So Much More Than Heaven

Easter morning. Flowers blooming, birds chirping, the grass is green and even the air smells of new life. The red buds on the mountain tell us that what the winter tamped down is rising again. All of creation speaks of spring and the bursting forth of new life that cannot be conquered, regardless of the cold, dark death of winter.  It's as if the earth is telling The Story. He is painting a picture with life - with all that surrounds us.

This morning I am captured by the wonder of Cadbury mini-eggs with my coffee.  The crunch of the delicate shell, then sweet and creamy chocolate melting over your tongue and washed away with the hot delicious bitterness of dark roast with cream.  A simple pleasure that rouses the senses. Even this sensual indulgence can bring me to a point of worship. He gave me the ability to enjoy this treat and provided all of the makings. It is His, all of it is His and he shares it with me.

The talk of Easter is death and resurrection to new life. We no longer have to fear the end of this life because we know a price has been paid, the wrongs have been made right. We have the hope of heaven because of Jesus.  So much of what we focus on as believers is the end of our lives and where we will go when we die.  But it is about so.much.more.  Jesus also defeated the things that would cripple us and defeat us as we live these lives. Every day can be accomplished victoriously because of the cross.  Jesus died to defeat my anxious soul. This beautiful Easter morning, I will hold on to that for all that I am worth.

Thank you Jesus for Cadbury mini-eggs and the power to overcome my anxiety. 

A Mile in the Moccasins of Not Trusting God Enough

One of the worst parts of having an anxiety disorder is being anxious about being anxious.

When I share openly how I'm feeling, I get the impression that my anxiety is looked at as a weakness.  I read a quote recently that said "Anxiety is not a sign of weakness. It is a sign of having tried to remain strong for too long."  Yep. Try 40ish years.

Here is the hard-core truth: I do not want to be anxious. Telling me to take a  few deep breaths, take a walk, calm down, try yoga, give it to God, not to worry, yadda yadda yadda only increases the anxiousness that I am feeling - because now on top of the internal pressure, I am anxious about not performing to a standard that suits you.

Recently a friend asked me if I trusted God at all. The most honest answer to that question is, not really. I trust that He loves me, I trust that He cares about me. I trust that whatever happens, He will be there to help me pick up the pieces and ultimately use it all for my good. The trouble with all of this for me is that there is still a lot of hard shit and deep, muddy water sometimes to trudge through in the process.  God has allowed it in the past and He very well might allow it again.  That is where the fear lies - what will I have to go through to get where God wants to take me?  What else am I going to have to survive?

I love the way the Message puts this in Matthew 6:27

"Has anyone by fussing in front of the mirror ever gotten taller by so much as an inch?"

I am under no impression that my worry or anxiety is making any impact on reality, whatsoever. This past week there was a tornado nest forming itself around my oldest daughter where she lives thousands of miles away from me in Texas.  When I read that one was touching down in her town and she posted on Facebook that tornado sirens were going off and I couldn't get in touch with her by phone or text, the fears and thoughts were swirling as fast as those torrential winds.  Here's a little peek into the thought stream of a full-blown panic attack:

"Does she know to get out of the third floor? Is there anywhere to go? Why isn't Gary answering his phone? Did she even think to ask that when she moved in there? She's on foot because she doesn't have a car yet, so there's no way to get anywhere else. Why won't she answer her phone?  I hope she doesn't try to walk from her apartment building to the complex office once the tornado is there. Bathtub! They have a huge bathtub - she can get in that. Oh, she'll need to pull her mattress on top of her. I wonder if she has listened when I told her these things. Oh Jesus! Why isn't she answering her phone? GOD please keep her safe. (this was about all the prayer I could mutter) Where is Jacob? Oh Lord I hope he's not on a roof somewhere."

It just went on and on and on like this for a couple of hours. Even once I reached her by phone, the weather hadn't cleared yet.  I did not think at any point that I could stop the tornadoes, but I did worry my girl would be safe in a way that was crippling and paralyzing.  In contrast, my boss' son who is a college student in that neck of the woods of Texas received a text message from his parents asking if he was alright.

Sometimes well meaning people advise me to "trust God", not realizing it just makes me feel like more of a failure, like.I'm.failing.God.  He knows that I am dust. He knows my frailties and my weaknesses. He knows the capacity I have for trust, and if I am trusting enough.

There are a lot of things that have happened to bring me here. The truth of the matter is that nobody wants it to go away more than I do. I hate it that it has frustrated people that love me and that my friends don't know what to say or do. Sometimes the best medicine is a hug and hearing "it's going to be okay". Please know that I am trying. Short of taking a handy-dandy handful of pills that the doctor is more than willing to prescribe which will offer me a number of other side effects and drug reactions to put in place of the anxiety and numb me of every other feeling, pain or pleasure - I am doing absolutely everything I can to work on this day by day. I've re-instituted my yoga routine, I'm doing a Beth Moore study on Esther that illustrates God using the most adverse circumstances for someone's ultimate good (pay attention Julie!), I'm starting a self-help class that helps re-wire your brain so you learn to process stresses differently, I attended a recovery Bible study faithfully for 6 months even though I was the.only.regular attendee with my loving Sasquatch by my side and I have also been doing several other things that I won't mention for fear of how weird they might sound.  My body even betrays me, when I'm feeling calm mentally, suddenly my pulse will be soaring with a heart rate of 100+.

This is a process. Healing is a process.  The healing is emotional, mental and physical.  The damage didn't happen overnight and it isn't going to heal overnight. Be patient with me and and in so doing, help me learn to be patient with myself. I'm a work in progress.

God's Will and Small Steps in Dense Fog

One of the most interesting aspects of the Christian language is the assertion of what is and what is not "God's will", the quest to discern the will of God and the superstitious ways in which we apply this to our lives.  I do not believe that God's will is laid out before us neat and tidy like a map or a GPS directing us which way to turn. Personally, though I have no theological ground on which to base this outside of my own life experiences, "God's will" seems hidden in the day to day steps we take in faith that are followed by either peace or a total lack thereof.
I have heard Christians say, in regards to a matter for which they are seeking God's will, that a thing is "done" because they prayed about it.  The sting of such an arrogant statement lasts long after the issue does not conclude in our favor. Then who has failed, the person praying or God? Seldom have I heard anyone, following such a bold statement take credit for their error in projecting their own interests on God or misinterpreting His will, allowing the blame to fall squarely on the shoulders of a faultless God.
I had someone well meaning tell me when I was separated once from my ex-husband that since we weren't Christians when we got married, that we did so apart from "God's will" - asserting that divorce would then place me back in a right standing with God by realigning myself with "His will" for my life.  The truth is that when the end of that marriage came, it was much like stepping off of a cliff and hoping that I wouldn't splat at the bottom.  God's will was not clear. I felt a nudge in one direction and took one step, but the rest of the path was dense with heavy fog. I could not have said at the beginning of that journey that I knew where it would lead. My heart was open, but it was literally the journey of a thousand miles taken one step at a time.
So often as humans we do what we want to do, and God meets us along the way that He already knew we would take and works all things out according to the good of those who love Him. This is the immeasurable beauty of free will - that He does not abandon us when we lose our footing on the path He would have us on. It is a bitter pill to swallow when someone you love is doing something you hate and accrediting it to God and His dang-blasted will.  All things being equal, my misgivings about this could also be a sign to them that this isn't "God's will".  In my experience, those looking for the signs to point in the direction they are already making plans to go will not see what they don't want to see.
Sometimes my faith is so small that I struggle to hold tightly to the truth of the good intentions for me of a Love that I cannot comprehend.  For today, right now, in this moment I can say whatever His will may be, everything is going to be alright.

Awkward Much?

One of the things I dislike the most about going to church is this contradiction it seems to make in telling folks to be independent thinkers in a culture that opposes God - and yet tells you what to say, who to say it to, when to say it and how loud to say it.  We've all suffered through uncomfortable moments with total strangers when your heart drops and the pastor says "Turn to your neighbor....." or the sweat saturated palms you have to clasp with someone whose name you may not even know.  Yesterday I had to tell a lady behind me during communion, which I believe should be sacred and introspective "Jesus died for you that you might live for Him".  Awkward much?
Don't get me wrong. I know lots of pastors, teachers, preachers and speakers that I respect highly who do the whole "repeat after me" thing in an attempt to get their congregation engaged. Some of my favorite speakers do it - Beth Moore, T.D. Jakes, and the list goes on. Then there is the reaction if the response isn't vehement enough - committed enough - bold enough. I've been admonished in church repeatedly with "Come on people, you can do BETTER than that!" Maybe I can't.  Maybe I'm not there yet. Maybe it takes my learning style just a bit longer to process what was just presented. Maybe I was taking notes - writing down what was said in an attempt to engage myself. I am wondering why we are so afraid to let people learn and grow in their faith at their own pace or worship in a way that is individual to them? Can I not sing equally as passionately if I am sitting as opposed to standing?  I spent years wondering if this was a pride thing for me - an attitude of "don't tell me what to do". I've come to the conclusion that it is more of an aversion to cult-like behavior. Don't confuse what I am saying. I have no intention of criticizing godly men and women who are doing their best to motivate people to live their lives sold out to Jesus. I just have an aversion to this specific element of corporate worship.
I love being with other people that love Jesus. I love listening to intelligent speakers that inspire and motivate me. I don't love feeling like I must obey the ritual or say the words I'm told to say or speak to a stranger without a proper opportunity to introduce myself.  I hate the cult-like mantras of  repetitive music and speech that go on and on. Nowhere else in society do people who don't know one another clasp hands. The whole thing is a false sense of familiarity and relationship that does not exist.
I would like to know how to participate in Christian community and avoid these things. Any suggestions?

Take That Worthlessness!

This was my Facebook status this morning - and it has made such an impact on me that I wanted to preserve it here: You are valuable. Yes YOU. Not because of your net worth or your earning potential - but because once upon a time, a decision was made by a Creator who holds the breath of life to infuse life into cells. The exact perfect circumstances had to exist to bring this about and He allowed every single variable to line up. None of us are a mistake. Nobody is an accident. Our entrance into this world did not take Him by surprise - and we each were very much wanted because He decided this world would not be the same without us. From those conceived in royalty to babies born into the arms of teenage parents - and everything in between - to Him there is no distinction. As someone who struggles with intense worthlessness, I woke up this morning to this affirmation that I can only imagine was from Him - that I was wanted and loved and HIS.  How much different life would be if we all lived as if this were true - not only of ourselves but of every single other person that we encounter in our days. We are so loved.  Take that worthlessness!

A Fist Full of Ashes

Healing is a process. I keep telling myself this - like a mantra that is followed with this positive affirmation "it is okay to be in process".  Nobody likes to be in process - preferring much more to have arrived at the destination of a whole mind and non-fractured spirit, at least insofar as healing is concerned.

A friend shared this scripture from Isaiah 61 with me at last night's group meeting - and though I'd heard it a million times before, this piece was illuminated to me:

".....to bestow on them a crown of beauty instead of ashes, the oil of gladness instead of mourning, and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair....."

How easily my spirit despairs.  I looked the word up in my concordance and it means to [smolder].  

smol·der  /ˈsmōldər/ verb: burn slowly with smoke but no flame

The despair is a slow burn - and unchecked it will eat.me.alive.  The smallest thing can trigger deep feelings of worthlessness, the tiniest injury can unearth catastrophic old wounds. It takes constant effort to remember that I am no longer trapped in an abusive marriage or childhood.  It takes intentional choices not to react with the same defensive behaviors - which can range anywhere from lashing out in fear to scurrying into the shadows like a skiddish animal.  It is taking time and conscious effort to trust myself, others and God.

This phrase

beauty for ashes, beauty for ashes, beauty for ashes

keeps rolling through my mind.  Some of the despair has been necessary - to allow this old life to burn away. These ashes are all that is left of my old life - and yet I often hold them in fists clenched tight.  The crown of beauty may be preferable to most - but to reach out for it means to let some of these ashes spill out of my hands.  

The Mother Wound

I cannot remember where I first heard the term "mother wound", but I knew instantly on the hearing that I had one as deep as the Grand Canyon and as wide as the Nile River is long. It is the thing that has most significantly shaped me as a person, for better or worse.  A brief definition:

We all come into the world needing the tender presence of a mother's touch, nurture, care and love. In fact the mother's influence begins when we are in the womb. The absence of this mother love is a wound that is created in three ways:  

1. Mother separated from the child through illness of the mother, mother's death, divorce
2. Child separated from the mother through illness of the child, incubator/hospitalization, adoption
3. Unhappy relationship with mother through neglect, abuse, mother's mental or emotional distress, attempted abortion

I think most mothers leave positive and negative marks on their children.  I know that in spite of my best intentions, I have done (or not done) things that my kids will have to overcome.  The mother wound is more profound - and the healing is sure to take a lifetime.  The confusion created when the same hands that are meant to nurture and provide, harm and withdraw is significant.  One resource listed the consequences of the traumatic interruption of this attachment as an overwhelming sense of abandonment and dread of aloneness, emotional dependency and a loss of self and being.  The list is longer but these are the three attributes that are most identifiable to my personal experience.
My mother was mentally ill for most of my life.  She had extended stays in the psychiatric hospitals and long periods of time where she confined herself to her bed while my step-father and I provided 24/7 room service.  Since I became an adult and was able to define some personal boundaries of acceptable behavior, our relationship has become more and more distant.  There are years when we don't speak at all.  Somehow through the neglect and abuse the need for a mother remained, my spirit wooden like the body of a mannequin with non-posable arms reaching out for something just beyond its grasp.
It was this conditioning of neglect and abuse that first taught me I was worthless and led me to accept the mistreatment of a spouse who was supposed to love me for far too many years.  I am working on being at a place where I harbor no resentment while stating the truth.  I would rather spend my energy on the healing process that God is doing in my life than to dwell on the darkness of history with anger or malice.  The darkness has swallowed far too many precious years already.
Our last rift was over my refusal to add my mother as a "friend" on Facebook.  I explained that I would rather establish a real-life relationship with her than to have voyeuristic familiarity.  She responded by not speaking to me for a year.  In recent months, my mom and I have talked sporadically - text messages, emails here and there.  When I dropped Gary off at the airport on Sunday morning, it triggered my fear of abandonment.  I knew immediately it had nothing to do with him or the situation - but it was deeply connected to my mother wound.  People think I'm brave.  They think I'm strong.  What nobody knows is that inside I'm still pining for a mother.  I was bawling my eyes out as I left the airport, so I dialed her number.   She never answered.

There is No Such Obligation

I have been churning inside since a discussion yesterday in which a friend attempted to correct what they perceived as immaturity on my part.  In another online format, I took a dig at someone who had done something illegal that involved one of my children about a year ago.  I feel no guilt or remorse over what I said despite their best efforts to show me the error of my ways.  The comment did not distract from the conversation and only those who are aware of the situation understood the underlying implication.  No harm, no foul.

What disturbs me more is this idea that no matter what wrong or evil someone has done, we are to smile and lovingly emit a grace we are not ready to give and forgiveness whether you feel it or not.  Supposedly, this is the Christian way.  More and more as I contrast the precepts of my faith with the experience of my humanity, I have decided that I am no longer able to "fake it till I make it".  Grace and forgiveness are a process, and in this particular situation it has not yet been achieved.  I made a statement about the wrong done and I have no regrets. This same grace must be extended to cover me.

The other thing I was called down on was the issue that one of our friends who is not a Christian might be thrown by my inability to show the love of God to someone who caused injury to my child.  In this case I will have to defer to God to love them, because at present I cannot.  While this is considered horribly un-Christian of me, let me propose that it is perhaps moreso than putting on a fake smile and pretending whatever someone does in any given situation is okay because I am under some mandate to pursue forgiveness.  Interacting with people with the motive of evangelism is as disconcerting as the friend who is a Tupperware dealer inserting the current specials into every conversation.  We are not Jesus - and we might stop being such a colossal disappointment to the non-believing world if we stop the facade that we might be.

I am under no obligation to live up to the expectation of others.

The Best Dad is Mine

Every little girl's first love is her daddy. This was as true of me as the next girl.  My dad was my hero.  It was the 70s and he had shaggy blonde hair and wore polyester pants and shirts with wide collars. I thought he was more handsome than any other man that on earth. He drove a green Pinto and had an affinity for Krispy Kreme donuts and big bowls of chocolate ice cream. He was the coolest.

When my parents divorced in the late 70s, the greatest loss was the connection between a father and his little girl. My dad had begun a new life of which I was rarely a part.  It was some serious collateral damage and a grieving that endured throughout my childhood and into adult life.  My mom made it very difficult for me to spend any time with him, and so I didn't very much.

A couple of years ago when the pieces of my life all came crumbling down around me, my dad was there.  He sent money to help me afford a rental truck and gas, but that wasn't what was most important. He answered his phone - over and over and over again -whether it was a phone call or a text message.  He was there for me. I never needed him so much in all of my life and he came through.  He told me I was doing the right thing, to be strong, that he loved me.  It meant everything to have this validation and support.  The picture posted here is of my dad hugging me after my wedding to Gary.  Before the ceremony was even over - my dad was on his feet and up to hug and congratulate us.  He has worried all of these years about me - and I know how happy it makes him to see me safe and loved and happy after all this time.  It gives me a lot of joy to see him so happy too as I've watched him go through a lot of changes in his own life in recent years.

Happy Father's Day Dad. I love you more than words. You are the best dad in the world, because you are mine.

My father gave me the greatest gift anyone could give another person, he believed in me. 
- Jim Valvano

The Healing Process

Sometimes when you are healing, you can take one step forward and two steps back. Almost two weeks ago I got a Monroe piercing.  Some people say that they are nurturing their inner child, but much of the time lately I feel like I am nurturing my inner rebellious teenager, as evidenced by this need to poke a hole in myself.  The first few days after I got the piercing, I had a lot of difficulty getting used to it. The labret they put in at first is extra long to allow for swelling and I think mine would have accommodated Angelina Jolie and Mick Jagger's love child.  Every time I tried to bite or chew food, not to mention talking, my teeth would pull it from the inside.  It was no fun.  Gary took me to Cherry Bomb tattoo and piercing parlor a couple of times to get the jewelry changed which helped quite a bit.  Little by little it was feeling better, until a couple days ago when my teeth caught it and gave it a good pull that grabbed the front end and pulled it through my lip. OUCH!

I share this story of the piercing because it seems to be the way of healing.  In this process there are stops and starts.  We gain ground and start to feel a sense of wholeness and suddenly and often unexpectedly that same ground seems to drop from beneath our feet, leaving us reeling again.  But healing must occur and we must expect that it does not do so in a linear fashion.  If we choose to forego the healing process our only option is to remain battered and bitter.  It seems not a choice at all to me.  Healing is not easy, and it requires that we deal with our scars, but wholeness is always the goal.  I read something beautiful recently from Little Bee by Chris Cleave about scars:

"I ask you right here please to agree with me that a scar is never ugly. That is what the scar makers want us to think. But you and I, we must make an agreement to defy them. We must see all scars as beauty. Okay? This will be our secret. Because take it from me, a scar does not form on the dying. A scar means, I survived."

I survived. When the bad memories come, the pain creeps to the surface and demands acknowledgment, I remind myself that I survived.  These things did not kill me then, and they will not kill me now. Like my piercing, the pain will serve it's purpose.  In time, healing will come and with it a beautiful scar as a reminder that I survived.