Tag Archives: parenting

It’s Me! Run!

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It’s Me! Run!

Reflections – week 2

Welcome to the second week of 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.

This is week two of eight. I’m finding joy here, and I’m pleased you’re with me on this journey.

The Paddle

When I was a child, a wooden spatula was the “paddle” at our house—used for spankings. I chuckle now, remembering the occasional days when my mother would carry the paddle in her back pocket. How well I know those kinds of days now that I have kids of my own.

I have two specific memories of spankings, one of which must have happened when I was quite young, I’m guessing preschool age. I don’t know what brought it on, but I had a meltdown of epic proportions, involving kicking, screaming, and the works. My parents put me on my bed to spank me, but I was kicking so violently they couldn’t paddle me. To solve this conundrum, one of them sat on my legs and the other spanked me.

As this memory accompanied my growth and development, it grew into a belief: the proper way to handle big feelings is to punish myself for them. Or better yet, try not to have them at all. I’m certain that’s not the lesson my parents intended. They probably figured they were enabling me to grow up and behave like an adult. (No one appreciates a 30-year-old who still throws epic tantrums.)

Fear of Self

Week two in Father’s House is about being lavishly loved. The authors write, “To live as a fully loved and accepted daughter in your Father’s House, He’s inviting you to let go of your former identity. You are no longer bound to your past, what anyone else has spoken over you or even what you say about yourself. As you journey Home, saturate yourself in who your Father says you are.”1 (emphasis added)

As I read and wrote through each day of the study last week, fear of myself emerged as a common theme. Starting as a young child I learned to fear myself, to fear my emotions and desires, my imperfections, my capacity to make mistakes. The religious community further intensified this fear by teaching me that I was sinful and needed constant spiritual supervision to avoid indulging the unforgivable person that I was. I became afraid of turning away from God. I figured He’s pretty nice—you know, amazing grace and all that—but if I intentionally, or unintentionally, turn my back on Him, He will be pissed off.

So there I was, internalizing my parents’ responses to me, into a belief that my emotional experiences are unacceptable; internalizing the religious community’s sin-message into the belief that I am a walking liability; and what did all that do? For twenty years, nothing. I was so good at being good that these fears lay dormant. It was unnecessary to face them when I managed myself exceptionally and performed well for every person in my life who expected something from me.

If you’re familiar with my story, you know when the upheaval began: stay-at-home momming. Suddenly, with loss of sleep and the demands of parenting, I was reacquainted with my emotional self in the most savage way. My best efforts to control and punish myself weren’t working. Anger, frustration, fear, and emptiness consumed me, and—given my beliefs about emotions and mistakes—it’s not surprising that a dark shame enveloped me.

Temper Tantrum

A few months ago when I went through Father’s House for the first time, during the activation exercise (meditative visualizing and listening), I had a (visualized) temper tantrum. It was just as I remember from childhood, heels hitting the floor so hard it hurt, as I lay on the ground screaming and sobbing out of control. Papa God lay beside me. I was so overwhelmed I couldn’t engage with Him. I could not receive comfort or accept reason or respond to reprimand. Mercifully, He didn’t expect anything from me. When the waves of emotion began to subside, I rolled into Papa’s arms. I was ready to receive comfort, and He was waiting to comfort me.

Papa God suggests there is no distance between Him and me. He is not cooled by the things that chill the people in my life: turning away, having needs, being impolite, tired, sick, stressed, confused, emotional, forgetful. God is warmly present with me when I am out of control. All of me and my experiences are folded right in, received without question or critique or hesitation. No part of me is a liability.

Holy Imagination

“Visualizing your future as a lavishly loved daughter is critical to your life,” I read in Father’s House. “In fact, it helps engage your heart with your head when you involve your divine imagination. Describe what that life would look like in as much detail as possible. What would you be doing, thinking, or feeling?”2 Here’s what comes to mind:

  • My insides will be still (not agitated). I will be at peace with myself, not warring against myself.
  • I will have energy to create and to love (not compulsion).
  • I will take more risks.
  • Forgiveness will come as naturally as breathing.
  • Suffering will fall into my embrace rather than being held at arms length. It may hurt like hell, but it won’t be fragmenting.
  • Pain, anxiety, depression, fear and anger will be experienced with God, rather than as separating or isolating experiences.
  • I will be whole, not fragmented, not always looking for parts that have been forgotten.

Not As Scary As I Thought

I assumed God was in on the idea that I cannot be trusted with myself. I am shocked to discover God trusts me with me. The shame is lifting. The fear is shrinking.

Lie: I am loved and accepted if I reject myself so I can be what I “ought” to be.

Truth: I couldn’t be better. I am loved entirely independent of my level of responsibility and emotional control. Papa received me first, to clear the way for me to receive myself. He invites me to love myself as He loves me. Now that’s crazy!

Gregory Boyle writes, “Ensuring, then, that we are never strangers to ourselves will give us access to our deepest longing.” I have been a stranger to myself, but I am learning to roll out the welcome mat, receive myself with open arms, and explore my deepest longings.

Endnotes:
1Father’s House, page 29
2Father’s House, page 34
3The Whole Language, page 18

Books I read in 2022

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Favorite new-to-me Author: Barbara Brown Taylor

  • Leaving Church: A Memoir of Faith
  • An Altar in the World: A Geography of Faith
  • Holy Envy: Finding God in the Faith of Others

As I review the list of books I read last year, I am reminded of God’s propensity to show up with impeccable timing. My introduction to Barbara Brown Taylor was one such instance. Last year my sister connected me with Writing for Your Life, and I considered attending one of their conferences featuring Barbara Brown Taylor as a speaker. I wasn’t familiar with her so I decided to order one of her books—see if I might like (or dislike) her writing. The book I ordered was Leaving Church, an appropriate title, given that our family had recently stepped down from six years in house church leadership.

When I start writing quotes on note cards, I know I’ve found a favorite new author. I felt seen and affirmed as I read Barbara’s story. Here are samples from my note cards:

“I had kept my soul so hitched to the plow that it stood between the traces even after the harness was off, oiled, and hung on the wall.”

“If you decide to live on the fire that God has kindled inside of you instead of rushing out to find some sticks to rub together, then it does not take long for all sorts of feelings to come out of hiding.”

“I decided to take a rest from trying to be Jesus … Today I will take a break from trying to save the world and enjoy my blessed swath of it instead. I will give thanks for what is instead of withholding my praise until all is as it should be. If I get good enough at this, I may even be able to include my sorry self in the bargain.”

So good.

After Leaving Church, I read An Altar in the World, which again coincided with a turning point in my life—or maybe created that turning point. The final chapter is about blessing, a topic I had never heard of, despite the word’s frequent appearance in Scripture and around the dinner table. Barbara wrote, “The most ordinary things are drenched in divine possibility.” I was captivated. I began writing blessings, beginning each with the phrase, “Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the Universe.” I have found joy as I discover the divine in dirt and desire, bodies and brokenness, tears and trees. I have written nearly thirty blessings, and post one to my blog and social media every Monday. This has been an exciting journey for me into the world of poetry. Even more amazing, it has opened my eyes to the wonders of the natural world and of daily experiences, in a way I never thought possible.

Next I read Holy Envy: Finding God in the Faith of Others, a continuation of Barbara’s personal faith story, and an invitation to God’s presence in the people and practices of faiths other than Christianity. An excellent read.

Fiction and Stories

  • Run To Overcome: The Inspiring Story of an American Champion’s Long-Distance Quest to Achieve a Big Dream, by Meb Keflezighi with Dick Patrick
  • Just Mercy: A Story of Justice and Redemption, by Bryan Stevenson
  • Nobody Don’t Love Nobody: Lessons on Love from the School With No Name, by Stacey Bess
  • Overcomer, by Chris Fabry, a novelization based on the motion picture by Alex Kendrick and Stephen Kendrick
  • Carry On, Warrior: The Power of Embracing Your Messy, Beautiful Life, by Glennon Doyle Melton

Short notes on these:

Run to Overcome My favorite part was the first couple of chapters, detailing the author’s early life in Eritrea, and the determination of his parents to seek out a new life for their large family.

Just Mercy This story demonstrates what compassion and empathy, justice and mercy look like with skin on. I highly recommend it. (The movie is good too).

Nobody Don’t Love Nobody Another flesh-and-blood illustration of compassion, this is a moving story that forever changed the way I view helping others.

Overcomer Enjoyable read. Based on the movie, which I also enjoyed.

Carry On, Warrior One of the qualities I most admire in writing is the ability to put one’s inner world into words. Glennon Doyle Melton has a gift for this. Carry On, Warrior was a funny, refreshing and personally challenging read.

Spiritual and Self-Help Books

  • Barking to the Choir: The Power of Radical Kinship, by Gregory Boyle
  • Tattoos on the Heart: The Power of Boundless Compassion, by Gregory Boyle
  • Almost Everything: Notes on Hope, by Anne Lamott
  • Grace (Eventually): Thoughts on Faith, by Anne Lamott
  • The Making of a Mystic: My Journey With Mushrooms, My Life as a Pastor, and Why It’s Okay for Everyone to Relax, by Kevin Sweeney
  • Braving the Wilderness: The Quest for True Belonging and the Courage to Stand Alone, by Brené Brown
  • MOMumental: Adventures in the Messy Art of Raising a Family, by Jennifer Grant
  • The Hidden Half of the Gospel: How His Suffering Can Heal Yours, by Paul Coneff with Lindsey Gendke
  • No Cure for Being Human (and Other Truths I Need to Hear), by Kate Bowler
  • Free From Sin: The Audacious Claim of Gospel Freedom and What It Means for You, by Jonathan Leonardo
  • No Longer I: The Power of the Gospel Like You Have Never Heard It Before, by Jacob Hotchkiss
  • Grace Based Parenting: Set Your Family Free, by Tim Kimmel

I’ve ordered these books by how much I enjoyed them (starting with the most enjoyable). I won’t comment on every one.

Gregory Boyle and Anne Lamott were my favorite new authors in 2021. I continued reading them this year and was not disappointed.

The Making of a Mystic caught my eye because Gregory Boyle often quotes the great mystics, but I had no idea what a mystic is. When I watched this book interview with Kevin Sweeney, author of The Making of a Mystic, I was intrigued. I ordered the book and read with rapture. It is a fascinating personal story, and an invitation to a new way of seeing, well, everything.

Brené Brown is a longtime favorite author. I thoroughly enjoyed Braving the Wilderness. Here is one of my favorite passages, from the chapter titled, “Hold Hands. With Strangers.” (emphasis added)

While we may all be gathered behind the same bunkers of political or social belief and ideology, we’re still alone in them. And even worse, we’re constantly monitoring ourselves. The looming threat of blowback should we voice an opinion or idea that challenges our bunker mates keeps us anxious. When all that binds us is what we believe rather than who we are, changing our mind or challenging the collective ideology is risky.

When a group or community doesn’t tolerate dissent and disagreement, it forgoes any experience of inextricable connection. There is no true belonging, only an unspoken treaty to hate the same people. This fuels our spiritual crisis of disconnection.

MOMumental is a humble and humorous collection of stories about Jennifer Grant’s parenting adventures. It is encouraging, which every parenting book should be if at all possible. I fell in love with Jennifer’s children’s books—especially Maybe God Is Like That Too—which led me to try one of her books for women. This is one of those books I wish I’d read six or seven years ago, when I needed more moments of grace to survive preschool parenting.

The Hidden Half of the Gospel, Free From Sin, and No Longer I were theological reads, with which I developed a love-hate relationship. I found life-giving ideas that resonated with my personal journey. I also found a prescriptive way of speaking that triggered my shame-based, black-and-white patterns of thinking. I take full credit for this, as I would not say any of them endorse shame and legalism. It was simply a manner of speaking that was at times triggering for me.

In conclusion, I am not the same person I was a year ago, and that is due in part to many of these books. Reading good writing is a thrill, as are the “me too” moments, and the “I’d never thought of it that way before” moments. Reading opens me, and oh, how I want to be open. Here’s to another year of reading, another year of intimacy with beautiful, broken people.

“Overnight Success”

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“I wish someone had told me,” I said to my husband over lunch last week. “Not that I would have been able to hear it,” I admitted before continuing, “I had no idea that someday our kids would start doing all the things I’ve told them over and over. It’s like that saying, ‘An overnight success ten years in the making.’”

“Yes,” my husband, Michael, agreed. “I’ve noticed Kayt has been more independent and responsible. She told me the other day she wants to be more clean and proper when she eats.”

I laughed. It’s a well known fact in our family that Kayt’s place at the at the table (including the floor underneath) can be identified by the generous sprinkling and smearing of food after every meal.

I stood by the microwave heating my second serving of leftovers. “She keeps asking me if her face is clean, every time we go somewhere. She used to not care at all. And she seems more mature, calmer, kind of grown up. It’s so weird. It feels like it happened all of a sudden.”

It has been two months since our older daughter Kayt turned ten, and in many ways it seems she aged three years at once. I guess this makes up for the first year of her life, which felt like three. Lately she disappears to read a book for an hour, doesn’t come looking for me first thing in the morning, and takes on random projects like cleaning her drawer in the bathroom. She asked to decorate the mantle for Christmas, so I brought the bin of Christmas knick-knacks and (mostly) left her to it. She started with layers of wide holiday-colored cloth ribbon. Next she arranged snow globes toward one end, set up the nativity in the middle, and created a scene with a nutcracker pulling a Christmas tree on a sled at the other end. Then she added a string of tiny lights through it all. I’m prone to tweak things after my kids do them—straighten this, move that (I know, I know. I’m working on being less controlling). But I looked at that beautiful Christmassy spread and thought it turned out better than when I do it. Oh, and don’t forget she dusted the mantle before she started decorating (gasp).

After a decade of repeating myself until I lost two or three levels of sanity, this truly feels like a miracle. I wonder if my tone of voice would have been kinder for the past ten years if I had believed someday my kids would actually clear their dishes, close the back door, clean up after themselves, and respond with action when I say, “Please hang up your wet towel. It’s not good to leave it on the wood floor.”

Along with relief, joy, and pride, I feel a twinge of sadness. For too long Kayt’s dependance was so heavy on me all I wanted was to be alone—for as long as possible. Now that it has begun to melt away, I miss it. I feel like a crazy person, wishing for the very thing I found so loathsome. I find solace knowing that every generation before me has felt these same feelings.

I wonder what connection looks like now. We’ve connected over trimming fingernails and combing hair, reading story books and preparing snacks—and in the younger years, dressing and eating, zipping coats and tying shoes. When she doesn’t need me to process every emotion and supervise every activity, what will we do together? Have I been a safe enough person that she will continue to come to me even when she doesn’t have to?

If anything, parenting has taught me that life happens in seasons, and seasons change. I’ll probably get a good dose of clingyness from Kayt when I least want it, and I’m confident we have ahead of us many challenges to navigate together. Teenage years will come and I will be surprised by how they differ from my expectations, just as I have been surprised at every other stage. So for now I enjoy quieter days, smile when I notice the clean kitchen counter after Kayt baked scones, and shed a tear when I miss the terrifying blessing of being needed all the time.

Holiness in Poop, Fire, and Child

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First, poop.

I have a developing curiosity about Jewish blessings, but as of yet, I am not at all educated about them. Intrigued by Barbara Brown Taylor’s words about blessings in An Altar in the World, I took to the internet with my curiosity. I found Jewish blessings for special occasions, and blessings for a host of daily experiences, such as waking up and eating. To my delight, one of my first discoveries was a blessing for going to the bathroom. This may be a common fascination among blessing newbies, as it was within the small sampling of blessings on more than one website. I wonder how many practicing Jews say it after each visit to the restroom. One site suggested it as the perfect blessing for changing a child’s diaper. Each version is a little different, and since I don’t read Hebrew I am looking only at English translations. Here’s how Rabbi Danya Ruttenberg quotes it:

Blessed are You, God our deity, sovereign of the universe, who formed humans with wisdom and created within them many openings and many hollows. It is obvious in the presence of Your glorious throne that if one of them were ruptured, or if one of them were blocked, it would be impossible to exist and stand in Your presence. Blessed are You, God, who heals all flesh and performs wonders.

Ruttenberg goes on to say,

Even if the God language in this text doesn’t resonate with you, there’s something really important here. This blessing encourages us to experience awe in the face of the human body’s complexity, and an awareness of the myriad of things that have to go right in order for us to continue drawing our next breath—and the breath after that. The fact that we’re able to eliminate waste as we’re meant to is a wonder in its own right, a miracle worthy of our respect and gratitude. The simple fact of being embodied is worthy of our spiritual engagement.1

What if I engaged spiritually with more bodily functions? In addition to pooping and peeing, passing gas, sneezing, burping, crying, even vomiting could be worthy of awe. What about sex? Sweating? Swallowing? As JJ Heller sings, “Everything is sacred when you take time to notice.”2

Second, fire.

One night late last December I woke up to my husband’s snoring. After “gently” shoving him with my arm, squashing my head down in my feather pillow so both ears were covered, and trying the finger-in-the-ear method, I gave up and padded to the guest bed in my office. Shortly thereafter, my daughter Kayt woke me up and, after semi-successfully getting her back to bed, anxiety kicked in. Kayt had awoken me the night before, so surely this was a sign of new sleep patterns, wakeful nights spreading quite possibly to eternity. Then I had visions of everything that could go wrong on our upcoming Florida vacation. I pictured the four of us shivering on a cold beach; my husband and I experiencing buyers remorse at Legoland; an alligator grabbing my tiny seven-year-old; and a long drive to the state park I had visited as a child, only to find out their canoe rental was closed.

I felt panicky and gloomy. I tried to think of people to pray for. And then I thought of Anne Lamott’s words from my evening’s reading in Dusk, Night, Dawn: “Even now we aren’t in charge of much, and it is exhausting to believe or pretend we are … Watching the ways we try to be in charge can help us get our sense of humor back, and laughter is a holy and subversive battery charge.” I could not think of anything comical about my mental state, so I sat down with Jesus in His room in my heart and asked Him where the humor was. To my surprise, He went Pixar on me and personified Anger, from Inside Out, the scene where he ignites, flames coming out of his head, and Disgust uses him as a blowtorch. So I grabbed Jesus/Anger like a blowtorch and we kind of incinerated His room, and I smiled in the darkness. My chest expanded and I breathed. Holy comic relief. And more evidence for my theory that God is crazy. He ricocheted around His room in my heart like a fireball on top of a balloon releasing air, and I giggled.

Eventually I slept, fitfully. Whenever I was awake enough to be aware, I remembered Jesus with flames coming out His head and it centered me. Holy and subversive, indeed.

Third, child.

A couple days after the Inside Out incident, I asked God if I was being too irreverent—you know, with the flaming head, and God’s butt (another gem from Anne Lamott). What is holiness, and are there rules for how to behave in the presence of a holy God? I don’t have an answer, but God gave me a picture:

Holiness is a sleeping child. Its beauty captures our attention without us quite realizing it. We gaze at soft eyelids, rumpled hair, smooth skin, a trace of jam—and our own faces soften into a smile, almost unexpectedly.

Apparently holiness looks more like a sleeping child than perfection or pomp. Grandeur, yes—the grandeur I see in the face of a sleeping child, recognize in the faithfulness of my own body, and know in a 3am giggle that releases me back to rest.

Endnotes:
1 https://www.huffpost.com/entry/poop-and-gratitude_b_3684747
2 https://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/jjheller/biglovesmallmoments.html

Hope: Past or Future?

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I lost a dear friend six years ago. Not to death, but to misunderstanding. I agreed with someone on a group text, not knowing that person was at odds with another friend on the same group text. It’s amazing how fast something that seems strong can dissolve. My friend’s perception was that I had taken sides against her, and her response was immediate and caustic. I went into an emotional tailspin.

What to do? I wanted to acknowledge the pain my friend was feeling, but I didn’t know how. I bought a potted flower, wrote “I love you” in a card, and bravely went to her front door. Her husband received the gift, and I cried all the way home. Choosing vulnerability has a way of opening the floodgates sometimes.

I had told her once that I deeply valued our friendship and would fight for it should the need arise. I meant it, yet I didn’t know what it meant. What does it look like to stand beside someone when they hurt you? How do you disentangle a misunderstanding when both parties are licking their wounds and yelping if anyone gets close?

My friend didn’t respond to the flowers and card, and I felt lost. I was hurting from her bitter text message and mostly I just lurched along with my emotions. One day I was angry and self-righteous. The next I was practicing gratitude for the years of friendship we did have. Sometimes I made excuses for her hurtful words and ensuing silence. Other times I rehearsed spiteful responses. I thought I wanted reconciliation, but I suppose what I really wanted was for her to apologize, magically leave the pain in the past, and move on. Instead I was left in the discomfort of unresolved conflict, and silence.

A year or two after the one-text-detonates-a-friendship-bomb scenario, I decided that with my therapist’s support I would seek to repair the friendship. I emailed my friend and asked if we could talk about something that was weighing on me. She suggested I see a counselor for anything I needed to work through, and said she would be available in four months if I wanted to talk about only light-hearted things. I had to hand it to her for having crystal clear boundaries!

I wasn’t interested in talking only about rainbows and unicorns—as one of my friends put it—so that was the end of that. I told her I appreciated her honesty and moved on… sort of. I continued to feel uneasy whenever I thought about us. She would text me occasionally about something innocuous, like a local event or the weather. I felt anxious every time she contacted me, and uncomfortable developing what felt like a completely fake “friendly” relationship.

Over the years I have continued “trying” to forgive, and have continued feeling hurt. When someone says they “forgave,” sounding utterly confident in forgiveness as a past event, I am puzzled. What have they figured out that I haven’t? Why is this failed relationship still hanging over my head? Every now and then I pray about it and journal some new angle to the whole mess. But I still feel captive to it. Until I read these words in Anne Lamott’s book Traveling Mercies: “…forgiveness is giving up all hope of having had a different past.”

These words begin to reframe how I think about the loss of safety in friendship. Forgiveness is giving up all hope of having had a different past. I can stop rehearsing what I could have done differently, said better, or not said at all. I can stop grieving mismanaged words and allow them to be what they were. Emotional pain is an acceptable human experience. Being misunderstood is an acceptable human experience.

Here’s the thing: forgiveness is not giving up all hope of having a different future. I can sit here, between the past that simply is, and the future that simply will be, and fret about neither. I can release hope for a different past, giving myself and my friend permission to have an unresolved misunderstanding; and I can maintain hope for the future—not because I can force healing, but because when I open my hands to receive the past for what it was, I simultaneously give myself permission to receive the future for whatever it will be.

Is forgiveness in this relationship done and in the past? No. It could be one day, but at this moment it’s still a work in progress. Perfectionism begs to take center stage and rehearse the un-done “right” past and the unlikely “right” future. And I fight back, learning to forgive myself and others, and live openhanded. I begin to think about this new definition of forgiveness—giving up all hope of having had a different past—as it relates to parenting. When the kids hit and scream, ignore me, make messes, dawdle: in those moments could I release the hope of a different past few minutes? Could I forgive them and myself this way? Could I embrace both friendship and parenting as the freedom to love in this moment, giving up all hope of the last moment being different?

I realize that I have invested much in hoping for a different past, grieving my behavior and the behavior of others. But I am not my behavior. This could change the way I look at the last six years and the last six minutes. I am not what people say or think about me, and I am not what my behavior says about me. I don’t have to revisit the choices I already made today—like when to get up, how many shows the kids can watch, looking at my phone before prayer time—and wonder if they are “right.” Or wonder what they say about who I am. I can release those moments and face forward. My hope is not in a different past, but in living this moment open-handed, loved by a wild and lavish God. Living now is lighter.

Early Morning Poverty

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God blesses those who are poor and realize their need for him, for the Kingdom of Heaven is theirs.

Matthew 5:3, NLT

Soft patting from my six-year-old woke me up at 3am. “I want you,” was the reason she gave. I tried to fix things and send her back to bed, but she wasn’t having it. I gave up and made a blanket bed on the floor in my room. She settled in and slept. I felt resentful, trapped, overwhelmed… and angry that I can’t seem to make a parenting decision without feeling all those things. Such a simple decision, but just look at me make it complicated. I lay in bed anxious, dialed up to ten, and I prayed for God to provide. For help. And I slept.

The same little hands woke me a few hours later—too early, but not early enough to send her back to bed. She wanted help opening a door. We have an old house and most of the doors slipped out of alignment long ago. They require a firm hand to actually latch, and make a popping sound when opened. The early-up daughter opened four doors, and my irritation dialed right up again—first at her, and then at myself. Again I prayed for help, and I slept.

I have conflicting feelings about these moments of struggle. Sometimes God helps me and I feel so ashamed for needing help. I want the stories of God showing up in my life to be more glamorous and less highlighting my selfishness. I’ve been reading about a young woman who dedicated her life to the marginalized, and I feel so stupid for the smallness of my stressors. Her struggles seem saintly; mine feel embarrassing.

But my feelings have forgotten the truth, which I whisper to God: You show up in each of our moments without discrimination. The “saintly” young woman is loved. I am loved. I am here, feeling paralyzed by fear, tantalized by control, and tempted by selfishness and scarcity. And You, You show up with the embrace of a friend who feels the tiredness, gives me a knowing squeeze, and sits beside me.

Another morning: I woke up a little earlier than usual. I got up, drank a glass of water, relieved myself of the previous evening’s glass of water, and sat down to pray. I felt heavy and snappy, and was grateful for a few extra moments of quiet time. I opened the window a crack to smell the fresh morning air, then closed it again to keep out the cold. I opened my hands and closed my eyes.

Then I heard the girls, up early this morning. They came in my room to ask, “Can we get up now?” They left the door open and Phred (our cat) jumped on the bed where my husband was still sleeping. Sigh. Two minutes later Kyli came back because they had a fight (already?!). She climbed on my lap. Kayt came in repentant: “I’m ready to apologize.” I mediated, and finally they left me to the quiet.

I was losing. The quiet time I felt I desperately needed was being riddled with holes. I prayed, Help. I asked God if I could spend today finding contentment in watching Him provide. And in a sudden turn of thoughts, I imagined how stressful it would have been to wake up to the girls having a fight, not having had those first moments of quiet. Ah, the sweet relief of gratitude for provision already made.

The kingdom of heaven is mine. “Blessed are the poor in spirit—those who recognize their spiritual poverty—for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.” (Matthew 5:3). The kingdom of heaven is mine because I am poor. If I were rich I wouldn’t need it, and if I thought I was rich I wouldn’t know I needed it. It is precisely when I know I am poor that the kingdom of heaven is mine. I may rejoice in the poverty that lands me exactly where I want to be—a place of receiving. Finding contentment in watching Him provide, and knowing that every moment of apparent poverty is an invitation to great wealth. Thank you, Jesus, that there is no shame in receiving Your help.

Books I Read In 2021

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Books By Favorite New Authors:

  • Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life, by Anne Lamott
  • Traveling Mercies: Some Thoughts on Faith, by Anne Lamott
  • Help, Thanks, Wow: The Three Essential Prayers, by Anne Lamott
  • The Whole Language: The Power of Extravagant Tenderness, by Gregory Boyle
  • Dusk, Night, Dawn: On Revival and Courage, by Anne Lamott

Two things changed my life in 2021: 1) the MUK LUKS® my mother-in-law gave me (my feet are the warmest they’ve been since leaving my mother’s womb), and 2) the book The Whole Language: The Power of Extravagant Tenderness, by Gregory Boyle. This book took God right out of the box I had Him in. It pushed me in the best way possible, away from the shallows into a deep, expansive God. It changed how I think about myself and the people around me. It made me laugh and cry. I copied line upon line into my journal:

“God meets our intensity of longing with intensity of longing.”

“We always need to abandon ‘performance’ when it comes to God, and walk instead into the arms of encounter.”

“God is only interested in lavishing us with extravagant tenderness, and yet we are convinced that God is thinking we all could just do a better job.”

“What saves us in the present moment is being anchored in love and tethered to a sustaining God who keeps reminding us of our unshakable goodness and the goodness of others.”

In addition to these legalism-defying snapshots of God, the book overflows with stories of the “homies” Father Boyle works with at Homeboy Industries. These stories of wounded people who wound others—but find themselves always in the good graces of God—paint the most ravishing picture of Jesus. This book gave me permission to say, “I couldn’t be any better,” instead of “I’m such a mess.”

Boyle has written two other books, one of which I’ve already read this year; the other is on my nightstand ready to be imbibed. He spoke at the university here where I live, and I met him afterward. This was long before I had read any of his books, but it still gives me bragging rights (wink).

Another author whom I read for the first time last year, and immediately fell in love with, is Anne Lamott. The first Lamott book I read was Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life. It was recommended by multiple friends, and when I finally read it I was hooked. “Good writing is about telling the truth,” she writes, and she is wildly honest. She is refreshing, funny, and deeply real. Special thanks to my sister for lending me several of her Lamott books to feed my addiction.

Fiction and Stories

  • Stormie, by Stormie Omartian
  • Kisses from Katie: A Story of Relentless Love and Redemption, by Katie Davis, with Beth Clark
  • The Bridge, by Karen Kingsbury
  • A Time to Mend, A Time to Gather, and A Time to Surrender (3 books), by Sally John & Gary Smalley
  • The Secret Garden, by F. Hodgson Burnett

I have read Stormie several times. It’s an easy read and a powerful story of God’s redemption in the aftermath of being raised by a mentally ill mom. Kisses from Katie is an unexpected tale of Jesus’ love in the life of a teenage girl who moved to Uganda and adopted 13 daughters.

If you like Christian fiction and haven’t read Karen Kingsbury, definitely give her a try. I’ve enjoyed dozens of her books. The series by Sally John and Gary Smalley was excellent as well.

I read The Secret Garden aloud to my husband—a fun way to revisit a classic. We’ve also read Tom Sawyer aloud together, and The Hobbit.

Parenting Books

  • How To Talk So Kids Will Listen & Listen So Kids Will Talk, by Adele Faber and Elaine Mazlish
  • Discipline That Connects With Your Child’s Heart: Building Faith, Wisdom, and Character in the Messes of Daily Life, by Jim and Lynne Jackson

Parenting is a tough subject to write about. As parents, we look for answers, but I think we know that no method is really an answer. I appreciated the respectful and emotionally intelligent approach of How To Talk So Kids Will Listen & Listen So Kids Will Talk, as well as the reflection questions and practice exercises.

Discipline That Connects With Your Child’s Heart is my favorite parenting book and the only one I have returned to multiple times. I always refer to it as “the book that sent me to counseling,” which is true. It has a number of suggestions for being safe with our children, such as taking a minute to calm down before responding to a stressful situation. One idea was to keep a small bottle of lotion in your pocket and take time to stop and rub lotion into your hands so you can emotionally re-center before engaging with your kid(s). I read that, and I knew I needed a month on a desert island to re-center… and that’s when it occurred to me that counseling might be in order. I was fortunate to find a counselor whose guidance was in sync with the Holy Spirit in my life. What a blessing that was during the most trying years of parenting preschoolers.

Religion and Self-Help Books

  • In the Realm of Hungry Ghosts: Close Encounters with Addiction, by Gabor Maté
  • The Ruthless Elimination of Hurry, by John Mark Comer
  • God Has a Name, by John Mark Comer
  • All Shall Be Well: Awakening to God’s Presence in His Messy, Abundant World, by Catherine McNiel
  • A Personal Perspective, by Sonya Lang Hackett
  • Love Lives Here: Finding What You Need in a World Telling You What You Want, by Maria Goff
  • Happiness Is a Serious Problem: A Human Nature Repair Manual, by Dennis Prager
  • The Lies We Believe about God: Knowing God for Who He Really Is, by Dr. Chris Thurman
  • The Meaning of Marriage: Facing the Complexities of Commitment with the Wisdom of God, by Timothy Keller with Kathy Keller

I’ve ordered these books from most favorite to least favorite. I won’t comment on all of them. First, let me say that I have received tremendous insight from Timothy Keller’s books and sermons, and I would recommend everything I’ve read or listened to, except this book on marriage. It was unbearably dry, and so long… it may be represented in one or two of my gray hairs.

John Mark Comer was my favorite new author last year and I enjoyed his books again this year. Catherine McNiel is another author I returned to, and would recommend, especially for young mothers.

At the top of the list is a book recommended by my friend Ruth. It’s a longer book (536 pages), but it was such a blessing. It gave me a much broader and more informed perspective on addiction. I enjoyed the stories more than the medical explanations, but both were helpful. Maté writes with authenticity and understanding. He was also featured in a documentary titled The Wisdom of Trauma, which has sparked an ongoing conversation about mental illness and addiction. I’ll close this post with a quote from Maté: “Trauma is not what happens to you. Trauma is what happens inside you, as a result of what happens to you.”

Empty and Ugly, Seen and Loved

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Not long ago, on a Sunday, I was feeling not-good-enough and lifeless. The joy of holiday family time had morphed into a funk. I started the day feeling trapped in my role as wife and mom. The happiness of the household rested heavily on my shoulders, while my own happiness was quite uncertain. The day was slated to be a typical Sunday, trying to keep the kids on task for chores, getting ready for the week ahead, hopefully relaxing some.

My father-in-law had given us an Instant Pot for Christmas and we set out to hard boil eggs in it. Success! While the eggs cooled off in their ice bath I worked on a new puzzle (also a Christmas gift). Then my daughter Kyli and I returned to the kitchen to make deviled eggs. As we removed hard shells from rubbery eggs, my husband, Michael, shared a tip he had seen on YouTube about an easy way to peel hard-boiled eggs: roll them to crack the shell around the middle of the egg, and then slide the two ends of shell off the egg, easy-peasy. Well, I tried it and my egg started to break in half. I made an off-hand comment about how things never turn out the way it’s shown on YouTube, which triggered Michael (who was also already in a funk). He disappeared upstairs. This added to my distorted sense that I must be available to my family, take care of them, and keep them happy.

As I nagged our two young daughters about piano practice and showers and taking care of their pets, my stress level dialed up. My emotional capacity was insufficient for the girls’ interminable distractions and dragging feet. As the day wore on I felt more frustrated and inadequate. After lunch I retreated to my bedroom to be still and alone. I checked my phone and found a text discussion among our Monday moms’ prayer group, about day-after-Christmas goals. Someone sent this placard: “My two goals for today were to get out of bed and drink coffee. So far, I am a success.” There was a general agreement about the placard, a comment on the cold weather, and I plunged in with this: “I’m in a mood today. I feel worthless and angry. My kids are taking the entire day to take a bath and play their piano songs, and Michael is not impressed with my mood.” Within five minutes I had two offers to take my girls for the afternoon, multiple people praying for me, an invitation to a moms’ movie night, an offer to babysit later in the week, and many encouraging words. All I could do was cry. I went from feeling invisible to knowing I was seen and loved. It was cleansing. I didn’t know how life-sucked I felt until these women’s words gave me life.

I re-read their words. Chantel said, “Ah, I’m sorry Tobi. Can I bring you a coffee (or anything else to cheer you up)?” Tiffaney said, “So sorry Tobi! And just like that it starts dumping snow… like God saying, ‘I got this. I’m still here when you’re in a bad mood.’” Rufus said, “So glad that in all we face, our Father is in it with us and we are not alone, never abandoned! How amazing we are not valued by how we feel, but Who He is. Praying you through, sister.” After a good cry, I made plans to get coffee with Chantel, and Michael agreed to hang out with the kids at home.

Chantel picked me up and treated me to coffee at Roasters, then took me home to “say hello” to the family—her husband and seven kids, and the in-laws who were visiting. I stayed for two hours. Coryell (age 10) showed me most of the features of the camera she got for Christmas, and gave me a friendship necklace for my daughter Kayt. Bailey (age 6) showed me the mini piano keyboard she got for Christmas, and played tic tac toe with me. The youngest girls—Jessie and Marcy—requested hand sanitizer from my purse. Charlie (age 6) tried to solve a metal puzzle I had in my purse. Linda (the mother-in-law) served me homemade fruit cake with whipped topping. Jessie had giggle fits on Chantel’s back. Chantel shared a discussion she recently had about the shepherds telling everyone about Jesus, and how she thought of me as someone who does that kind of sharing. The kids laughed when I told them the reason I was at their house alone: “I’m in time-out from my family for being too grumpy.”

When it was time to go home, I realized that emptiness and inadequacy had given way to feeling rejuvenated and peaceful. And unknown to me at the time, Chantel’s husband Nic invited Michael to go to a movie at the theater that evening.

This is community, and it is sacred. Jesus ministered to me through all these friends.

As I reflect on that miraculous afternoon, I realize I experienced community in a new way. I have been blessed throughout my life to be part of a loving church community, and I have always been celebrated and supported. I was showered with gifts at my 8th grade homeschool graduation in the community where I grew up. Where I now live, there are always baby showers and meal deliveries, wedding showers, and birthday parties. All of these are, to me, “legitimate” reasons for being cared for or celebrated; having a crappy day is NOT legitimate.

I have a wonderful life, so when I have a depressed day (which happens often), I pile on lots of shame for not being happy in my great life. I do not feel worthy of support, because the reason I desire support seems unacceptable. Yes, of course new moms, or kids graduating from school, ought to be supported and celebrated. But me with my lousy attitude? Not worthy.

My friends called all this stinkin’ thinkin’ into question by showering me with compassion in the midst of my anger and grumpiness. Now I know what it’s like to feel supported—to live in community—as a fragile human being: one who is allowed to be burdened by life and be held up by someone else.

Stillness (Part 3): Is God Trustworthy?

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God says, “Be still, and know that I am God!” (Psalm 46:10a NLT). I wonder how “they” decide where to place exclamation points in scripture. This one startles me, like maybe God just shouted a little bit. It’s like He knows it takes an act of nature to shake me out of performing and perfecting.

Learning to be still with Jesus is an ongoing pursuit for me. For years my habitual quiet time in the morning was infused with a hurry/produce mentality. I focused my time around memorizing a chapter of the Bible or reading one chapter of a book each day. I would journal all my angst, problems, and frustration over my lack of control. Ever so slowly I have learned to be still in God’s presence. Learning to be without an agenda has often resulted in tears. For most of my life I didn’t know what it was like to be seen and loved. As I came to experience Jesus, I cried many tears: tears of joy over being loved for no reason, and tears of grief over releasing who I was striving to be. 

After a long season of either crying or feeling “blank” in my quiet times, I began to listen. I got really honest. I learned to take inventory of my heart. The thing about sitting with Jesus is that He doesn’t meet me where I wish I was; He meets me where I actually am.

I remember the day I was sitting in my “prayer chair” looking into the expansive greenness of a large tree near the window. I was thinking about trusting God, and realized that I could not pray, “I trust You today.” I didn’t trust God. I had no idea what He would ask me to do and I had no intention of handing Him my life to do with as He pleased. This was hard to admit. It’s kind of awkward when you’ve been a Christian for 30 years and realize you still think you’re a better god than God.

But I can’t manage trust the way I manage brushing my teeth. It doesn’t happen because I write it on my schedule. It happens when I get to know someone who’s trustworthy.

My honest reflection landed me here: I want to want to trust God. That’s two levels away from actually trusting, but it was a start: the beginning of “starting over” getting to know God. A year or two later a day came where I felt that God just might manage my day better than I could. Trust. Built on honesty, hard questions, arguments, and the discovery that God is emotional safety on steroids. Often I didn’t know my own heart, but Jesus brought it to the surface so we could engage with it together. At first this took a long time, but gradually it happened faster.  

Other things flowed into my quiet time as well. I began to enjoy praying for all kinds of people: family, friends, acquaintances, classmates, neighbors, strangers. I began to catch myself when I started to rant and have a pity party, and instead make a choice to say what I was thankful for, or to praise God for who He is, or to revisit a promise or a truth He had previously given me. Quiet time became a daily opportunity to be seen and loved, no matter what state I was in.

Then, because God is absurdly good to me (I am His favorite child), this practice of stillness filtered into other parts of my day. I began to experience more emotional safety in relationships, and I watched the clock less when spending time with people. God invited me to do daily tasks one at a time, relieving my exhausting mental multitasking. I began to seek stillness and allow tears or rest instead of pushing myself harder when tired. Fruits of the Spirit like patience—for which I had cajoled God for years—began to show up.

One week last fall was ridiculously busy. I was harvesting and processing garden produce, preparing for my daughter’s birthday, and putting together a chapel talk for my kids’ school, in addition to writing several hours more than usual. The kids got sent home from school one day because of a power outage, and I felt behind all week. As I watched myself go through the week I noticed unusual behaviors: I didn’t demand that my family be as busy as me. I didn’t get up early, stay up late, or skip meals to keep being productive. I didn’t make long lists and then freak out when I only finished half. I took short naps. I took time to be still in the mornings and evenings. I often engaged in the task I was doing without rehearsing the next five tasks in my mind. I was flexible when timelines or events changed.

I didn’t even know that was possible. 

I have a sneaking suspicion that God knew.

It was still a tough week, but there was a taste of grace. I was impatient sometimes. I complained about all I had to do. At times, I stilled my body but my mind and spirit didn’t follow suit. Yet there was a breeze of grace that has not often been present. There was a tendency to stop when I felt anxious or tired, instead of going faster. There was an acceptance of the times when stillness was a physical choice but mental rest didn’t follow.

One afternoon I started a fire in the outdoor fire pit, with great hopes of enjoying a deep breath in my spirit. I sat down with a blanket and a book. I started a poem about my tangled feelings. But I ended up more anxious than I began. Sometimes that’s how it goes. 

I bumble along, and God persistently shows up. I am humbled, and grateful to the point of tears, for all the moments that were redeemed by His grace that long week. The times when I helped my children instead of demanding they go faster. The times I snuggled with my husband instead of doing one more thing. Participating with my daughter in baking and party preparations. Time spent with friends. These were all gifts from a persistent God who shows me the beauty of stillness despite my adamance that going fast and doing more is a noble agenda which He ought to adopt with me. 

Stillness is an act of trust. Stillness is changing my life. 

Stillness (Part 1): Scary or Safe?

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Here’s what irritates me the most about Jesus: He is never in a hurry. Of course I don’t like to be hurried. But life is fast and full and I want people to jump when I say jump. God is not on board with this plan. This would have been me living with Jesus: “Twenty minutes until Sabbath, Jesus!” “It’s meal time.” “Jesus, You’ve been preaching for three hours.” I would have been the disciple reminding Jesus that the people were hungry and needed to go home (see Matthew 14:15). And, when He stopped to talk with a random lady on his way to a dying girl, I might have burst a blood vessel. (see Luke 8:41-49) 

As a child I was taught to keep moving and be productive. In my teens constant productivity made me somewhat of an oddity. I took summer courses in addition to working full time; I multitasked during movies; and I often carried a book with me to occupy myself should things start to drag. My first recollection of anyone pushing back on this trait was when I began dating. When I met my first (and last) boyfriend, Michael, I was taking a full university class load and working three part-time campus jobs totaling about 30 hours a week. Very soon after we began dating, Michael encouraged me to quit one of my jobs, which I did. He often challenged my hurried and productive lifestyle simply because he didn’t live that way. For example, I always walked fast; he couldn’t stand walking fast. Over time he taught me to “stroll,” as he liked to call it. This drove me nuts!

Often I have found slowing down produces anxiety in me. When I slow down I must face who I am. This can be debilitating. The truth is hard to swallow: I am not who I want to be and change is costly. Constant activity shields me from the awareness that I am scrambling for safety I don’t have—the kind of quiet safety that anchors my spirit. Hustling and productivity provide an escape. Being productive is a deeply ingrained habit, rewarded by my family of origin and my country’s culture. Slowing down requires engaging in the difficult process of renovating my beliefs about myself. While I may find all this terrifying, God is ready to roll up His sleeves and get to work.

If learning to be still began when I started dating Michael, it has now occupied half my life. I spent a decade learning to slow physically: to enjoy a relaxing stroll, to watch a movie and let it be the only activity, to sit and watch the birds. For the most part I have eased into this over time and am finding it comfortable.

Mental stillness has come at a much greater price. My first few years as a stay-at-home mom I managed to “perform” in my new role, as I had in all previous roles. I kept my babies fed and washed and responded to their cries. I cooked and cleaned and went to mommy groups. But shortly after my girls turned one and three years old, I began to struggle mentally and emotionally. The stillness of being home all day was a place of reflection in which all I could see were distortions and shadows. Compassion and hope were blotted out by fear of who I was and fear of getting things wrong. I would cry whenever someone said I was a good mom, because I desired it with every fiber of my being yet felt estranged from it. I pushed myself through each day because I felt if I stopped I would never get up again. I thought if I admitted I was lonely, discouraged and afraid, I would be swallowed up by those feelings.

I have often said the worst possible scenario for my mental health is to be alone in my own mind. Here I was, at home all day with these little people who no longer exhausted me to the point of survival mode, and I found that living with myself was the most painful thing I had ever endured. As a companion to myself, I was critical, short-tempered and punitive. I was so hard on myself that I lived in constant fear and decision-paralysis. God forbid I make a “wrong” choice about how to handle the hundred-and-one decisions I made about my children every day. I was, as they say, my own worst enemy. I was unable to cheer myself on, and instead found every reason to point out how I was not meeting expectations. I had never learned to be kind to myself. I could not let the waters still, to see my beautiful reflection clearly. I was quick to throw stones—to rend the image—because I identified with my brokenness more than my beauty.

One evening after a particularly difficult bedtime with my girls, I retreated to the recliner prepared to rehearse my awfulness and parade my ugliness before myself. Maybe enough shame would help me get my shit together (I’m not sure why I still believe that when it has yet to “work”). But God had other ideas. I felt Him embracing me, and I knew He was there not to talk about how to do better next time, but to hold me because He knew how much it hurt this time. I don’t understand why God is like this, but slowly I am learning to follow His lead. I am learning to embrace myself when I cause pain. And if I can embrace myself when I cause pain, then I can embrace others when they cause pain. I can invite them into this stillness, in which God’s holy presence holds all of us with tenderness. Stillness becomes a place of expanding kindness.

For six years now God has been loosening my corset little by little, teaching me to take up space, to breathe, until the corset is almost forgotten, and I am even invited to be plump and to enjoy it. I can be kind to myself. And when I am, it’s not so bad to be alone and still.