“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.