlife?

The authors of Father’s House believe that Jesus died as me, and while I don’t share their certainty, I love where they go from there: “The old you, the you that is still trying to measure up, died.”1 Now that is good news. Performing me is dead. Striving me is dead. Ashamed me is dead. The apostle Paul believed we were crucified with Christ, and exclaimed, “Could it be any clearer that our former identity is now and forever deprived of its power!”2 Having spent the last decade imprisoned by my own self, the possibility of leaving that behind is tremendously appealing.

The New Testament talks about the “old” and the “new” person. I like to think of them as a fake self and a real self. I was a facade. Now I am genuine. This moving into righteousness is not a move from bad to good, but a move from fragmented to whole, death to life. Behavior is always and only a side note. Good behavior centers me on shaky ground; bad behavior centers me on shaky ground. When I mess up, and when I have it all together, I need to be reminded that it’s not about behavior. “Righteous” is not a tally sheet, it’s a birth certificate.

Righteousness is Mysticism is Connectedness

Week #4 in Father’s House is all about righteousness, and the belief that “I am as righteous as Jesus Christ.”3 I want to short-circuit the voice in my heart and head that believes it’s all about behavior. I want to confuse, divert, or undermine my pesky inner parole officer. I have been imprisoned by my humanness, convinced I can only get out on good behavior, so each reminder in the Lesson Four video teaching is hope:

– Righteousness is not a verb, it’s a noun

– Righteousness is simply received, not achieved

– Righteousness is not dependent on my obedience

– Righteousness is about who I trust, not what I do

– Righteousness is received by faith, not by feeling

Righteousness ushers in a whole new way of seeing. Gregory Boyle writes, “The world will focus on outcomes or behavior or success. Mysticism glances just above what the world has in its sights. It puts judgment on check. It develops a warmth for everything that comes its way and rests in the center of it. When we are whole, that’s what we see in others.”4 Then we all warm up around the radiant heat of connectedness.

Boyle continues, “This culture of mystical tenderness holds every soul in high regard. …high performance is not the goal, but rather, a surrender to healing is. Then everyone finds this gentle road and practices, with each other, the pathway home.”5

Papa God is relentless in His passionate devotion to my wholeness and healing. When I soak in this—in the crazy truth that I am righteous—transformation is loosed, I live from a seat of rest, and I begin tapping into my heart’s desires instead of listening to my inner parole officer. I become confident in God’s presence to do the impossible with and through me, to invite everyone home.6

Righteous Conviction

In John 16:8, Jesus says the Spirit “will convict the world of sin, of righteousness, and of judgment” (NKJV). Day Two reading in Father’s House shocks me: “This [John 16:8] is the only time in the entire New Testament that there is mention of the Holy Spirit convicting of sin… and it is in response to those who do not believe in Him! As a believer, this says He wants to convict you of something completely different: your righteousness. Holy Spirit knows that reminding you of who you are, the righteousness of God in Christ, empowers you…”7

So the voice inside of me that points out how much I fall short is NOT the Holy Spirit, or any part of God? Why am I listening to it? Instead, I may hear a voice that convicts me of righteousness, a voice that notices all the beautiful things in me and says that is who I truly am. This voice looks for goodness and finds it. This voice spends its time bringing to light righteousness (not sin).

Embodied Healing

Another analogy I’m not fond of is the “robe of righteousness.” Robes are not attractive, they don’t keep my feet warm, and they are not all-day wear (except when it’s cold in the house and I wear my robe over my clothes). It’s quite possible royal robes were more common than bath robes in Jesus’ day, but having no experience with royal robes I’m not sure how to relate. Also, a robe can be taken on and off, and I’m not keen on transient righteousness. But, because I’m just a wee bit compelled to follow directions, I explored my thoughts about a robe of righteousness, as instructed in Father’s House. To my surprise, I found a thought that fits me.Skin is the largest organ of the human body. Clothing is intimate. It makes sense that God would draw near to me in a way that touches my skin. Touch keeps me present. It draws me out of my head and into my body, and God knows I need all the help I can get to stay present in my body.

Our bodies carry pain, and sometimes we divorce ourselves to get away from the pain. We do a thousand things to survive, many of which we don’t even realize we’re doing. It takes time to sort this out and let love into the picture. The folks Gregory Boyle connects with carry unimaginable amounts of pain and trauma. Extravagant tenderness creates space for that pain to be seen. “When you enter the program,” a homie said, “you need to bring your pain with you.”8 Connection and healing happen when we allow our wound to be seen, and then to be touched. Boyle suggests that “Healing takes a lifetime but surrender to this moment can carry you.”9 Love creates the space to surrender to this moment, to stay present to ourselves. “To be nurtured is to be reverent for what is happening to you.”10 Grace is reverence for pain.

Rest and Love

Striving to be “good” takes a boatload of energy. I remember when my oldest daughter began full-time schooling in first grade. She came home from school each day totally spent, and often spiraled into tantrums, tears, and yelling matches with me (I’m a superb yeller). She spent every ounce of her energy to behave well, learn well, and get along with others at school, and when she came home there was nothing left. I, too, have “melted down” over and over because I empty myself in my attempts to perform well, and to be “good.”

Papa God, Jesus, and Spirit are a whole new paradigm—a home where behavior is beside the point, a distraction from the real deal. Trying to become whole is a tiring pursuit. Knowing I’m already whole is energizing. Resting in righteousness creates a foundation for love. “The mystic’s quest is to be on the lookout for the hidden wholeness in everyone,”11 including me.

Endnotes:
1Father’s House, page 65
2Romans 6:6 TPT
3Father’s House, page 66
4The Whole Language, page 51
5The Whole Language, page 53
6Father’s House, Session Four video teaching and activation, pages 66-68
7Father’s House, page 71
8The Whole Language, page 54
9Father’s House, page 53
10Father’s House, page 50
11The Whole Language, page 55

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/

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.

Codependectomy In Progress

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Before we explore my codependent tendencies, let me say this: I am not a codependent, and neither are you. We are human beings, made in the image of God, with tendencies to forget who we are.

Often I have believed the lie that I must perform for others because they would never choose to be with me if I wasn’t doing something for them. This belief sits on top of another lie: I am not worthy of friendship, or to be loved and cared for by another human being.

I have spent most of my life feeling like a liability to the people around me, or combating that feeling by behaving well to ensure I’m not a liability. This is a tense and fearful space in which to exist. If I assume I’m a liability when I’m not performing well, I also believe other people are a liability if they are not performing well. Which of course leads to judgement and resentment and all sorts of fun. This is a mess indeed. So Jesus has been helping me disentangle from the space in which I believe I must be thought well of by others to be ok.

My safest relationship—with my husband—is the first to undergo a codependectomy. I write in my journal:

I can’t keep Michael happy, and Michael can’t keep me happy. I am ok without him, and he is ok without me. My identity is not in Michael, and Michael’s identity is not in me. Michael will be annoyed with me, frustrated by me, and hurt by me. Michael will be distracted, impatient, codependent and clingy; and he will keep score, be disappointed in me, and sometimes resent the discomfort I cause in his life.

I feel like the world is not right when Michael is not happy with me. I feel like a liability. I fear that loss of intimacy will leave me free-falling until he catches me again. But when I believe these things, I have given Michael power over me in a way that is damaging to both of us. As long as I think I am responsible for Michael’s happiness, I will feel anxious, worthless, and not-enough whenever he or I struggle.

The truth is, I couldn’t be better. God never expects me to keep another person happy. My identity is wholeness, and “liability” has no place in that. I am not free falling. I am standing on solid ground. My reality does not change when Michael moves away from me. Jesus is always in His room in my heart, and I am always in my room in His heart. This centers me. I always belong. I am always desired.

Michael being pleased with me is not welcome relief from being a failure, nor is it my due as his wife. It’s more like him agreeing with God about me: like they’re hanging out together and they’re both saying how much they like me. I get to just stand there and feel the wonder of it… whether it’s both of them, or just Jesus.

Not being responsible for Michael’s happiness doesn’t look like a cold shoulder; it looks like compassion—for myself, and for him. One morning as I grapple with this, I hear the Spirit say, “you don’t need to do anything to be ‘good enough’ today.” And I think, “what do I do with my family while I’m not doing anything?” They need me, continually, relentlessly, deeply. I am set free in Jesus, but often I don’t know what “free” looks like. (Culture tells me it’s getting what I want and doing what I feel like, and I know that’s not true. It has to be better than that.) What does freedom in the midst of needy people look like? I think Jesus knows, considering His three or so years of being followed around by hundreds of needy, clingy, freaked out and insecure people.

Jesus said to the woman at the well, “Those who drink the water I give will never be thirsty again. It becomes a fountain within them, giving them eternal life.” (John 4:14) And maybe He says this to me: “I know Michael and the girls feel like leeches sometimes, but the life I’m giving you they can’t suck out of you.”

I have been trying to do a lot of things for myself that Jesus is already doing for me. He said, “I will ask the Father, and He will give you another Helper to be with you forever,” and the Amplified Bible adds these words parenthetically after Helper: Comforter, Advocate, Intercessor, Counselor, Strengthener, Standby. (see John 14:16, AMP)

So, throughout my long day of being needed…
God is my Comforter, who eases my grief or distress.
God is my Advocate, who publicly supports and recommends me.
God is my Intercessor, who intervenes on my behalf.
God is my Counselor, who gives guidance for my problems.
God is my Strengthener, who provides additional strength.
God is my Stand-by, who is ready to be deployed as back-up in an emergency.

“All that I have is yours… come in and celebrate,” Jesus says to His children (see Luke 15:28-32). I am rich. I am full. I am righteous. I am daughter. I don’t need to prove who I am, protect myself, or provide for myself. Jesus was tempted by Satan (and others) to prove Himself, protect Himself, and provide for Himself,1 but He knew who He was, and He has gifted me that unshakeable identity.

As Gregory Boyle said, “What saves us in the present moment is being anchored in love and tethered to a sustaining God who keeps reminding us of our unshakeable goodness and the goodness of others.”2

I have to wonder, if I’m not worried about proving, protecting, or providing, then what am I going to do today? I have lived in not-enough so long that I’m hardly aware other spaces exist, and I don’t know what they look like. Maybe this?—Love. Create. Belong. Enjoy. Celebrate.

I don’t need to be doing something to be worth something.
I don’t need to be “put together” to be worth something.
I don’t need to understand myself to be worth something.
I don’t need to be in control to be worth something.
I am full by default. I am worth something when I am wrong, tired, uninteresting, lost (literally or metaphorically), or without reason.

Some days, living in this truth looks like a journal entry:

I don’t need my kids to have affection for me or obey me. I don’t need my writing group to affirm what I write. I don’t need my parents to approve of my choices or opinions. I don’t need my friends to respond to everything I say, or to think well of me. I don’t need my husband to agree with me, or always be kind to me, or do what I think he should do. I don’t need my extended family to think well of me. It’s ok for people to disagree with me, and to misunderstand me. I could lose in any or all of these relationships and I would still be who I am: God’s favorite, the one He is delighted in and to whom He has given His whole self.

Every Friday night our family has a special meal. The food is in actual serving dishes, the table is decorated, and we always have a beverage and dessert. This tradition came out of a conversation with my husband about how to incorporate the Beloved Creed into our family routine. It was his idea to speak it aloud together as part of a special meal. And so we speak:

I’m not what I do.
I’m not what I have.
I’m not what people [think or] say about me.
I am the beloved of God.
It’s who I am.
No one can take it from me.
I don’t have to worry.
I don’t have to hurry.
I can trust my friend Jesus and share His love with the world.

If—like me—you struggle with insecurity, let’s dare to believe we are a good idea, we belong, and we are beloved.

Endnotes:
1Paul Coneff with Lindsey Gendke, The Hidden Half of the Gospel: How His Suffering Can Heal Yours (Maitland: Two Harbors Press, 2014, 2016), 15.
2Gregory Boyle, The Whole Language: The Power of Extravagant Tenderness (New York: Avid Reader Press, 2021), 34.