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when we’ve come undone
can i just be brutally, completely, in-your-face honest with you for a minute? this whole being a missionary thing is no joke. it is hard, you guys. really hard. and there are some days where i would rather be anywhere but here, doing anything but this. some days, i feel so totally, completely done. depleted. empty.
i’m having one of those days. only this day has gone on for the past three weeks. i’ve been struggling–a lot. i’m tired, more than tired, really. i’m lonely. i’m homesick. i’m over the heat, the sweating, the sleepless nights, the fatigue that follows me day in and day out. i don’t feel like myself. i worry i have nothing more in me to give. i know that i only have a few months left and yet, somehow, those few months seems like they’re years away.
i don’t tell you this to play some sort of sympathy card; i’m not looking for pats on the back or pity of any kind. i’m sharing this because i want to show the world that all of us, every single one of us, even (and perhaps especially) those of us in ministry–we have a bad day once in a while. or a bad week. maybe even a bad year. whatever; it happens. it doesn’t mean we are weak. it doesn’t mean we’re failures. it doesn’t mean we’re not spiritual enough, not depending on God enough, or that we don’t have enough faith. it means we’re human. it means we have hearts and souls, and they’re messy and sometimes maybe we come undone.
and it is there that i find myself, in that undone place, where i don’t have the answers and i don’t know how to get out of this and it hurts, but i keep hearing the whisper telling me to just hang in, hang on. and i try, and i fail, and i collapse in a puddle of tears and disappointment and somehow, i get back up again. i’m in that place where words fail me, where my language has become the deep groanings of the heart, and yet i know that even those are some sacred prayer, a holy utterance.
i have come undone, and instead of hiding away all the broken pieces, i’m letting you see them.
i have come undone, and instead of attempting to explain it all away, i’m sitting down in the aftermath.
i have come undone, and i’m talking about it.because perhaps you too know this feeling, know it well, and you wonder if anyone else in the world understands. perhaps no one has ever given you the permission to have a bad day. perhaps you’re stopping yourself from falling apart because you’re afraid that you’ll be too broken to ever be put back together.
i get it. i really do. but may i suggest that, though it may feel like it, you will not be undone forever? i know right now you may not be able to see the light at the end of the tunnel and, to be honest, neither can i. but our limited vision doesn’t change the Light’s existence; that i can promise you.
be gentle with yourself, and remember: you are human. you are beautifully flawed, and that is the mystery of your heart and soul and flesh and bones. if you’re having a bad day, it’s okay. if you’re falling apart or breaking down, it’s okay. i promise you; it really is.
you, dear one, will not be undone forever. and neither will i.
because if there’s one thing i’ve learned about Jesus, it’s that he loves to stitch things back together. -
chayah
I don’t know when it started happening, but I think it was sometime around when we took you for your first haircut. As you sat in the chair and I watched your soft baby-curls fall to the floor, I swallowed hard against the lump in my throat that had risen up unexpectedly. It’s just hair, I told myself. And it was, of course. But it was also a symbol, a metaphor; my baby was starting to grow up.
And then you started talking. It was later than we all expected, sure, but once you began, you didn’t look back. All of a sudden one day you were counting all the way to fifteen and singing every word of “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” and putting a plastic cup on your ducky’s head while shouting excitedly, “Astronaut!” You starting helping me pick out the bedtime story, rummaging through your book basket as you mused softly to yourself. “Hmmm. …How about…this one!”You let us know when you’re mad, or sad, or happy, and you ask us, “What’s that?” about a million times a day. I blinked, and suddenly you were a running, climbing, ball of energy who never stays quiet and makes his opinions known, who is curious about everything and has such an enormous personality in that teeny little body.They say the days are long but the years are short, and as we near the celebration of your second birthday, I’ve never agreed with a sentiment more in my life. On vacation last week, we snuggled in bed one morning, just looking into each other’s eyes. And you let me run my fingers through your hair sticky with yesterday’s sunscreen, and all of me melted in those two pools of dark, rich brown while you stared at me. And when we went swimming, you clung to me like I was your safety net, your arms tight around my neck as I softly assured you it’s okay; it’s okay. Mama’s got you. I’m right here. There’s still some baby left in you for the time being, even if I have to squint really hard to see it.
“Time, please have a little mercy on this mama. Slow down a bit, won’t you?Give me just a while longer in this sweet space, this in-between place, before he grows up more. Be gentle with me, time.”
It’s the heart-cry of mamas everywhere, isn’t it?
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I have a deep affection for the scriptures of the Old Testament, and these days I find myself going back to some of my favorite stories: when the Israelites took stones to build their altars of remembrance. When God rescued Jacob. When God spoke to Moses. When God dried up the Jordan River. The simple stones helped them remember the faithfulness of their God, who brought them out of wilderness and into the sweet, open spaces of abundance and fulfilled promises. Future generations would look upon those very stones and say, “Yes. Surely the Lord was in this place.”Their children and children’s children would know–God met our ancestors here.
“It is to be a witness between us and you, and between the generations after us, so that we may carry out the worship of the Lord in His presence with our burnt offerings, sacrifices, and fellowship offerings.”
–Joshua 22:27///
If I were to look back at the first two years of your life, where would I build my altars?Where could I say, “The Lord was in this place”? I confess I struggled to see him most days. I was lost in a sea of dirty diapers and dirty dishes, in hours spent in the rocking chair holding you, in marveling over each new skill you acquired. There were late nights, early mornings, and after-midnight wakeups that left us all feeling a little worn and frayed at the edges. There were months of physical therapy and helmet therapy, and endless tears in those early days (from both of us!) when you were unable to move your head to nurse. There was patiently repeating words to you as you learned the skill of language, and the same books and songs over and over again; playing on the floor while I tried to teach you the concept of sharing toys or cleaning up after yourself. It didn’t feel very holy most of the time, if I’m being honest.It felt messy, or uncomfortable, even ordinary.
But he makes the small things significant and the significant things small, doesn’t he?
Because here among the small moments, the small things, you grew. You learned to roll over, and crawl, and stand up by yourself, and walk and run. You learned to talk, to sing, to pray. You learned who your family is, and how secure you are in our love. Love is multiplied in this place–from a single cell to a two-year-old toddler. Life grows here.What else can I say but “this is the space where God met me”?
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So today, I build my altar of remembrance. On the cusp of having to say goodbye to this baby stage, where I’m learning to let you, my very first baby–who I grew and birthed from my own body, who needs me less and less each day as he explores more of the world around him–go a little bit. Sometimes I catch a split-second glance at the boy and the man you will grow into, and it makes me come undone. As we approach your second birthday, I place my stones and I remember God’s faithfulness, his constant presence, the good works of his hands over these past few years. And I decide that my altar will be named chayah which, in Hebrew, means to live or cause to grow.
Surely, the Lord is in this place. Which means surely, it is holy. Chayah has happened here.
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Maybe you’re a mama on the verge of a new season, like I am. Maybe your baby is transitioning to full-on toddlerhood; maybe your baby is off to high school; maybe your baby has left home and has babies of their own. (They’ll always be our babies, won’t they?) Motherhood is incredible because we also are reborn through our giving of life; we become something new, something we’ve never been before. A mother. And with each new stage, there comes another metamorphosis. Life moves on, our children grow up too fast, and we have no choice but to adjust and adapt while all the while our heart is screaming, whether we hear it or not, for time to slow down, to give us more memories, to help us suck the marrow from the current season and savor every single second of it. May I suggest building your own altar if this is you. Look around; see where the Lord has met you where your feet are. Look back; remember the faithfulness, the times you thought you couldn’t do it but somehow, miraculously, you did. Look ahead to the new and beautiful and good things that are coming; just don’t forget to mark where you and your babies have been.
Your mothering is holy, even if it doesn’t feel that way sometimes.
God is here with you, even if that’s hard to remember some days.Pick up your stones, mama. Build what’s yours to remember. Surely, the Lord is in this place.
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On unfriending, living freely, and ghosts from the past
Somebody that I used to know recently unfriended me on Facebook. And Twitter. And Instagram. Oh, and blocked me.
Her reasoning was that she felt like she didn’t know who I was anymore and no longer recognized me in posts I have made. Fair enough. I could agree (to a certain extent). I’ll be the first to admit that I’ve gotten a bit of a reputation in recent days for not shying away from talking about things that make people wildly uncomfortable, both online and off. And she’s right; the Elena that I was five years ago, or ten, would have stayed quiet. Maybe because I was afraid. Maybe because I was still trying to figure out what I believed in. Maybe a bit of both.
And maybe there are many of us today who feel the exact same way, who are just finding their voices and using them to talk about messy things, hard things, things that convict us and challenge us and put everything into a brand new light. Maybe we were silent because we were unsure, or insecure, or threatened, or still learning. And maybe we now feel it burning, hot, like fire in our bones, just as the ancient words of Jeremiah said it would. We too become weary of holding it in, and like the weeping prophet who lamented and grieved and, ultimately, hoped–we say “Indeed, we can hold it in no longer.”
Life, seasons, love, loss: these things change us. They grow us, deep in our cores, and I truly believe they are meant to. And because my hope is in a good God who works all things together, I can lean into the winds of change and trust the process, but that doesn’t mean there won’t be tears or anger or sorrow or goodbyes; that there won’t be doubts, and questions, and maybe some of us will wrestle with God, and maybe we’ll lay ourselves bare like David did, and maybe the whole thing will feel bitter, and gritty, and hard.
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Sometimes, we don’t talk about these things on social media until we’ve already gone through the fire. And sometimes, people don’t recognize us anymore, because they know nothing of what we struggled through, because for a while, at least, their paths diverged from ours.
The older I get, the more I live through, the more I see: relationships, they’re fluid, you see, and they change, or maybe they lay dormant, and sometimes they even die. Some of the people who held me through the pain of my first husband leaving for another woman were not the same ones who celebrated with me on my wedding day to Kyle. Some of those who supported me when I lost everything and found myself on the mission field in West Africa were not there when I discovered I had PTSD, or when Ebola hit, and when I had to leave. They weren’t with me while I cried and mourned, while I screamed at God in a therapist’s office, while I asked God why he’d forgotten me, while I questioned if he really was good after all and if I even believed any more. Some of the people who helped me find my faith weren’t there when I was afraid of losing it. Some of the people who rejoiced with me over my marriage were not the same ones who did so when I welcomed Atticus into the world, and some of those people weren’t there in the early days of motherhood, when I was battling postpartum depression and anxiety. Some of those people aren’t here as our family walks the path of adopting J. Some people weren’t there as I talked to parents about their fear when their black and brown sons left the house. They weren’t there when I held dear ones who wept because they felt like the Church had failed them. Some people weren’t there when I sobbed over the deaths of Tamir Rice, Philando Castile, and so many others. Some people just weren’t there. Let’s not kid each other. And it’s okay.
The same is true even if the tables are turned. There are so many people I used to know, that I used to break bread with and share hearts with, who are little more than ghosts of the past now. I know nearly nothing of what’s going on in their lives, of their joys and sorrows, any of it. Our paths led us away from each other rather than closer together. Time, distance, other things we’re maybe too afraid to name; they got in the way, and the months would go by, then years, and then we realized we grew into different people somewhere along the line. But if we judge one another when we haven’t walked the same road, I’m afraid we’re only missing the point. Yes, maybe there are things we are sorry for; maybe we’ve been the wounded and the wounder, and if we’re Christian, let’s be honest; we are commanded to forgive. And I believe so strongly in the beautiful ministry of reconciliation, but I’m starting to see that the two are not always mutually exclusive, and it’s hard, and a little confusing, to work through all of that, isn’t it?
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I’m reading a beautiful book right now, written by a young woman who left behind her life in Tennessee to move to Uganda and be salt and light there. (Side note: it’s called Daring to Hope, and it’s available for pre-order now; I highly, highly recommend it!) There’s a line I just read that has been sitting with me all day, and I just can’t seem to let it go. “The truth is, I can’t fold my arms to the hurt of this world and simultaneously reach out for my Savior.” You see, some days the hurt of this world feels too much, too big, too heavy, and my inclination is to shut down and hide away from it all. But to hide from pain is to hide from the God who can heal it. So we dig in our heels, and we grit our teeth, and we start again. We post that article, we start that hard conversation, we challenge, we repent–sometimes online, sometimes off. We start again. Every day, some days every moment, I start again. Because my hope is that God can somehow use it. My hope is that he can use me. I read Luke 4:18-19, over and over again, looking for Jesus here, in these well-worn pages, these well-read words. The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to proclaim good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim liberty to the captives and recovering of sight to the blind, to set at liberty those who are oppressed, to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor. And then, later, Jesus again: Go and do likewise.
So we watch, and we look for what the Spirit is doing in our own little pocket of this messy-beautiful world, in the tension of God’s kingdom here and yet to come, the now and not yet. We watch, and we join in. We listen for what he is calling for us to do, and we do it, and we know full well that our calling might not look the same as someone else’s. The way we are walking out our faith might look differently and sound differently than the way someone else is. And that’s okay, too. God is big enough to be doing a work in both. I am secure in who I am and how God is living and moving in me right now. And we live with our arms wide open, to God, and to our neighbors, because it’s never been either/or. Both/and, remember. Both/and.
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And then we look at our ghosts, all the people we’ve loved and lost. We look them in the eye, and we wish them well, and we hope they do the same for us. We even pray for them. Not in a condescending way–“I’ll pray for you” and then, under our breaths, “because you clearly need it.” Not in a way that tries to wrangle and convince we’re right. Not in a way that diminishes the unique thing God is doing. What could be more beautiful than praying for someone in a way that trusts they hear the Spirit’s leading too, even though they might do this whole faith thing differently than you or I? We pray, we forgive, we let go if we’re called to, or reconcile if that’s where we’re led instead. And we remember: “The table. The bread. The wine. The feast. The promise of shalom. No one is left out of the meal. No one left out of the story (Curtice, K.).
