A Grace Disguised: Blessings from a Hysterectomy

I lost my uterus on Monday, or more accurately, my uterus was surgically removed. And along with it, a snowman shaped fibroid tumor with a grapefruit-sized base and an orange for a top. What I discovered in this process was a mound of blessings that are continuing to surprise me.

Blessing #1: On May 26, 2008, I gave birth to full-term twins (37 months and 2 days), both clearing the six-pound mark. My fibroid protected them by preventing them from descending down into the birth canal. They were allowed to fully develop before entering this world.  Thank you, Mr. Fibroid for keeping my children safe.

Blessing #2: In the weeks leading up to my surgery, I confronted a layer of trauma and pain that needed to be dealt with. See “’Z” for Zeal’” to know the details.

Blessing #3: A couple of days before surgery, I had an “aha” moment. I realized that I am surrounded by a community that provides different things. While this sounds somewhat obvious, I was expecting one particular person in my life to meet all my emotional, physical, and spiritual needs. This was simply not fair to that person. The idea that one person would be able to meet everything is also contradictory to the Christian theology that we are the body of Christ – we all have different parts to play. What I came to know is that I was surrounded by so many different parts of the body. Some were medical professionals who tended to my physical needs. I had friends step forward who let me “freak out” about the magnitude of this loss. They held me emotionally. I was surrounded by people offering prayers. And other logistical people came forward to take care of the kids, provide transportation, cook meals, do laundry, etc. People did what they could; they did what they were good at. The parts came together and this week has run unbelievably smooth.

Blessing #4: My husband has been my hero. I have always been an independent who doesn’t need anything kind of a woman. This generalized into my relationship with my husband – I did not believe that I needed him for anything. This week, I needed him. I let myself need him. And he was there. He was there to listen. There to sit. There to take care of things. When I let go of my control issues, when I stopped micromanaging our household, I created space for Bill to be Bill. And I have not been disappointed.

Blessing #5: I stopped fighting against myself. I stopped insisting that I can do everything on my own; that asking for help is a sign of weakness. It finally became okay to have needs and wants. It became okay to be vulnerable. The last few times I have been hospitalized (2 childbirths and emergency gall bladder surgery this past April) I have fought against any help. I grew angry and irritable with those who wanted to help me. I was a terrible patient. This time, something clicked. It was okay to be a patient for I was surrounded by a community who was willing to walk through this with me. From nurses who rubbed my arm as I went under anesthesia, to my friends and family being physically and emotionally present, to the preschool staff at my kids school who sent cards and Pizza Hut gift cards, I was being held by the Body of Christ. And you know, it feels pretty great to be cared for and loved. I feel like I belong to a community; that I am valued simply because I am a fellow human being. I did nothing to earn such an outpouring of tenderness. I got to experience what Grace is truly about.

So it took major surgery to get to this point. I would not recommend having a full abdominal hysterectomy to learn such lessons, but I would not trade the space it has brought me to for anything.

And now to experience blessing #6. My ovaries stayed put, so I have no major hormonal change. And now I am thirty-four years old, and never ever, ever again have to experience PMS or another menstrual cycle. Free tampons at my house for anyone willing to come pick them up!

Superhero God, Come Slay My Enemy.

Prayer still feels awkward. I like the idea of having a conversation with God, of being close and intimate. But there is a part of me that fights against asking God to do certain things. At one point in my life, this would have been rooted in believing God did not care what I needed, or that if I asked I would surely be disappointed. These days it is rooted more in a fear of not wanting to manipulate God; not wanting to shrink God into my personal Genie-in-a-bottle.

This past Thursday I facilitated an all-day bully awareness retreat for a group of Catholic middle school students. In the hours before the retreat, I was having my usual ‘get up super early, read, pray, write’ hour. As I was thinking about bullies and victims, I started picturing my own enemies. I could easily call up the names and faces of the “mean girls” from school. As I recalled my experiences of being bullied, of feeling like the odd girl, the left out girl, the unwanted girl, the pain was still palpable.

And then I started thinking about some of David’s prayers in the Psalms for God to strike down his enemies and rescue him. As a wounded adolescent, I wanted to pray to a Superhero God. I wanted to shine an emblem in the sky and have my Batman God fly in and take out my enemies. I wanted to pray to the Superman God who would swoop in and rescue me. And if I am honest, I still want to pray those prayers now.

And then the next thought rolled in. Yes, I was victim to the mean girls in school. But I was also a really mean girl. I bullied. I made up horrible names to call my fellow classmates and teachers. I created games to try and make other girls feel so bad they would run off and cry. I am quite confident I am someone’s enemy. I am confident that I am someone’s (probably several someone’s) source of painful memories.

I am both victim and perpetrator. Bully and target. Friend and enemy.

Were my superhero prayers to come true, then I too should be struck down. For I am an enemy of God and my fellow humans.

My prayers lately have been more like groans. I share the struggles in my soul. I share the fears and worries that I am carrying around. But rather than praying to a superhero, genie-in-a-bottle God, I have started praying to Emmanuel, God with us. I cling to the promise, “I will never leave you, nor forsake you.”

This is a comforting prayer. God’s presence is indeed with me. God is with me in my discomfort. God is sheltering me under his wings. But his is also a humbling prayer. God is with me when I am an enemy. God is with the both/and parts of ourselves. He is with us when we are hurt and he is with us when we are hurtful. God’s mercy is present when I am wounded and his mercy and grace never fail when I am the perpetrator.

I believe that when we accept the both/and parts of ourselves, we find God’s compassion is also there. I also believe that when we own both parts of ourselves, we are more compassionate to our neighbors and our enemies.

Emmanuel, God with us.

Messy.

There are three nativity sets in my house. My favorite is a hand-carved wooden set commissioned by some villagers in Africa. It is truly magnificent, both from an aesthetic purpose and in terms of social justice issues. The second is a hanging Advent calendar made from Fisher Price’s “Little People.” There are twenty-five figures (animals, shepherds, magi, angels, and of course Mary, Joseph, and Jesus), one for each day in December. My kids take turns pulling the daily figure and sticking it onto the manger scene. They grow in excitement with each new figure for they know they are one day closer to Christmas. There is one other “toy” nativity that sits on our coffee table. I love watching my three preschoolers act out various scenes and narrations. “It’s okay Jesus, we are your mommy and daddy.” My four-year-old informed me that the “Stable story is stuck in her head. You know, the one with shepherds, angels, and Mary, Joseph, and Jesus.”


I love the purity the nativity scenes add to my house. I love the enthusiasm and anticipation that comes so naturally with the Advent season. But I think we are missing something.

I started pondering and meditating on the birth story. And then I thought about my giving birth stories. They are bloody messes complete with afterbirth and slime. And yes, one does “forget” about the pain of childbirth the moment you look into your newborn’s eyes, but the reality is childbirth is painful. Jesus was not magically lifted out of Mary’s womb. He did not come out shiny and clean. While I am sure Mary had that same smile that most new moms cannot keep from happening, odds were she was exhausted. And maybe, if Mary was anything like me (which I cannot even compare myself to her selfless obedience), she was just a little annoyed that her husband got to experience all the joys of a new child without having the nine months of gestation complete with morning sickness, sleepless nights, swollen ankles, and an ever increasing body size that no longer fits in a restaurant booth. And we have not even spoken of the hours of hard labor.  Childbirth is messy.

While I have no intention of ruining the cleanliness of my children’s nativity scenes, nor do I plan on teaching them about the messiness of childbirth at this juncture of their development, I do wish to pass on the message that all presents do not come wrapped up in pretty little packages with bows on top. Sometimes life’s greatest blessings are discovered in the midst of a mess. In the case of grace, the package both entered and exited life a bloody mess.

Lost and Found.

For the past few weeks, one particular passage of Scripture has flooded my thoughts – the parable of the lost sheep. My gut told me that after I completed the ABC’s series, this would be a topic to write about. And then, wouldn’t you know, this morning’s Gospel reading was this parable. Perhaps I cannot ignore this prompting much longer.

When I get into a really deep funk, I find myself wanting to watch Girl, Interrupted. Not exactly an uplifting, boost your spirits kind of a film, but I am drawn to two particular scenes. One is when Winona Ryder’s character has her break through moment and decides not to play the part of crazy girl any more. It is a decisive moment in which she chooses healing rather than succumb to her depressive thoughts. The second scene is the climax of the movie. Angelina Jolie’s character begins shouting to her small audience of fellow mental patients, “There are just too many buttons. Why doesn’t someone come and push my buttons and tell me the truth about me . . . .” I resonate strongly with this desire to be found; for someone to come and rip the truth out of me.

There are no kind words to describe being lost. Panic and terror scratch the surface. The world is confusing. It is difficult to orient one’s self. When we are emotionally lost, it is difficult to discern the truth about our self. For Angelina Jolie’s character, the truth she believed about herself is that she was a “slut, a whore, and her parents wished she were dead.” When we are disoriented, the lies of the world can seem like our actuality. In my own state of loss, I longed for someone to reflect my perceived truth – I was damage goods, unlovable, and not worthy to be alive. I looked for mirrors to reflect my self-image of lies. I dated a few men that confirmed my perceptions. I aligned myself with a few toxic friends and systems that validated my internal beliefs. In the world of psychobabble, we would call this a self-fulfilling prophecy. We find what we believe.

Because the world I associated with confirmed my own lies, I had no reason to not believe the same held for God. God was distant and uncaring. I was unlovable even to God. My image of God was no different than the images I had of the world and my fellow human beings.

I did not know I was lost. I did not know I had oriented myself to lies.

My path back to God has come by grace. I believe that God has been relentlessly pursuing me. Despite my kicking and screaming, despite my spitting in Jesus’ face, despite shaking my middle finger towards the heavens, God has not stopped looking for me. At some moment, perhaps in a series of several small moments over several long years, I stopped insisting that I was not lost. I stopped running away from the God who was chasing me. I fell on my face and reluctantly said, “Okay, you got me. You found me. Now show me who you are.”

I have spent the last year unlearning what I thought I knew about life, Jesus, religion, and myself. Many years ago while living in Vietnam, a friend said to me, “Put your head against the Shepherd’s chest and follow his heartbeat.” It took me ten years, but I believe this is how I am now oriented. I started getting up early, and then even earlier spending time reading, writing, praying, and mostly just trying to listen and learn. I had a spiritual director suggest to me that I simply allow Jesus to teach me who he is. I started reading the Gospels with open eyes. Who is this Jesus? I came to understand that God was not chasing me to be annoying, to shame me, or to force me into submission. What I discovered was a grieving Shepherd looking to bring me, his lost, scared, little sheep home.

“Z” as in Zeal.

Well, I did it. This is the last letter in the ABC’s of Healing series. For this last entry, I will write about my own spiritual healing and transformation. I would love to hear yours as well via the comment section or through e-mail.

The Buddhists believe that transformation occurs in four different means, one being suffering. Christianity has a similar notion – suffering produces perseverance, which produces character, and that leads to hope. I believe for me, it was a willingness to walk the path of suffering, a willingness to face my fears and wounds that has led (is leading) to healing. I do not say I have arrived, for I believe that we cannot reach perfection in this life on earth. I would say with confidence I am moving towards hope; I am moving along the path of healing.

I grew up in a conservative, evangelical environment where everyone talked about their “personal relationship with Jesus” and how this filled them with so much joy. I never “got it” and carried around a great deal of shame because of my inability to “feel Jesus’ presence.” What I did not realize as a child and adolescent is that I would not “get it” in the state I was in – self-protective, non-feeling, and numbed-out. It is hard to “feel” connected with another living in isolation, afraid to let anything or anyone get close to me. I was a traumatized kid who ingenuously learned to protect myself by feeling nothing and getting close to no one.  I was really good at faking it.

While my ingenuous coping skills kept me from dying (and I mean that literally and figuratively), they did not translate well into a religious environment that used “feeling” as a measure of one’s spiritual strength. This was not the only measure. Because I failed at that one, I became zealous about the others – reading my Bible, memorizing my Bible, wearing Jesus T-shirts, doing service projects, going on mission trips, not having sex, not doing drugs or drinking alcohol. From the outside, I looked the part of the perfect Christian girl . . . really, to an annoying extreme. I was zealous about Jesus purely from an external perspective. On the inside, in my soul, I was barely breathing.

Transformation and healing did not take place overnight. I still get a little envious of those people who had a “breakthrough” moment that changed their life forever, but that is not how it happened for me. My transformation has truly come out of the path of suffering. It has been a slow and careful process of peeling back layers of stories; of unpacking the thoughts, emotions, and physical sensations that each layer brings. The peeling is not constant. I still have fun, I relax, and I truly enjoy my life. It is also not forcing the layers to come apart, but rather noticing that a layer is ready and then gently go with that.

I had a major layer come off this weekend (and is still quite a bit raw this morning.) It had been years since anything this strong was ready to be peeled away and processed. And thank goodness those layers do not come often, for they are quite painful when they come. But I welcomed it (not with a smile but more with a "Oh crap!"). Ten years ago, when a layer like this would have arisen, I would have done anything and everything to stomp it out. This kept me fighting against myself, and in the fight I vacillated between anger and depression. I had unhealthy ways of checking out to avoid the pain. Fighting, avoiding, numbing, and isolating are not exactly conducive for experiencing intimacy and connection. Healing occurs in the midst of intimacy and connection.

This weekend is a good example of where I am at now. As my husband put it, I had the perfect storm. I have trauma in my history and one thing about trauma it tends to recycle when a trauma survivor’s own children reach the age when the abuse began. Storm number one, my oldest daughter has reached that age. Storm two – I spent two days at a trauma conference learning a new processing technique.  Enough said. Storm three, I am having a hysterectomy a week from today. Words like body betrayal, naked, sexuality, exposure, vulnerable are all running rampant through my head. These storms collided this weekend. The layer was ready to be peeled back and processed.

Unlike the past, I did not run from the pain. I faced it, I felt it, and I shared it with a couple of trusted people. I did not feel it constantly this weekend – there were times when I contained it in order to tend to my parenting responsibilities. But then I would take it back off the shelf and sit with it. I sat with it alone. I sat with it in prayer. I sat with it in writing. I allowed a couple of people to sit with it alongside me. Healing came (and will continue to come today, tomorrow, and every day) because I was intimate and connected with my own soul, with God, and with others.

When we avoid our stories, avoid our layers, we are like a movie set. It looks like a real buildings, but there is nothing on the inside. If we are people of faith, our spirituality may look real on the outside, but internally it is empty. Walking through the path of suffering, though not always pleasant, leads to a beautiful and hope-filled life. For this, I am now zealous.

“Y” as in Yearning.

It seems appropriate to be writing about ‘yearning’ on the first day of Advent. For those less familiar with the liturgical calendar, Advent is the first season; a liturgical new year. Advent is a period of anticipation, of longing, of waiting for the Incarnation. The yearning to encounter God in the flesh.

I have had the privilege of being pregnant for two different Advent seasons. With each, I experienced the season of anticipation in a more tangible way. I felt connected to Mary and often wondered if she rubbed her tummy and sang the not-yet-seen child lullabies the same way I did. I wondered if she was simultaneously filled with hope and fear. Hope that this child would bring goodness to the world. Hope that this child would carry on legacy and tradition. And fear. Would I, as mother, be able to love unconditionally? Would I be the mother my child needed? Could I endure moments of being unable to protect them?

I longed to meet my children face to face. To finally see the foot that kicked the insides of my belly. This longing became a source of healing. I aggressively began preparing my heart and soul for the arrival of my children. I worked hard to clear away anger, harshness, and bitterness. I worked hard to soften my heart – to create a place of warmth, affection, and comfort I knew my children would need. I was preparing for my most sacred role of motherhood.

This Advent is a little different for me. In two weeks, my womb is being removed. We had decided two years ago that we were done having children, though nothing significant was done to prevent an ‘accidently excitement.’ Now, I am resolved to the fact that I will never again experience the excitement of pregnancy, though there is a grain of sadness that still resides. I credit my resolve to a new idea of gestation and birthing -- one that is not rooted in the physical, but rather in the spiritual.

Advent is the season of recognizing what we yearn for and preparing the soul for its arrival. I do not know about you, but I find myself yearning for grace, mercy, tenderness, justice, and hope. I find these things in the mystery of the Incarnation. God in the flesh, Jesus, loving the prostitutes, the broken, the blind, and the defenseless little children. Jesus frustrated with the leaders so focused on the rules that they missed the blessing. If I am honest, I can see myself in all of these conditions. Selling myself to the temptations of the culture, desperate to be healed, and convinced that my own goodness and rigidity will save me. I need the gift of the Incarnation. I yearn to be intimate with Jesus.

The irony is that in my preparations there is little that I can ‘do.’ Advent is calling me to a state of being – being open to grace, open to the longing. There are things I can do to cultivate the soil of my soul. I engage in Sacred reading (both Scripture and other hearty works). The kids and I made an Advent wreath and this morning lit our first candle. It sits on our dining room table and serves and a symbolic reminder that I am in the midst of a season of anticipation. I can confess my sins and allow the Grace to heal my soul.

I can wait. I can trust that something is gestating inside my soul and is about to be birthed.

And we will conclude with “Z” as in Zeal.

“X” as in Excavate.

Healing is a process that really never ends. We can always go deeper. I have read that one of the mottos said at an archaeological dig is “just bust it out.” They speak of the never ending process of excavation, and sometimes we have to decide to bust through possible artifacts for the sake of the larger archaeological goals. I think there is great wisdom here.

Along the healing journey, we painstakingly peel back layers of wounds, disappointments, and regrets. At some point, we just have to bust through a layer. I remember busting through the layer of victimhood. I had spent a few years thinking, reflecting, and grieving the impact of the curses that I stumbled upon and those that found me. One day, it hit me; I was tired of dwelling on it. I was done being a victim. I had exhausted the area and it was time to move on; it was time to begin a new focus of restoration and rebuilding.

This is not to minimize the role of excavation. There is a richness to be gained in the digging process. As we excavate the layers of our story and the stories of the generations past, we uncover our inheritance. We discover the blessings and curses that make up our legacy. To dismiss our narrative too quickly, to bust through these layers, is to be like the rebellious teenager who chooses to walk a different path for the sheer fact it is not the way of their parents. The adolescent is establishing their identity, and in the early phases this is simply “not them; not that.” Hopefully, with maturity, one’s identity is rooted in something beyond a negative reaction.

Ignoring or short-changing the excavation process leaves us captive to the curses. In the process of avoidance, we unfortunately miss out on the blessings. To quote an old saying, “We throw the baby out with the bath water.” By rejecting the curse we reject the blessing. When we reject the path of suffering through the excavation, we reject the wisdom that is sure to follow.

There were years that I rejected my Christian heritage out of anger. I was angry at local church leaders. I was angry at Church history, especially the Inquisition, the Crusades, and the official stance of silence taken during times of social atrocity such as the Jewish holocaust. I sought ( fought would be more accurate) to be “not Christian.” I eventually began excavating my faith inheritance. I started at the top – my anger. I peeled back the layers and discovered my fears and anxieties. Then my shame. And then I peeled back layers beyond myself. I saw that I was connected to a larger story. I was connected to mysterious words like Incarnation, Annunciation, and Resurrection. These were also a part of me and me of them. The Judeo-Christian story is my genealogy. To reject my inheritance was to kill off a part of myself. It left me an alien without a land to call home. I eventually returned home, and though I still have doubts and moments of shock regarding the history, it is still home. There is no place like home.

As we excavate our lives, we uncover the artifacts that have described us; that have defined us. As we grow in our knowledge and awareness, we grow in our ability to choose the blessings we wish to carry on to the next generation. We also have the opportunity to actively heal the wounds from the curses. When we examine the curses, we are less likely to repeat them.

May we continue to grow in wisdom. May our roots only grow deeper as we excavate the layers of our story.

Next . . . “Y” as in Yearning.

“W” as in Water.

The first time I went snorkeling, I was hooked. I was nine years old and lucky enough to be vacationing in St. Thomas. Everyday my dad would take my brother and me out into the bay to explore the tropical water. Fast forward six years and the scene repeats, only further south in Aruba.

Snorkeling in Aruba was amazing! I got to explore a sunken ship and feed the parrot fish. My dad, brother, and I were growing brave in our snorkeling skills. We were snorkeling in a small bay bordered off by a man-made rock barrier. We had heard that just beyond the rocks was a plane crash we could explore. The water on the surface was perfectly calm and so we set out towards the rocks. As we reached the rocks, the surface remained still, but the current was strong. As I tried to swim away from the rocks, the current pulled me back and under. I swam until I exhausted myself, but I could not break away from the undertow. I began to panic; calling out for my giant father. He and my brother were beyond the danger and did not seem to understand the trouble I was experiencing. I gave up trying to get beyond the rocks and turned back toward the beach. I swam a long and lonely journey back to safety.

Healing is about paying attention to the under current.

This weekend, I confronted a strong current in my life – jealousy and envy. The surface water looks fairly calm in this season of my life. My children are all in preschool. This may sound like a lot of chaos, but having three children all within a year, their newfound independence and ability to entertain one another means I have time to breathe without someone constantly needing something. When people visit our family they usually comment on how calm everything appears. As a therapist, my job is to remain cool, calm, and collected and these three “C’s” come natural for me, at least on the surface. The undertow started pulling me under this weekend.

I am blessed with that perfect younger brother. You know the type, tall, good-looking, athletic, successful, and a natural leader. I have always felt like the frumpy, awkward, chubby, old hag in comparison. The key word here is comparison. When I examine my life in the shadow of my brother it looks like failure. In the undercurrent, I compared and wished I was someone else. This weekend was about recognizing the danger I was facing. Jealousy and envy were damaging my soul. I had to get out of harm’s way. I had to confess and deal with my sinfulness (okay, I am still actively working on this.)

This weekend, and most every weekend, I encountered healing water. This water is at church. As I walk into the worship space, I pass the baptismal font flowing with holy water. It is tradition to dip your fingers in the water and make the sign of the cross touching your head, heart, and shoulders. This ritual is to remind the worshipper of their baptism and the vows made. It is a ritual reminder that I am called to a life of holiness; to sacredness. It is a reminder that I am called to be the me I was created to be, to live the vocation I was called to live. It is a reminder to get out of the undertows of sinfulness and destruction.

As I dipped my finger and crossed myself, I was deeply aware that I needed to get out of the undertow of jealousy and envy. I need to move into the path of holiness, step into the path that pursues the Sacred, for it is there I will find healing and restoration.

Next . . . “X” as in Excavate.

“V” for Vitality.

I used to say that God had to whack me upside the head with a 2’x4’ before I would to listen. I am stubborn and determined. Less pleasant words that have been used to describe me – bull-headed and strong-willed. Looking back at the context of my life’s narrative, I see it more as having a strong will to survive. I fought to feel alive. At times, I fought to stay alive.

Along the way, I have learned that mere survival is not enough, I must also thrive. In the medical and child development world there is a condition known as “Failure to Thrive.” These are children who stop growing, stop developing, and if left untreated can have fatal consequences. Often times, this is seen in cases of severe child abuse and neglect. The child simply and passively gives up on life.

A decade ago, I found myself failing to thrive. I was living in Vietnam, feeling both oppressed and attacked by the circumstances surrounding me. I reached a point where I no longer cared what happened to me. I spent my days writing dark poetry and smoking cigarettes at sidewalk cafes and my nights drinking beer at the English speaking bars. I was not actively suicidal, but I certainly was passively giving up on my life. I secretly hoped someone would do me the favor and end my misery. I can list various diagnostic criteria that would fit my condition, but this was much deeper than mental illness. I had lost my vitality; I lost my sense of purpose. I was lost in nowhere land.

Feeling nothing was awful. I was choosing to feel self-inflicted pain as opposed to feeling empty. By grace, the Shepherd heard the faint, desperate cry from me, his lost sheep, and I was found. Amazing grace. This time, it was not the usual whack upside the head that got my attention. Instead, it was a gentleness that swept over me. In that moment, I recognized that the fight for survival was actually destroying me. It was time to let the fight for survival go and reconnect with sources of vitality.

In that year, I learned there are three things I need in my life to thrive. I need intellectual stimulation. I need a couple of relationships where I can have deep, meaningful, and honest conversations. Finally, I need to have a clear sense of purpose to what I am doing. These things feed my soul. In this past year, I discovered I also need to create. When I am creating, whether it is cooking a meal, writing, or building a garden, I feel connected to the Creator. It is hard not to thrive when you are connected to the Source of life.

Thriving is about growth, survival is about staying alive. In survival mode, all energy is focused on not dying. To thrive, we must choose to connect to sources of nourishment. What feeds my soul may be different than what feeds yours. Regardless of the source, we need to be fed. Being fed is different from merely eating. Being fed recognizes our state of dependence – I cannot merely rely on my own provisions, my own thoughts, and my own company. Eventually, we exhaust the nourishment stored within ourselves. We need the offerings of others. We need to be a part of something bigger than ourselves. When we are fed, we will thrive. When we are thriving, we will be able to feed others.

Next . . . “W” as in Water.

“U” as in Upside-Down.

I have had some wild summers, but the craziest was my 21st summer. While most 21-year-olds were working their way through bars and shot glasses, I signed a ‘no alcohol’ clause and chose to live in a tent in the outskirts of Tijuana, Mexico. For three months I built 11x22 foot “homes” – more like sheds in American standards. They had a concrete floor, framed walls, a stucco exterior, and a roof that hopefully did not leak. The summer ended with a great climax. I had just finished building a house for a grandmother, her daughter, son-in-law, and three small children. As I stood back and admired the modest two-room structure that would shelter six people, the grandmother started hugging me and through her tears continued to say, “No mas noches frios” (no more cold nights.) In that moment, I felt powerful. I felt like a hero. I made a difference. And then I saw her.

She was a tiny little girl named Maria. I assumed she was three years old, but learned that she was actually seven. Her small size was due to her being born with a hole in her heart. She was not expected to live much longer. In an instant, my world turned upside down. We were fifteen miles from the US Border. Had she been born north of that line, her heart would have been fixed and in all likelihood she would have had a normal life. I grew angry and eventually rage-filled at the injustice. I was angry at God for allowing her to be born just a little too far south into a family with too little money. I was angry at myself for not being a doctor, for not having a million dollars so I could fly this child north and pay for her heart to be fixed. I was angry at the powerlessness and helplessness I felt at that moment.

Maria awakened the vulnerable part of myself, though at the time I lacked the words to express this. I returned from this summer changed. My world was turned upside down. Up until then, I relied on my heroic strength and work ethic to maintain my illusion of power and control. I was a good kid who did good things. Up until that point, I strongly believed that I could fix anything, including myself.

In the upside-down world, I confronted my own powerlessness – my inability to help myself. If I am honest, I will confess that there are moments (okay, long moments) when I cannot stand to face my vulnerability. I try and block it out of my mind, think about something else, or go fix something in need of repair. I look for ways to feel powerful, to feel like a hero, to feel like I have accomplished something significant mostly in vain attempt to forget how helpless I really feel.

I can only patch so much drywall, scrub so much carpet, and pull so many weeds. Eventually I run out of tasks and once again I get quiet. Once again, I am reminded that there are things in my life that I cannot repair or redo. When I stop running from it, when I slow down enough to sit with my helplessness, when I am brave enough to share it with a trusted other, I find that I am only met with mercy and tenderness. The overwhelming anxiety begins to subside and I come to know a peace that passes understanding. I am okay. I will be okay.

One of these days I will stop running and trying to hide from my powerless and helpless feelings. One of these days I will trust that it is in my helplessness that I find surrender. It is in the surrender that I find freedom. In the freedom, I find peace.

Next . . . “V” for Vitality.

“T” as in Trust.

One phrase frequently whispers in my ear, “Trust the process.” When it comes to the healing process, I am usually kicking and screaming. Trusting the process takes me out of control. I like to be in control of everything. When I am in control, I set the pace, I foresee potential obstacles, and I determine what I reveal. Mostly, control is about keeping me emotionally and physically safe. Trusting the process is letting go of control; letting go of the need to be in the know regarding everything that is happening to me.

They say the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again expecting a different result. When I limit the healing process to my own devises, this is equally insane. It is not that I do not know a few things about healing. I have a degree of self-awareness and clinical knowledge. In other words, I have a few tricks up my sleeve. Unfortunately, my little bag of tricks does not include a magic wand capable of making things instantly better.

There was a time in life when I would have wanted instant healing. Seriously, just make it all go away. Fortunately, healing was (and is) a process. For it is in the process, in the throes of the unknown that I find grace.

One of the stupidest things I ever did in college was trust a couple of amateurs to lead a group of us through Grindstone cave in the heart of East Tennessee. The adult in me says it was stupid because ten of us entered this cave with no ropes, no emergency supplies, no signals or flares, and no plan if something had gone wrong. But there I was winding through the cave, crawling on ledges, sliding down tubes barely wide enough, and having the most exhilarating experience of my life. We found ourselves in a large room and gathered all together, we turned off our lights and sat in the silence. In the pure darkness where I could not even see my hand in front of me let alone my next step, I found peace.

The adult me would never trust a couple of college freshman to guide me through the dark corridors of an adventure, and there is probably some wisdom there. But, and this is a big but, we are called to trust the healing process. We are called to listen to the voice of the Shepherd and blindly follow. We are called to trust, but the one we are trusting has been there. He was not ashamed to weep over the death of a friend. He was not ashamed of the agony he experienced on a dark lonely night in a garden. We are called to trust a leader who is not afraid of the suffering and grief that can accompany a healing journey.

The adult me does not like to be led – I much prefer to be the one steering the course of my destiny. But, I seem to steer it in the same direction of self-protection, withdrawal, and avoidance. And then I wonder why it is I seem to reach the same disappointing conclusions. I feel safe, but I am stuck on a loop. When I am brave enough to trust the process, to follow the leader, to walk the path of my emotions, to face pain and suffering, then I begin to experience something new. I break out of my craziness. I find I am surprised by vitality and overwhelmed by grace. As I trust the process and share my story I find that I am not alone. I am connected to a Community and a Christ that is walking through the process with me.

Next . . . “U” as in Upside Down.

“S” as in Sanctity.

sanc•ti•ty/ˈsaNG(k)titē/ Noun: The state or quality of being holy, sacred, or saintly. Ultimate importance and inviolability. Synonyms: holiness; saintliness; sainthood; sacredness.

Did you notice the word, inviolability? That means being secured from violence or desecration. We were created to be holy. Our lives are sacred. They were meant to be protected; to be cherished and honored. Unfortunately not everyone values life.

I am really struggling with this blog post. I know what it means to be violated – I know the pain and shame that comes with it. At the same time, sharing this in a public forum such as a blog opens up my story for others to treat it as they may. Translation: I run the risk of further violation by my experience being misunderstood or invalidated.

What I do know is that being violated left me feeling powerless, hopeless, and without worth. I came to this conclusion because when I looked in the mirror, I only saw my wounds. I lost sight of the truth of my existence – that I was important; my essence was sacred.

Sanctity for life recognizes that life is sacred simply because it is. We as a society struggle with this attitude. We attribute value based upon utilitarian principles – what someone does determines their worth. We value beautiful, happy people. For those of us who have been violated, we see ourselves as bad and our physical being as ugly. We become stuck in a vicious cycle of internal shame messages that is further reinforced by the utilitarian beliefs of our society. We buy the lies. We stop believing in the sanctity of life.

Being violated is like having someone graffiti a monument. It is tainted and defamed. In attempts to cover up the graffiti, we may violate ourselves by adding our own layers paint. Eventually we forget what the monument was supposed to look like – we forget what it was originally created to represent. Rather than cover up the defamation, we need to clean it off. We need to roll up our sleeves and really look at the violation. Someone did an awful thing, but with time and cleansing its impact does begin to fade away.

Sanctity says who we are in the core of our being determines our worth. It is about our essence. We did not create our essence. We cannot alter our essence. Our essence, the core of who we are, was created in the image of God. This image is holy. It is sacred. It is inviolable. Nothing can change that. To say that we are worthless, that we have no value is to say God is worthless. For if we truly are created in the image of God, how we view our own lives is a reflection of how we view God. This should also go the other way – how we view God should impact how we see ourselves.

In the havoc that follows a violation, may we not lose sight of our essence. May we not lose sight of the God who created us. We are sacred because we are created in the image of a Sacred God.

Next . . . “T” as in Trust.

“R” as in Restoration.

I debated between two “R” words – reconciliation and restoration. Some may confuse the two. Reconciliation is the erasing of debt; the removal of the junk in our lives. Restoration is returning something or someone to their original luster and integrity.

I have a deep appreciation for antiques. Three tables in my home are over 100 years old. My dining room was my paternal grandmother's (complete with a cigarette burn in the table pad). My kitchen table was used by my parents when they first got married (and it had been passed down to them from other friends and family members). And a small drop leaf harp table was used as an eating table when my maternal grandparents were first married. When I sit at these tables, there are times when I feel a sense of connection to the history they carry. Oh the stories that must have been shared around those tables. The history only adds to the character and value of the piece.

As these antiques moved into my home, some restoration occurred. Two of the tables were covered in mold and mildew. They were carefully cleaned and refinished, but the integrity of the pieces was held together. Healing is much like restoration.

Our lives are made up of stories -- some funny, some exciting, some sad and tragic. But they are what make up our character. Some of us try and ignore the darker stories and emotions. Unfortunately, stories are a package deal. When we attempt to ignore parts, when end up ignoring the whole. If we stop feeling the pain, we also lose our capacity to feel the joy. We walk around with missing parts. In the antique world, an item loses its value if original parts are missing.

Part of healing is finding the missing parts. Sometimes the quest is restoring feelings. I remember when I began my healing process; I did not know what I was feeling. I was not being obstinate or resistant (though that was present much of the journey). I truly could not distinguish anything specific emotion from my general state of numb. I had to relearn what it meant to be glad, mad, and sad. I entered a process of restoring my ability to feel back to its original integrity.

Feeling again meant that memories came back. Feeling states were linked to various stories I had tried hard to forget. My focus had been on eradicating them. I saw no use in my wounds. In my original state, I was perfect. I believed restoring my life meant returning to a state of perfection – of erasing the baggage completely. I was wrong on all accounts.

Our wounds and our stories make up our character. If we ignore the stories with which we have shame and pain, if we delete these stories from our lives then we have lost pieces of ourselves. In our restoration, we must have an appreciation for all the stories that have made us who we are.

Appreciation is not the same as justification. There are things we have done that are wrong. We need to make amends. But we cannot erase what we have done no more than we can erase what has been done to us. But we can have compassion on ourselves – we can be merciful as Christ has shown mercy.

Restoration is finding the missing parts. It is fixing the parts that are broken or not working as they should be. Let us live whole. Let us live with integrity. Let us live restored lives.

Next . . . “S” as in Sanctity.

“Q” as in Questions.

I have spent my life asking questions, and at times they have landed me in a great deal of trouble. When learning about reflection and refraction in 8th grade science, I struggled to grasp the concept because no one could explain to me why light bent as it did. I was told, “It is because it is. You just have to accept it.” I never accepted that answer and subsequently my grade suffered. Blind faith in the laws of physics and nature did not sit well with me.
I also learned that questioning the rules of authority was not a good idea. I was a professional back-talker – partially because I needed to have the last word, but mostly I needed to feel a sense of control. This was especially true if I felt the slightest sense of injustice. I needed to know the reasons behind the rule and the justification for the consequence. I needed to be in the know to feel safe. I needed to control what was happening to me.

There was a time when I would have died in battle over my questions. I was in relentless pursuit of breaking out of the unknown. Questions are about finding answers that lead to certainty. “I KNOW this to be true.” Maturity comes when we can ask the question and be content with a silent or unknown answer.

Immaturity cannot handle the silence. Where the questions leave us blank, we will fill the unknown space with assumptions. We will project our own reasons, our own answers. We see this with the adolescent female stereotype – she hears laughter in the school hallways and assumes it is people poking fun at her.

Questions in the midst of pain find us grasping for any sensible explanation. We ask God why this has happened to us – why God would allow such horrible things to happen to good people. Our dissatisfaction with the unknown answers leads us to quick answers. When explaining an untimely death we say that God needed them to come home. This flip answer is far from comforting to a grieving parent or young widow.

When we are wrestling with tormenting memories from childhood we blame God for being absent or blame God for making us so weak and awful. Our unanswered “whys” lead us down a path where we begin projecting our own thoughts and emotions onto God. We are angry; therefore we believe God must be angry with us. Our sense of self-worth and self-respect has shattered and we come to believe that God agrees with our self-hatred.

In some circles, questions are all together threatening. The system has built up a tenet of beliefs about God and the world. These tenets make them feel safe. The rules and boundaries are clearly defined. If you have grown up in such a system and are unable to articulate your questions then this can be devastating. I have met many people who have described extreme loneliness and isolation because their questions were seen as attacks. It saddens me to know that there are systems that shut down the questioning process. This is called Authoritarianism – “you will comply because I said so.”

When I read through Scripture, I find many places of deep wrestling and questioning between God and man (think Jacob and David; think Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane). In most cases, there were no explanations but the questions were welcomed. When we question with maturity, it is not about arguing or having to be right. Mature questioning is intimate. When we wrestle with the question we discover what is hiding underneath it – fear, grief, uncertainty, anger. When we expose these things to God and a trusted community, when we begin to wrestle with what is really bothering us, then we find healing.

Next . . . “R” as in Restoration.

“P” as in Promises.

We make promises, and promises are made to us. When my husband proposed to me, he asked me to promise him three things. I would never have an affair, I would take on his last name while finding a way to keep my maiden name, and I would I would commit to working through the hard times and not withdraw. Mind you I was hanging 700 feet in the air when these promised were asked of me! All humor aside, I agreed that fidelity and perseverance were critical for a marriage to succeed and had no problem making such promises and I expected the same in return.

I think we all grow up expecting various promises to be kept, even when they are not clearly articulated. We expect to be loved unconditionally by our parents. We expect to be protected and to grow up feeling safe. We expect our spouse to remain faithful. We expect people to tell us the truth and treat us with dignity. If we grew up in a religious background, we were taught we could expect God to be true to his promises—to be with us, and never abandon us.

What happens when the promises we thought we could trust were broken? The short answer: our basic sense of trust is shattered. While this is a short answer, it is quite complex. When our trust is broken, we cannot believe in promises. Without trust in promises, it is difficult to hope. The disappointment experienced from broken promises is devastating, so why hope that God and people will follow through on their word? As a child we dreamed of the happily ever after, but following broken promises we exchanged our hope-filled imagination for new rules. Don’t get close to people, for they will disappoint you. Don’t feel, for no one will validate you. Don’t vocalize your needs and wants, for they will not be met. We build up our fortress walls to never again be hurt by broken promises. We become independent and self-sufficient. We learn to take care of ourselves; to be the supplier of our own needs. We are filled with anxiety, always looking over our shoulder awaiting the next disappointment. It is lonely, but we do not have to stay here forever.

To repair the damage, we have to step out of our fortress, or at least open the door. Many of us secretly wish for someone to bust through our walls, to reach in and rescue us from ourselves. We want God to break through our hardened hearts. The problem is, while we may long for this, when others step in without our ready invitation, it feels like more threatening penetration. We must take the risk and ask for others to see us.

We only learn to trust again by trying it. We must learn to listen to our gut as we discern who is safe. And if our gut says, “Go ahead,” we can take a few steps toward letting others see our hearts. If we are met with compassion, then take a few more steps forward. Eventually the positive experiences become enough to convince us we can trust again.

When it comes to trusting in God’s promises, we may need to reframe our expectations. For those of us shattered by broken promises, we may have become angry at God for not intervening and protecting us. We blame God for the injuries we incurred at the hands of others. God promised his Spirit would never leave us – He is Emmanuel, God with us. I found healing when I came to know that this promise meant God’s Spirit suffered with me. It began when I realized that the sins of another not only hurt me, but also God. God indeed never left me even when I broke my promises to remain His faithful bride.

Next . . . “Q” as in Questions.

“O” as in Organic.

I have been using the metaphor of gestation and pregnancy to describe my journey into writing.  The “pregnancy” was long – I am thinking close to twenty-five years now.  I started writing in elementary school.  When the house was asleep, I would write out stories on lined notebook paper and then tuck them away in my closet.  I wrote in a journal faithfully through high school and college.  I wrote from my soul – it was honest, and it was dark.  In my mid-twenties I started graduate school and continued writing.  Up until then, I wrote only for myself.  During this time, a vision seed was planted – someday I would write for a larger audience.  It took another several years for that seed to gestate before I went into labor.  

The labor process was painful – it meant letting go of doctoral studies (and thus quitting something I had started for the first time in my life.)  I had felt a calling on my life.  I felt the Spirit leading me to turn my energy toward the art of therapy rather than the science.  I was also feeling the push to integrate the wisdom of the Desert Fathers and Mothers, Saints, and other religious sages into my theoretical framework of psychotherapy.  This also meant if I were to fully listen to the Spirit, I would need to reconcile my angry heart with God and the Church. 

Labor also meant pushing out a major block.  I vomited up my silent story and allowed a few trusted friends to read it.  I had to bring in witnesses to my secret shame – to confess my story.  I could not be authentic with my writing if I was always worried my secrets seep through my protective barriers.  That was the final push before the baby emerged.  Writing (and healing) evolved organically.  The threads of my experience were slowly woven together to reveal a new tapestry.

I share this story to say that the pace growth and healing cannot be forced.  It must evolve organically.  This is not to say that we are passive bystanders in the process.  We are co-creators.  We were born as uniquely designed beings created for a Divine purpose.  We are inundated with experiences that add to the narrative of our lives.  But we choose the path of cultivation.  We choose to nurture or neglect the soil of our lives.

Throughout my writing “pregnancy”, I had the choice to abort.  I could have wiped out the idea all together and focused on academics and secular success.  In many ways, that would have been the easy path.  Instead, I chose to nurture the vision and listen to the calling.  This translated into softening my heart, humbling my spirit, and dealing with my anger.  This was neither an overnight nor a painless process.    

I could have chosen to keep the “child” but neglect it.  To use the metaphor of a garden, I could have ignored the weeds that needed to be pulled.  Weeding the garden is hard work.  It means spending time on our knees working through the dirt.  Sometimes weeds start out looking like plants – they can be deceiving.  The more we spend working in the garden of our lives, the more quickly we can discern weed from fruitful plant. 

The investment in our growth will bear fruit.  When we fill our minds and souls with nourishment (such as sacred reading, deep conversation, and honest confession), growth will happen.  It may not always happen at the pace we desire, but we can rest assure it is there even when it is not obvious. 

Next . . . “P” and in Promises.

“N” as in Night.

I used to be afraid of the night until I realized the gift that it has to offer. When I was 16, I went on my first wilderness backpacking trip in upper Michigan. I, along with a bunch of guys, spent a week hiking 50 miles and canoeing 100 miles. Towards the end of the trip, our leader and guide Kent, had us set up camp on a small island in the middle of the river. It was a perfect spot to camp with one exception – no source of clean water. Kent suggested that if we waited until it was dark, we would be able to take our canoes upstream a bit and hear fresh spring water flowing into the river. In the daytime, there was too much noise, too many distractions that would prevent us from successfully finding our much needed water. But in the silence of night, we would easily find what we were looking for. And he was right. We found what we were looking for (and the bonus adventure of getting into a splash war with a beaver -- who knew an oar could also serve as a makeshift beaver tail!)

It is in the night where we are met with the sounds of silence. Its darkness blinds us from other distractions. We have a choice – be afraid of the dark and bury our head, or look for the gift it has to offer. The night strips us down to our core being. We are alone with our thoughts and our emotions; our audience has gone to bed. The world is no longer our stage, we take off our costumes, and the real begins to emerge.

What do we find alone in the silent night? I find that my wounds begin to emerge asking to be healed. Some are new wounds from the day, others are old that have yet to fully heal. In the day, wounds are easily ignored – I am distracted by the buzz of routine. In the day, I am often Superwoman – fearless and guarded by a force field of protection. But in the darkness, I can hear the wound’s cries and if I choose, I can go find them. I can choose to listen, to understand, to be compassionate with myself. Or I can choose to shame, reprimand, and criticize. I can welcome healing or I can shut down the process.

I am not suggesting that we merely sit around and coddle ourselves. The night offers a wonderful time for an examination of the soul – to reflect back on the harm we have caused others. When we no longer are performing, we can stop long enough to evaluate our actions. When we notice the damage we may have caused, we can own it and make amends. In most cases, we have the opportunity to repair the wounds we inflicted, but only if we choose to take those steps.

The night offers us the gift of being vulnerable with God. When the lights go off, we no longer have to play the clichéd religious happy person. We can choose to be our true self, our honest self. We are free to doubt, to wrestle, to curl up in the fetal position begging for parental tenderness. We are free to express our fears and our hopes. We are free to rejoice, to desire deep, loving intimacy with God. We can choose this path of intense honesty or we can continue playing make-believe.

We do not have to be afraid of the dark. We do not have to fear our shadow self beneath the daytime façade. And we are fooling ourselves if we believe God does not already see it. Healing begins when we ourselves are not afraid to be with it – to know it, to hear it, to understand it. In the silence of the night, if we are willing to get out in our canoe and listen, we may actually find what we really need.

Next . . . “O” as in Organic.

"M" as in Morning.

“Thank God for the hill, the sky, the morning sun, the manna on the ground which every morning renews our lives.” Thomas Merton

For six straight summers, I was the luckiest girl in the world. I got to attend Sugar Creek Camp, which was indeed the best camp ever. For a week in August, I got to hike at Turkey Run State Park, swim, ride horses, canoe, and leave my bed in the middle of the night to watch meteor showers. The counselors were amazing and the smart ones eventually became co-conspirators with me and my fellow prankster extraordinaire, Sarah. How many camp counselors actually help you pull pranks on other cabins and counselors? I suppose that was the better option than finding themselves taped to their bed (Mandy Baldwin, if you are reading this, I extend my heartfelt apology.)

For all the sheer glee Sugar Creek Camp brought to my life, my favorite part was the morning. We had the option of tying a sock to our bed and being awoken at 5:30 in the morning to go fishing. I am not a fisherwoman – I like casting out the line, but please do not ask me to touch the bait or any caught fish. Those early mornings were not about the fishing, but rather getting to experience the dawn. I loved the fog sitting on the pond, the dew on the grass, and the smell of a new day. While others were begging for an extra hour of sleep, I could not stay away from watching the sun kiss the earth. Nothing much has changed over the past twenty-some years – I am still one to rise early and spend time alone in the dawn.

It is the morning that sets the stage for the day to come. Do we dread the day ahead of us? Do we wake up clinging to the struggles and worries from yesterday? Or are we excited about a new start, and a fresh beginning? Do we sit in anticipation knowing each day brings new wonders to enjoy? Do we start the day with confidence knowing that come what may, we will figure our way through it?

Typically, when we start a new adventure we are bursting with excitement. We have enthusiasm and profound momentum. Eventually, the dawn transitions into daylight and the mundane tasks of the day occupy much of our time. It is easy to lose our anticipation and our excitement in the ordinary moments. I named this blog, “Searching for Sacred” to be that constant reminder to keep my eyes searching for the extraordinary in the ordinary moments of life. Whether it is cooking dinner, pulling weeds out of the garden, or helping my child tie his shoe, Sacred encounters are found if I keep my eyes open. The challenge is maintaining that same excitement when I am stuck in routine or ready for a nap.

When we finally decide to embark on a new journey, whether that be towards a greater depth of restoration and healing in our soul or taking steps toward actualizing a dream, there is a level of excitement. “Yes, I am going to do this!” And then the day sets in. As the reality forms and we actually begin, we are often met with our doubts and self-criticism. “What in the world was I thinking?” Let us remember the hope we met in the dawn.

I debated how to spell this title (morning vs. mourning). A lot could be said about either, but I decided to focus more on rejuvenation in this entry. The next will be on “Night” which I will focus more on those dark nights of the soul.

"L" as in Longing

When is the last time you really wanted something? When have you pursued something just beyond your reach? What do you long for?

David writes in the Psalm 42, “As the deer longs for streams of water, so my soul longs for you, O God.” He goes on to describe darkness in his soul. Despite this darkness, despite the seeming silence of his God, David holds on to his longing and waits for God. He longs for relief from his condition and yet keeps his eyes fixed on the hope that this darkness will lift and he will once again sing praises.

We live in a culture that works against the idea of longing. We are all about instant gratification and quick fixes. We are full of food, noise, entertainment, and stimuli. We have stuffed ourselves so full we have drowned out space for longing. We are content with the junk, but I fear we are missing out on the really good stuff.

Longing leads us to a deep intimacy. It is pursuing something beyond us – something more than what we currently have. To long for God is a pursuit of close proximity. Many of us are afraid of intimacy. We fear the unknown. We fear what others may see in us. We fear being disappointed. In our trepidation, we keep ourselves full. We consume junk to avoid the pains of hunger.

Longing requires us to quiet our environment enough to hear the groans of our soul. It is sitting in sacred silence and opening our hearts. It is allowing ourselves to feel the hunger pangs; to feel a deep thirst. Longing does not look for the quick fix to satisfy our hunger and thirst, but instead listens to the quiet yearnings and waits for the Source to fill it up.

Some form of meditation is found in every religion. Christian tradition has the mystics such as the Desert Fathers of the 400’s and the medieval mystics such as St. John of the Cross, St. Theresa of Avila, and Meister Eckert. The mystics longed for powerful union with God. They pursued contemplative practices of prayer and sacred readings in pursuit of God, but also to increase their self-awareness. They were interested in identifying the self-imposed obstacles that kept them from a more perfect unity with God. They sought to know what in themselves needed to die in order that they may live in Christ. This form of prayer took discipline and time.

I fear in our fast-paced society we lack the patience to meditate on God as well as have thorough self-examinations of our conscience. Our quick fix mentality has cheapened our prayers and silenced our longing – “Three easy steps to the prayer life you have always wanted.” If only it were that easy.

Longing commits to the on-going pursuit of death to self in order to reach union with God. When I lived in Viet Nam, there were two kinds of coffee. One was instant Nescafe and the other was the French press. Nescafe was a quick fix, but its satisfaction was limited to squelching a caffeine headache. But the French press – it was slow to come to fruition. I would stare at the glass wanting it to hurry up knowing all along there was no speeding up the process. But I also knew it was worth the wait to have a really (and I mean really) good cup of coffee. So let us raise our cups to rejecting the quick fixes and keeping our eyes fixed on the good stuff.

Next . . . “M” as in Morning.

"K" is for Kindness.

We reap what we sow. If we plant seeds of negativity, bitterness, and general ugliness, we should not be surprised when our life and our relationships seem downright awful. Who wants to be around someone who complains and argues all the time? Certainly not me.

Some of us are grumblers. We have a malaise about us. We are far from optimistic in our outlook on life. We believe nothing good will come of our life – we are destined for misery. This is difficult company to be around, but if it is another person I have the choice to gauge my proximity. I will work hard to avoid bad attitudes, for I know they are contagious. I hear whining and I start to get cranky. I can generally keep my distance from such stink; that is unless the stench is me.

Kindness is a powerful tool in removing the foul odor of bad attitudes. Someone much wiser than me once said, “Every day you will make a mark on someone’s life. It is up to you what kind of mark that will be.” Sometimes it is difficult to choose kindness. This morning was one of those for me. I had just learned that a man I greatly admired lost his fight with cancer. He was an amazing man of grace and humility that will surely be missed. Today is also the day the preschool is celebrating a teacher who has survived breast cancer. My kids all have “fight like a girl” breast cancer shirts – they were all laid out ready to wear. My oldest woke up cranky and decided not to wear said T-shirt. For twenty minutes we argued about clothes. She had no idea that I was heartbroken about Gary, cancer, and the fragility of life. She saw me as “mean for yelling.” And she was right. Our negative interactions were compounded by my “meanness” – and in reality, my attitude was not even about her. I was sad, fighting back tears, and just trying to get through the morning routines before school. Our irritability fed one another and we harvested a twenty-minute power struggle.

If only I would have stopped, recognized where we both were emotionally and chosen kindness . . . I imagine I would have resorted to a more playful approach and “hugged the grumps out of her.” I also could have let it go and recognized my insistence on her wearing the T-shirt was more about me and my hurting soul rather than about her. She did not know the context of my irritability nor was it her job to take care of my emotions. If I take a step further back, I could say with confidence that much of the time when I am being unkind towards others it is because I expect them to read my mind. I want them to join me in justifying the reasons for my crankiness. This is unfair. It is not their job to see the complicated layers under my foul attitude. But, I am responsible for the hurtful mark I have made on them.

While I reaped negativity this morning, it is not the only conclusion. In most cases, we have an opportunity to repair the damage our unkindness causes. I will call my daughter later today and apologize for being mean and yelling. I will own my stinky attitude and meet her with kindness. I will choose to not hold a grudge – not to allow anger and irritability to continue to grow between us. She may continue to wake up cranky, and I cannot control that. I can only control how I react – will I match her stinky attitude or will I meet her with kindness? I will choose the mark I leave with my response. May kindness prevail.

Next . . . “L” for Longing.

"J" as in Joy.

Joy is a state of being. It is not an emotion. Joy is too easily confused with happiness, but they are not the same. Happiness comes and goes. It is contingent on our circumstances. If something good happens, then we feel happy. A moment later, we hear a piece of bad news and we feel sad. Our joy is not moved by the ups and downs of life. It is steadfast.

Joy is having the confidence, peace, and hope that we will survive the tough things of life. It is the hope that even if we should physically die, our soul will never die. Joy knows that when bad things do happen, it is not God or the universe conspiring to destroy us.

Many of us have lost our joy. When bad things happen we start to wonder why God is rejecting us. We question God’s love and promises. “If you are so good, then why is this happening to me?” In our anger, we may deny God. I spent years giving God the middle finger because I was angry at my circumstances. I perceived God as distant and uncaring. God failed to protect me when I was young and vulnerable therefore I would not trust God to be loving or good. I lost my joy.

We grow angry and start looking for explanations as to why horrible things happen. As we come up empty on reasons why, we start blaming the people around us. If only this . . . if only that. We plant seeds of bitterness that grow into giant weeds. If we do not stop it, before we know it the weeds will have strangled our joy.

Joy knows that bad things happen. It knows that often life seems unfair. And while perception may be the reality before us, we trust that we do not know the whole story.

Where do we find our joy? We find it when we choose hope over despair. When we choose to cling to the promises that this too shall pass – the pain, the anger will eventually subside. It is not denying our emotions. Because joy is a state of being, it can coexist in the midst of deep sorrow or righteous anger. When we have joy, no circumstance, no fleeting emotion can take that away. Joy is anchored deep in our hearts.

We find joy in trusting in the covenants of God – those promises of redemption and presence. We choose to trust that our temporary circumstances are not the entirety of the story. Trusting that someday we will be able to look back and see that our horrific situations led us to a better place. It is hoping and trusting that our struggles in life are graces in disguise.

We choose to trust that indeed the Spirit will remain with us. We know that despite our circumstances, we are not alone. That despite our atrocities God has not forsaken us. Joy believes that we have a God who suffers alongside us; a God who finds no happiness in our struggles. Our joy comes from clinging to this belief and refusing to let go.

Next . . . K is for Kindness.

"I' for Involvement.

In my previous posts within this series, I have focused a lot of attention on our inner thoughts, emotional well-being, and personal spirituality. Today, I am writing about the benefit of getting out and being involved.

If we remain in our own little worlds all the time, staring intently at our navels, it is likely we will become self-centered. We could become like Narcissus and fall so deeply in love with our own reflection that we would rather die than stop staring at it. At the very least, staring so intently at our own navels will lead to boredom (there is only so much belly lint). On the flip side, only focusing our attention on others leads to the martyr syndrome. We help others to avoid looking at our own depravity, but then we grow weary from all our giving and self-sacrifice. We move from feeling good about ourselves because we are someone’s hero to feeling resentment because they need so much.

We need to have a both/and attitude – spending time in self-reflection AND spending time focused on others. There must be balance.

Involvement is about connecting with something bigger than you. It is being a part of something where the spotlight is not on you. By being a part of something else, we are able to experience a sense of community. The key here, we are but one part, not the whole. We see that we have a role to play, but the play itself is not a monologue.

Victor Frankl, author of Man’s Search for Meaning, was a Jewish psychotherapist in Nazi occupied Europe during WWII. He survived atrocities beyond imagination while imprisoned in concentration camps. One of the main points of his book is that if a person has a reason to live, he/she can survive most any circumstances. Frankl survived by thinking of his family and his role as husband and father. Thoughts of reuniting with them, of not dying and thus departing them sustained him. When others were throwing themselves against the electric fence and committing suicide, Frankl found resilience. His family was bigger than himself – this gave him a reason to live.

I do not believe that our own self-actualization is reason enough to live. Though important, it is not everything. If I dare, I will go as far to say that our personal relationship with God, our individual spirituality is also not enough to sustain us through atrocity. I am not diminishing the importance of our pursuit of God, but there must be more. It is both/and – our individual quest for God as well as our involvement in the Body of Christ.

Our involvement does not have to consume large amounts of our time or be a massive project. The point is that we are involved in something that gives us a sense of purpose, a sense of belonging, but it does not center on ourselves. Whether it is volunteering once a year to build houses for the poor, or being a part of a weekly prayer group, or simply fulfilling your vocation as parent and spouse, it is about being present – being engaged with something beyond ourselves.

May we not neglect our inner journey towards healing, but let us not die by failing to take our eyes off of ourselves. Find your part and join the cast in the play of Life.

Next . . . “J” as in Joy.

"H" as in Humility (and honesty)

The only direction I know to go with humility is to be open about my own journey. I was tough as nails. I took great pride in my physical strength. My strength showed itself best in high school. Each summer, I would take a week with my church group and build a house in Tijuana, Mexico. We would build an 11’x22’ house complete with a concrete floor, stucco walls, and shingle-rolled roof. The best part for me, it was all done without the use of electricity or a cement mixer. I was not overly athletic, but I could lift a ninety pound concrete mix bag with no assistance (I would laugh because it often took two of the boys to carry a bag). I physically worked hard – when others would take breaks I was still going. Others noticed my ability and I felt affirmed.

I also took a lot of pride in my emotional strength, or at least that it how I perceived it at the time. I was stoic, and I never cried. Not only did I lack tears, but I felt nothing. At funerals, graduations, and sad movies, others would talk about their sadness with tears streaking their faces. I was a rock – unmoved and solid. Little did I know then, this was not so much emotional strength, but rather emotional cut off. I did not know what I was feeling. I could not distinguish sad, mad, or glad. They were all the same to me. A giant concrete dam disconnected my head from my heart.

I took pride in my ability to keep others distracted from my emotional inabilities. I was a good kid who worked hard. Why would anyone suspect I was broken? I kept others at bay from knowing my greatest fear – I did not know how to allow my heart to love another or be loved in return. No one ever probed or questioned until I met Karen.

I spent my 21st summer as an intern living in Tijuana, Mexico, teaching other high school students how to build the 11’x22’ houses. Karen was in charge of us interns. Karen saw through me. She saw the dam and disconnection. In kindness, she hugged me and whispered, “I will be your hero if you need one.” We stayed in touch and I began to let her know about the dam and the memories I wanted to keep buried. She was the first (though not the last) to suggest therapy. After months of resisting, it was time to humble myself and admit I needed help.

Pride covers our fears, insecurities, and vulnerabilities. We can be egotistic and proud, or we can have a reversed pride (“I am the scum of the earth; no one would like me.”) Both work to keep people away from our secrets – from those spots we will fight to remain covered.

Humility exposes our wounds and allows others to see and help tend to them. It does not mean wearing our emotions on our sleeves, for not everyone is safe enough to see our vulnerable places. When we allow a trusting other to see our wounds, they become a mirror for us. They reflect our feelings and our thoughts. They can validate our experience. By allowing another to see, we can stop wondering if we are crazy, damaged, or exaggerating; we can come to trust our thoughts and feelings.

It does not take courage to be proud. In fact, it is the coward’s way. The proud are always hiding, running, and looking over their shoulder. They live in the fear of their built up façade being broken. It takes great courage to take the path of humility. It takes strength to ask for help.

Next . . . “I” as in Involved.

"G" as in Growth.

Growth is the visible sign of progress. If you walk through my laundry room, you will see three vertical lines of hash marks. These little black marks represent the physical growth of my three children. Periodically, they ask to be measured for they are confident they are indeed taller than the last time they stood with their backs straight and heels to the wall. For my preschoolers, signs of growth are equated with more independent skills and privileges. Someday they will be big like mommy and daddy and do things like ride a two-wheel bike and drink coffee (or at least this is what they tell me.) They want to grow up. In case you doubted their intention, just refer to them as a baby and they will quickly correct you, “No, I am a big kid.”

Physical growth and maturity is an inevitable part of our humanity. Many of us try and turn back the clocks of aging, but we all eventually get wrinkles, gray hair, and atrophied muscles. Emotional and spiritual growth trajectories fall into the optional category. We can choose to remain stagnant – content with our emotional and spiritual maturity, or we can welcome growth opportunities.

The landscapes from which we choose to journey dictate the growth possibilities. Some of us may choose to never leave the comforts of our home. We may be content to look at landscape art, but never experience it for ourselves. We have chosen safety rather than risk walking outside our comfort zone. We have decided we have arrived, but we missed out on the adventure.

I have hiked up rocky mountain tops. The view was spectacular from 14,000 feet. I could see for miles. I had a strong sense of satisfaction as I looked back at the long, windy, uphill trail I had just hiked. I was simultaneously exhausted yet refreshed. I wanted to stay atop forever breathing in the cool, crisp, pure air. But, growth on a mountain top above the tree line is near impossible. Survival over the long haul is not conducive in such a harsh landscape. Our journey cannot stop at the first major milestone we achieve. We must descend back into the valley to find nourishment.

I have walked through a triple canopy jungle. The vegetation was so thick it was almost suffocating. Without a proper guide, it would not have been wise to venture into the jungle alone. When our growth opportunities are of this magnitude, we would be wise to bring along an experienced companion to help us find our way. The jungle was frightening as I was brought face-to-face with my fears. It was an intense time of growth and I returned from the jungle a changed person – a stronger and more peaceful person.

I have spent time in the desert. It is bare and at times fiercely silent. It is easy to feel alone – abandoned and deserted. It is here where I was confronted with a hunger and thirst that could be satisfied. It is easy to want to give up, to stop my prayers, to stop reaching out to others. In the solace of the desert environment, I was brought to the end of myself. I found my sense of desperation and come to realize my true self. I learned that sometimes my hope is more about my commitment to persevere rather than a warm, comforting feeling. I learned my faith will survive any drought.

Take time to emotionally and spiritually stand back straight and heels to the wall and mark the growth. Celebrate where you are and from where you have come. But do not stop the adventure. Open your hearts to the offerings of each new landscape.

Next . . . “H” as in Humility.

"F" as in Faith.

“Faith is the realization of what is hoped for and evidence of things not seen.” (Hebrews 11:1). Faith believes without seeing, touching, or truly knowing.

The healing process is a journey that will take us to unexpected places. There is no absolute map, for each path is unique to the one on the journey. It is like having a trail guide. If you have never seen or used a trail guide, allow me to explain. I have section hiked portions of the Appalachian Trail through North Carolina, Tennessee, and Virginia. For this section of the trail, there is a little pink book that if you follow along page by page, it will tell you where you might find a water source, a good place to sleep, or various hazards to avoid or at least be aware (like bears!). I have hiked one particular 40-mile section three times – once in snow, once right after the spring thaw, and once in extreme heat. The guide book helped me stay on the trail, but it did not have solutions to frozen ground, ice covered wood, high winds, and an inability to stake down the tent. It did not help when the trail that follows the Laurel River was covered in rapids. It did not help when water sources are dried up in the summer heat. While there is some idea of where the healing journey will take us, we will all have unique trials and road blocks along the way.

Healing requires a little faith in us. It is having faith that when we hit unfamiliar obstacles, problems we have yet not experienced, we will find a way to navigate through it. It trusts our adaptability and creative skills.

Healing requires faith to hold onto hope – faith that there is light at the end of the tunnel even if we cannot see it at the moment. It is faith and belief that God is truly not out to destroy us. Faith and trust that the trials we are enduring are indeed temporary. Faith that God has plans to use all of our experiences, even our wounds, for the greater good.

Many of us struggle with faith, and rather than trusting the process – trusting that as the journey unfolds we will figure our way through it, we grow anxious. In our anxiety, we feel unsafe. We doubt the God of all comfort. We doubt our abilities to get through the darkness. We begin to grasp for control. We may yell out, “I am not taking another step further unless I know exactly where this is going and what it is going to ask of me!”

Many of us dig our heels in the ground and cease moving. Rather than continuing along the path of not-knowing, we cling to a world of black-and-white. Our world becomes either-or. You are with me, or you are against me. You are all-good, or you are all-bad. When everything is ordered and controlled, we no longer have a need for faith. Your religion, your relationships, your world is based upon what you can see, touch, and control.

Faith is letting go. It is taking the journey as it comes. It is trusting that wherever it takes us, it will indeed be good.

"E" is for Endurance.

Back in my youth ministry days, there was a popular quote: “Salvation is a journey, not a destination.” I resonated well with this quote then, and find it just a true now. In the letters of St. Paul, he often wrote about running races and enduring hardships. In his letter to the Philippians, he stated, “Not that I have already achieved this, but I press on to win the prize.”


At the beginning of this liturgical year (Advent 2010), I began meditating on the word, “Steadfast.” As part of a physical expression of this word, I decided to once again run a half marathon. I am not a runner. I am especially not a fast runner (think 11-12 minute miles). But I completed the 13.1 mile goal in May 2010 and have continued running a couple of times/week. In my running, I have noticed something significant. Wherever I have set my mark as a finish line, I go no further. If I set out for a 3 mile run and then start dwelling on how tired I am or the slight cramp in my knee I move the finish line closer and decide 2.5 miles is enough. As soon as I have shifted the goal mentally, there is no going back to the longer distance.

In life and healing, we set our marks and determine the distance we are willing to go. I often hear things like, “I want the pain to stop; I want to be happy; I want to get over this; I want to stop crying.” With these goals, there is usually a mental time line of days or weeks. The problem is in life, there are no finish lines. We can set goals, but once we have arrived at that marker the race is not over.

Grief, trauma, and difficulties are cyclical. We deal with the “it” at one phase of life only to find that it rises again at a new phase of life. A new layer of old issues emerges. Think of someone who has difficulty with vulnerability and intimacy. They deal with it as a young adult and their friendships and prayer life increase in meaning and intensity. And then they get married only to find that once again a new degree of vulnerability and intensity is expected of them. And then parenthood, aging, loss – new phases of life kick up different aspects and challenges.

Running long distances has naturally taught me about endurance. On a long run, the first mile is brutal but then I find a zone, a rhythm of sorts and running becomes almost easy. It remains smooth until I start reaching burn out and my body is screaming at me, “THIS IS ENOUGH!” Endurance is fighting through the pain and remaining focused on the goal.

We set out with good intentions. We will run the race; we will endure. Much of the time, life moves smoothly and the race is almost easy. But when the struggles come along, it is tempting to call it quits. We look for strategies to numb the pain and avoid the conflict. We give up. And though we may feel some initial relief, eventually it cycles back around and we must either resume the race or find bigger ways to numb the pain and avoid the hardship.

Endurance is enjoying and embracing the zone – relishing in life’s pleasures. And it is also pressing on through the pain. Endurance is holding onto the hope that the pain will eventually pass and by running through it, we are indeed made stronger.

Next . . . “F” as in Faith.

"D" for Diagnonsense.

A couple of disclaimers:
1) “Diagnonsense” is not an original word from my brain; it is from the film Girl, Interrupted.
2) I am in no way diminishing the validity or effects of mental illness. In fact, I believe society does not take them serious enough.

I am taking the liberty to use the word “diagnosis” beyond psychological labels for various mental illnesses. In this segment, I am attempting to address the labels placed upon us by our own creation or ones given to us by someone else. Diagnosis can be official (e.g. depression, bipolar, panic disorder . . .), or it may be based on the roles we played in our families or social groups (e.g. trouble-maker, odd one, instigator, black sheep, oops child . . .). Whatever the source, our diagnosis shapes how we perceive ourselves and how we relate to the world.

First, let me elaborate on the positive. The actual diagnosis can be helpful in that it can highlight what we are up against. I personally have understood the effects of depression since adolescence. Its impact on my overall mood and affective state varies – some days it seems completely absent and on others I would be content to sit on the couch, eat cookies, and do nothing all day. I am aware that clinical depression is never too far away from me. Because I understand the diagnosis, I am better able to prevent/avoid slipping into full blown depression. I know that exercise, healthy eating, an hour of alone time in the morning, and plenty of sleep work wonders at preventing the symptoms of depression (or at the very least help me be less cranky!) Every day I have to choice to choose behaviors that prevent depression, or I can cave to its voice and do nothing.

Understanding diagnosis allows me to see the warning signs. If I start using words like “never” and “always”, I know I am heading towards depression. When I start thinking my husband “never helps around the house,” I fail to notice that he emptied out the dishwasher, cleaned up the dinner mess, and is a solo parent at least three evenings per week. My black and white thinking makes me out to be the martyr – I am doing EVERYTHING for this family and the seeds are planted to justify my felt grumpiness. When I notice these words, I have choices – continue down a harmful path or use some self-talk to change my course of thinking.

Diagnosis’ negative impact leads to victimization. We become victims to our labels. Victims are helpless. They have no voice; no power. Victims regain power when they find their voice – when they begin to speak up and fight against their oppressors. And oppressors are tricky, for at times they are ourselves.

Our diagnosis narrative may be genetic, chemical, social, or a result of dysfunction, but it does not have to be our conclusion. The more we understand the dynamics that contributed to the label, the more personal empowerment we gain. Empowered people have choices. We may not always choose our circumstances, labels, or diagnosis, but we do have choice in how we respond to them.

Next . . . “E” for Endurance.

"C" is for Confession.

I love books, especially books that make me think. My bookshelves are lined with everything from the ancient writings of the mystics and saints to the literary words of Flannery O’Conner and J.D. Salinger. It appears I cannot get enough of the written word. That being said, allow me to discuss my favorite book.

The most influential I have read in many years (aside from the Bible) is “The Monster at the End of the Book” by none other than loveable and furry old Grover. For those not familiar with Grover, he is one of the stars of Sesame Street. The premise of the book – Grover exerts all his efforts to prevent the reader from turning the pages and thus moving closer to the monster at the end of the book. He uses rope, bricks and steel in attempts to hold down each page. The reader of course continues towards the end of the book only to find the monster is Grover.  And recognizing the craziness of his efforts to avoid the conclusion, he announces, “Oh, I am so embarrassed.”

Our secrets are the monsters at the end of our books. When we hold on to what we believe is too awful for exposure, we become a self-imposed prisoners. We build up our walls, box ourselves in, and sit in solitary confinement. We cannot allow others to come into our cell, for we cannot risk our secret(s) being exposed. Unconfessed parts of us – things we have done, things we have failed to do are like the monster at the end of the book.

Confessing our secrets leads to freedom and peace. But this act is not for the faint of heart. Confession requires another “C” word, courage. It takes courage to peel back the layers of our prison walls and bring into the open those things which we regret and hold in deep shame.

Because I believe in boundaries (see the letter “B”), I will not confess my secret shames in this forum. I have a trusted few in my inner circle who are kind enough to hear them. But I will tell you about the first time my deepest, darkest shame made its way to be heard. I was in my late twenties, and therefore had carried this shame for over ten years. I had many opportunities to share my shameful deed with others, but in my mind it was too much. I grew sick to my stomach even thinking about exposing it.  I feared both their reactions as well as my own. What would happen if I claimed aloud that not only was I capable of a dreadful act, but I had committed it and harmed another? I did not want to acknowledge the monster within me.

But I confessed it first to a therapist and later to the one I had harmed. I found understanding and compassion from a therapist (always a good things to find in a therapist), and I found forgiveness from the one I had harmed. These were good things. But I also found peace. I did not have to live in fear of being found out. I did not worry about the monster coming forth and wreaking havoc.

As humans, we have the capacity to create and nurture, but we also have the power to harm and destroy. We are both gentle lambs and ferocious lions. When we try and cover up and keep the lion quiet, we will find ourselves exhausted from the struggle. When we confess our secrets, they begin to lose their power. They are tamed and become more manageable. Our energy is then able to shift from hiding to healing.

Next . . . “D” as in Diagnonsense.