“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.

"B" as in Be Still

Be still. Sure, no problem. Let me just quiet my brain, shut out all the distractions, ignore the multitude of tasks surrounding me, and simply be still. But this is exactly what we need to do.

It is here that I reluctantly confess to those who read this, I am a control freak and being still calls me into a space of uncertainty. I am ambivalent in regards to the unknown. On one hand, I am adventurous – I love travel and discovering new things. I love to have the freedom to explore; to step off the beaten trail and be amazed at the revelation of the unexpected. But, even when I explore, I do not venture out so far that I could not eventually find my way home. My adventures have boundaries – I know my limits to my strength, knowledge, emotions, and resources and I do not intentionally veer beyond my line of confidence. I only walk the tightrope of life where I know I have a secure safety net under me.

On the other hand, the few times when I have actually had the courage to be still and let go of my control have been the most incredible times of my life. In the brevity of these moments, I experienced an intimacy between God, creation, and my soul that is beyond the capacity of the English language’s ability to describe. Rudolf Otto described these moments as the “numinous tremendum” or the Holy Other Experience that produces both awe and fear at the same time. St. Theresa of Avila described it as perfect union between the bride and the bridegroom. If you have had such an experience, you know what I am talking about. If you have not, I apologize for I am so limited in bringing the experience to life on paper. But I can tell you, these moments are so real, so filling, that the brief moment can sustain the soul through years spiritual drought.

Being still is letting go of control. Letting go of our expectations, assumptions, and presumptions and allowing come what may. And this takes a lot of trust. Trusting that we can walk the tight rope and believing that even if we fall, someone will catch us. It is letting go of the restrictions we place on our emotions. It is resisting the urge to hold back our whole selves during times of communion and prayer with God. It is opening ourselves to those we trust, not worrying about their judgments.

There is another “B” word to introduce, and that is boundaries. While it is good to be still and have this openness, we cannot be this vulnerable all the time. We do have tasks to tend to and responsibilities to manage. There are people in this world who should not be trusted; people who have not earned the right to have full access to our inner being.

Boundaries are wise, but when we build up the fences around our lives let us not neglect to include a gate. Healing needs to have time with the gate open. It needs us to be open to new possibilities beyond what our imaginations can control. It needs us to prioritize time in our lives (preferably our daily lives) where we can simply be still, breathe, and allow to come what may.

Next . . . “C” as in Confession.

"A" as in Acceptance.

To some, especially those familiar with the grief process, acceptance may seem like the wrong place to start. After all, the five stages of grief begin with denial and ends with acceptance. Healing and grieving often go hand in hand – grieving over lost dreams, mourning of painful memories, longing for what we believe should have happened in our lives – letting go of loss allows us to take steps into hope.


Healing is accepting who we are, where we are, and where we have been. It is embracing the narrative of our lives. It is accepting the temperament of our personality, our physical appearance, and our genetic tendencies and capabilities. It is welcoming the resources we were born into including our families, our heritage, as well as our physical and temporal settings. We accept these things that are beyond our control.

Accepting who we are may sound obvious. But how many of us spend our time and energy comparing ourselves to others around us. “If only I was more like . . . then I would be happy.” Our comparison grows into jealousy and envy and before we know it we are entangled in a web of dissatisfaction. We curse our own lives and set out on a course to be more like those we admire.

At times we wish to be something else because we were taught that is what we should be. We are inundated with messages of “should” – girls should be dainty; Christians should be happy and extroverted; boys should not cry . . .. To quote a sign I read over a nun’s door, “I shall not should upon myself.”

Healing comes when we accept all of who we are. Unfortunately, “shoulding” is not our only means of self-punishment. We exert a lot of energy denying our story, shutting down our emotions, and avoiding our pain. I often describe this denial as trying to squash an elephant into a small box. It takes a lot of energy to sit atop the box and keep the elephant contained. We can never be free as long as we are worried about the elephant breaking loose.

We fear the elephant will destroy us. We fear the rejection of others if they were to see our elephant; if they see our secret shames. We fear the intense feelings may destroy others and so we hide our truth to spare them from knowing and feeling our pain. Our fear keeps us from loving ourselves as Christ loved us – unconditional and full of grace, mercy, and tenderness.

When we accept our stories, our nature, our setting, we are being honest with ourselves. Honesty requires vulnerability – risking that we might feel pain, rage, sorrow, but trusting that it will not destroy us. When we welcome the entirety of our own story with mercy and tenderness our capacity to unconditionally love one another grows. When we accept and forgive ourselves, we are more likely to forgive others. And let us not forget, for as much as we forgive one another, so we shall be forgiven.

If we are honest with ourselves, we have the opportunity to be authentic in prayer. Our intimacy and communion with God only deepens. May we continue to know more and more the depths of God’s love for us. Let us throw off our “shoulds”, fears, and self-deception – all those snares that keep up in bondage and walk towards hope and healing.

Next . . . “B” as in Be Still.

The ABC's of Healing

I have neglected my blog. I have not exactly neglected writing, though lately it has become more personal and at this point fairly raw. In other words, I am not ready to make it public – perhaps someday, but not this day. But, I do believe I need to continue practicing the art of writing and sharing my thoughts and ruminations with others.

Lately I am pondering what authentic healing looks like. More specifically, what do I know about the healing journey as a fellow traveler and a therapist? I think I know a few things.

I am facilitating a group discussion of the book, Living Your Strengths. For those of you unfamiliar with the book, it was published by Gallup and is a Christian spin-off of the original book, Now, Discover Your Strengths. Aside from the brilliant marketing that does not permit book sharing, each book comes with a code to take the online strengthsfinder test and discover what your top five (out of thirty-four) signature strengths are.

I was slightly surprised by my strengths. Input (storing of ideas), intellection (I like to think), learner (I like to learn), deliberative (I privately think about choices and consequences), and achiever (I want to accomplish something every single day.

I should clarify my surprise. The test highlighted my nerdiness, and long ago I embraced my inner nerd. But I was surprised by the degree of the privatization of these strengths – I could live completely alone in a cabin tucked away in the woods and find contentment. My strengths do not necessarily include people, though I would argue they are wonderful tools as a therapist. Shocking I am doing the work I love and my strengths line up with it.

This private nature that I carry about got me thinking. I can hoard all my ideas and musings to myself, or I can begin to share them. So, I challenged myself to step out of my brain and be more intentional about putting some of these thoughts on paper (or the electronic version of paper.)

Between now and December 9th, I have a goal of writing about healing using the alphabet. Or to say it better, I want to use 26 thematic (and alphabetical) words to write about healing. The goal of December 9th is not magical, liturgical, or anything special. I am having surgery on December 12th and will be out of commission for a few weeks. The goal is therefore practical. Stay in rhythm without having a large gap to distance me from the thoughts and discipline of writing.

The next entry will focus on the letter “A”. “A” as in acceptance. Can you tell I have preschoolers in my house?