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37 things I’ve learned in 37 years
It’s my birthday today, so I thought I’d rework a post I first wrote eight years ago now that I’m older and wiser! I certainly don’t know everything, but I’ve lived a lot of life, and I’d like to think I’ve picked up a few nuggets of wisdom along the way. So, here we go!
- Stop going to bed without taking your makeup off. I know you’re tired. But your skin will thank you.
- Your worth is not based on your performance or productivity. You are not a machine, and you don’t have to prove anything to anyone. You are allowed to rest. You deserve to savor the hours instead of burning your way through them. You will be much happier doing your work, whatever that work might be, when you’re able to approach it from a place of deep rest and joy.
- Don’t drink caffeine past 1pm. Just trust me on this one.
- Stop shrinking yourself to fit into spaces and places you’ve outgrown. It’s ok if that relationship is changing or even ending. It’s ok to take that leap of faith. It’s ok to set that boundary. It’s ok to buy pants in a bigger size. You are growing and evolving and you deserve to take up all the space you need for your one, gloriously messy-beautiful life.
- Hard work is often holy work, and there’s something to be said for doing it anyway. It’s much easier to take the wider path, but there’s a particular satisfaction that comes from choosing to walk in the narrow way.
- You will not miss out on what is meant for you, and just because something isn’t happening right now doesn’t mean it’s not going to happen.
- Only you can decide what a rich and full life looks like for you. Don’t measure your successes against any others. You get to write the script, fill in the plot lines. Don’t worry about others say should matter, or even what you think should matter. What does matter? Spend your days pursuing that.
- You have to feel your feelings. Even the really dark and really hard ones have a way of teaching you something you didn’t know before.
- Invest in your real-life relationships. The Internet can be a wonderful place, but ultimately, the connections forged over the tapping of fingers on a keyboard, of likes and comments and notifications on a flickering screen are false.We need more. We are meant for relationships. We need heart-and-soul connection, ones that are tangible, ones with skin on; we need what’s deep and real and rich and true. We need to see the fire in each other’s eyes, to encounter the God that lives there. We need each other’s laughter, and tears; we need safe spaces in which we can talk and share and feel and be changed, somehow. We need to hear one another in full sentences and honest conversation, in inflection and the way we sometimes stumble over the words. We need to listen and be listened to to walk away and know we are heard. Time is valuable, but so is relationship; and like Mary, we need to choose the better thing that it may not be taken from us.
- Prioritize your sleep. It doesn’t matter if so-and-so does just fine on six hours a night; if you find that you feel best after eight, then work those eight hours into the rhythms of your days. And while we’re on the subject of it:
- Listen to your body. You hold so much wisdom in you, and your body is your friend, not your enemy. Tune into what it needs and don’t be afraid to give it. Don’t pay attention to any clock other than your internal one. If your body is tired, let it rest. If it’s hungry, feed it. Work with it instead of trying to change it.
- Love does. I know that’s kind of a witty slogan that floats around in Christian circles sometimes, but it’s absolutely true. Love is active; it is participatory; it doesn’t think of self or what we want but instead of the other person and what he or she needs. Love is embodied; it’s great to say “I love you,” but for so many of us, actions are what walk the talk. How can I show you that I love you? That’s the real question. Love hurts sometimes, but that’s a telltale sign that you’re doing it right, and though it might feel like your heart is breaking, it’s really only growing pains that are making room for your heart to love even more. Love says “you first,” not “me first” or “mine first.” Love is an active participant in the life of the ones you adore.
- You are going to make mistakes. Don’t be afraid to try new things because you don’t want to mess it up or do it the wrong way. You will mess it up sometimes. It will go wrong sometimes. Don’t let fear keep you stagnant. Sometimes the bravest thing we can do is begin again.
- Normalize changing your mind about things. It is totally ok to change your opinion on something after you’ve been presented with new information! Just because it’s always been a certain way doesn’t mean things are not allowed to shift and evolve, and that includes you. Don’t stay stuck.
- Don’t spend money you don’t have. This is probably one of the most adult-y things I will ever tell you, but this is really important. Credit cards are fine; just make sure you have the money to pay off your balance. And I know–the economy is kind of a dumpster fire right now, and we’re in the middle of a global pandemic, so there are always exceptions to the rule. More often than not, though? Stick to your budget.
- Stay in your lane. As you grow, you are going to realize that there are things you’re really good at, things that perhaps come naturally to you, things you might even consider yourself an expert in. This is your lane. Don’t allow yourself to get sidetracked and distracted by whatever so-and-so is doing in her lane; focus on what’s in front of you and doing it the best you can. (This often applies to opinions as well, but that’s a whole other story.)
- Always forgive, but…remember that forgiveness doesn’t automatically mean you have to go back to the way things were with that person. If boundaries have been broken or trust destroyed, you are allowed to say thanks but no thanks if you’re not ready to re-establish the relationship. People may try to guilt you into rethinking your boundaries; don’t let them. Sometimes, you just gotta shake the dust from your feet and keep on moving’. (That’s Jesus’ advice, by the way. Matthew 10:14).
- You don’t have to earn food. Moving your body should be something you do because it feels really good, and it brings you joy. You do not need to burn a certain number of calories to allow yourself to eat. Exercise should not be a punishment, and if it’s become one, maybe ease off for a bit until you can reframe your thinking about it.
- It’s not all about you. In fact, very little of it is. Are you patient with your children? Are you righting your wrongs? Are you concerned with the well-being of our culture’s most marginalized? Are you gentle with your spouse? Are you working in your own little pocket of God’s kingdom to bring about love and justice and joy and hope? That’s what really matters. That’s what it’s all about.
- Quality over quantity. Pretty much all the time. Something that lasts the long haul is worth way more than short-term mass accumulations.
- Consider your words. Weigh them carefully, and be sure to say what you mean and mean what you say. Take the extra second to think about what it is that you actually want to communicate, and be purposeful in the words that you use. Don’t talk just for the sake of talking; it’s ineffective.
- Floss. Like Nike, just do it.
- Chase your dreams with all the heart and soul you’ve got in you. Time is precious, and we have a responsibility to use it wisely. If there’s a dream within you that simply refuses to die, listen to it. Take that scary first step, and then run after whatever it is you were made for. This world needs more people who are living out their days with passion, guts, and glory.
- Becoming a parent is one of the most terrifying while simultaneously rewarding things you’ll do. You’ll love your little humans more than you ever realized was possible, and you’ll constantly worry that you’re messing them up. You’ll also need to make sure you’re making time for yourself so that you don’t get lost in your role as a parent. Which leads me to:
- You also need to make sure you’re making time for yourself so that you don’t lost in your role as a spouse. And:
- You also need to make sure you’re making time for yourself so that you don’t get lost in your career.
- Sometimes we can’t see the goodness because we’re still going through the grit. But the goodness is there all the same. Practice chasing it down.
- Don’t despise your days of small beginnings. There’s this really great verse in the Bible where the prophet Zechariah tells one of the ancient provinces’ governors to not dare despise the days of small beginnings. Sometimes we feel like what we’re doing isn’t important or significant enough to make much of a difference. Maybe we feel like no one sees our work anyway, so what’s the point? Perhaps we feel like we’re just never going to get there — wherever “there” might be for us. But nothing of substance grows overnight. Nothing lasting is given to us in an instant. So keep at it, whatever your work is in these days of your small beginnings. Publish that book. Record that podcast. Teach those students. Write that letter to your senator. Create that art. Build that business. Keep at it. The world needs your unique gifts and what you bring to the table.
- You are allowed to let a quiet and simple life fulfill you. Life does not need to be a big, grand adventure if you don’t want it to be.
- Take care of the earth. One of my favorite books of the Bible is Joel. More than once in those three chapters, the “joy” and “gladness” of God’s people is intricately linked with the earth, the harvest, crop abundance, an overflow of wine and oil and grain. Meaning when the earth is well-taken care of and the harvest is plentiful, joy abounds. It’s easy to say “not my problem.” But it is. We have been entrusted with the earth. What are we doing to preserve it for future generations? If we want peace and blessing for the holy hill and beyond, it’s about time we recognize it starts with us. Take just one step towards creation care. You may do it imperfectly, but imperfect is better than not at all.
- There are very few things in life that a good laugh, a good cry, a good meal, or a good nap can’t fix.
- It’s ok to disagree with people, even people you love and respect. How boring would life be if we all thought the exact same things as one another? We need to be able to have difficult conversations about challenging topics with one another without it going off the rails. Let’s release our need to make others wrong, shall we? Can’t it be ok that we think different things and that be the end of it?
- Wearing white is the only way to guarantee you will spill coffee/tea/pasta sauce/red wine all over yourself. You’ve been warned.
- Your gray hairs are a story you should not be ashamed to tell. They are a part of your body’s natural aging process, and getting older is a great privilege that is denied to many. Human beings wear the memories of the lives we’ve lived in our bones and our flesh. If I were to lift my shirt a bit, you’d see squiggles of varying shades that tell a story years of disordered eating and too-fast-too-soon weight gain after the death of my father. They tell of a seven and a half pound baby who lived in my womb for forty weeks, of an unplanned c-section after 58 hours of labor. The lines around my eyes and the circles under them pay homage to how I squint when I laugh–and I laugh often–and how I had insomnia once for over a year before I finally made the decision to have my anxiety disorder medicated. The creases in my brow are a tribute to the years I spent worried about money, about having a place to live, about feeling like my heart was in pieces all over the globe and I didn’t know when I’d ever feel whole again. And my gray hairs; they tell a story, too. A story of a bloodline of silver-haired Scots, a story of multiple losses and early heartbreak and an inner child who feels she was forced to grow up so soon. And so when I think about all this–the beauty and the mess of the life I have lived, the scars and stories and memories, the times I thought I would never get through and the sheer miracle of who I am today–why in the world would I want to hide that? Why would I want so much of me covered up? Why would I want to dull or mute huge pieces of myself that are screaming out to be remembered, to be handled with care and dignity, to be honored and shown off to the world? Think about that next time you want to dye your hair.
- Parent your inner child. Even if you had a happy childhood because let’s face it; nothing is perfect. There are always residual effects that are felt in the years to come. But we get to rewrite the story. We get to be who we needed when we were younger. And you deserve to be as whole as you can be.
- Wear sunscreen. You might think you don’t need it, but you do.
- No matter what, at the end of the day, this truth is forever chasing you down: You are beloved. Nothing you do, nothing you don’t do, nothing in the world can change that fact. You are loved with a great, furious, beautiful love, and it’s always, always calling your name.
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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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one word 2016:: grow.
in lieu of new year’s resolutions (and to show support and solidarity with the #oneword365 movement), i’ve spent the last several januarys of my life carefully choosing a word that i hope will shape the coming year. this is perfect for me for a couple different reasons:
a) it doesn’t lock me into anything. selecting a word over a resolution is open-ended. it leaves room for mistakes and loose ends, and it allows the year to unfold on its own, taking on whatever shape and form it wants to.
and b) i love words. seriously. LOVE THEM. anyone who knows me knows they are my truest love language. i eat them up hungrily, as if they’re a starving man’s bread. i hold them carefully within me, knowing they hold weight and power and beauty and meaning, and that one must always be careful with sacred things. “words are pale shadows of forgotten names. as names have power, words have power. words can light fires in the minds of men. words can wring tears from the hardest hearts.” (patrick rothfuss, the name of the wind)
words are more than just words, if they’re used correctly.
so for the past few years, it’s been nothing but words for me. 2012: forgive. 2013: grace. 2014: whole. 2015: home.
when this new year began, i honestly didn’t give much thought to what my word would be. one morning, however, as i sat down with some coffee and my journal, it introduced itself to me. grow. that’s my word for 2016.
this year, i want to see growth. i want to grow. i tend to think of grow in the agricultural sense. it begins with a seed being planted, and to plant, sometimes your hands have to get a little dirty and sometimes it’s hard and sometimes you get tired or hurt. then there’s the cultivation part: you give the plant, simply, what it needs to live. then comes the waiting, the patience, the trust. and then, suddenly–there’s growth.
this year, i want some things to grow that have years ago already been planted. i want to learn to wait well in the process, and to trust wholeheartedly. i want to care for and nurture the things that bring me life and yes, i dare say it, i want to even get a little messy, a little sloppy, to dig my hands into the earth and plant things. the process of grow-ing is my word for this year because it’s real and it’s raw and it reminds me that he truly does make everything beautiful in its time.
this year, my body will grow with the life inside of me, as will my heart, and i want to accept the expansion, especially after i’ve lived so long learning the art of shrinking, of not taking up too much space. this year, i will grow, and i will not apologize for the widening, the lengthening, nor the ownership of every inch i have been given. this year i will grow, in every single way, and it will be a good thing, because growth is the way of a rich and full life.
i will grow in discipline, in steadfastness, in the staying put and staying present when the going gets tough and the tough gets going.
i will grow in patience and boldness, in wisdom and in selecting my words carefully, in saying what i mean and meaning what i say.
i will grow in letting go and saying goodbye to people and places that, for whatever reason, are not walking with me on this new road in this new season. i will grow in wishing them well, acknowledging the hurt but refusing to allow it to paralyze me.
i will grow in seeing myself as worthy, as one who’s capable, as one whose value cannot be diminished by weight gain or a bad hair day or mistakes and failures. i will grow in being me: a lover of and beloved by God, a wife, a teacher, a friend, a daughter, a student, a mama to-be. i will grow in other ways too, other ways of being fully me.
i will grow in my ability to wear my heart on my sleeve and freely explore my emotions.
i will grow in listening well and listening carefully, to offer advice when it’s asked for and if not, to simply let someone know she’s been heard.
i will grow in my ability to smile and even laugh in both good times and bad, because i have found a well of joy, and i have learned to drink deeply from it.
i will grow in my passion to defend the powerless, to care for the weak, to give a voice to the voiceless.this year, i am determined that i will grow–and in doing so, i will become more and more like the woman i was always meant to be.
Image from Flickr//Creative Commons
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the long way home
a few weeks ago, i had a dream. one of those dreams that stays with you, not just into the waking hours, but days later. some dreams are just that–dreams, nothing more. but this one… i remain convinced this one meant something, means something still.
in my dream, i was at a graduation of sorts. i was waiting backstage in my cap and gown, ready to walk across the stage and into a new future. the strange thing? the graduation took place in Liberia, just outside the red metal gate of the team house, the same one i called home for four and a half years. with my graduation came my departure from Liberia; in the dream, i inexplicably knew that i’d soon be headed back to the States. so, while i was waiting around for my name to be called, i decided to take a walk around the perimeter of the house, make sure everything was closed up and locked.
my team was there, waiting for me. many people breezed through Liberia during my time there, but there was a core group of us that worked together, served together, did life together, for such a lengthy season. and so, after my walk around the yard, i joined them and turned over my keys. and it was then that i started to weep. i knew i’d see them again; that wasn’t my problem. what was difficult was the knowledge that everything was changing, is changing even now.
along with my keys, i took off four rings i’d been wearing, each symbolizing a block of time that changed my life: one i’d worn through my high school days, one through college, one from my first marriage, and one from my time in Liberia. i took them off, and held them in my hands, and cried so deeply i started to shake.
and then i woke up.
still, weeks later, this dream has remained with me. i’ve wrestled with it, prayed over it, held it up to the light to get a closer look. and here is what i know.
i am on the verge of a brand new, exciting season in my life–and that also means all the other seasons before have to end. i’m getting ready to start this incredible chapter, and i couldn’t be happier, truly. yet it’s still natural to grieve what was, i think. especially Liberia. that was a huge part of my life, my story. i’ve been thinking a lot about it, actually. particularly about my team, how i’d love for us to all to be together once again. in Liberia, we went through so much together. sickness. children who left this world too soon. culture shock. the art of sacrifice. learning to live in community. the balancing act of ministry and regular old life. discovering how to love God–and ourselves–better. being Jesus to not only each other but to the constant needs that surrounded us. burnouts. breakdowns. heartbreak. putting others before ourselves. homesickness. wrestling with the call…
that last one, i did that a lot. i knew God had called me to Liberia, but as time went on and i became more weary, i started to resent it. instead of it being joy to serve, it felt heavy. forced upon me. i felt like i’d been banished to exile–and maybe, in a way, i had been.
see, i didn’t feel released from Liberia until i’d learned what i needed to from that proverbial desert. learned that obedience, even when it’s difficult, is pleasing. learned that hard work is often worthy work, holy work. learned that life didn’t care about my timelines, my carefully constructed plans. learned that i couldn’t help every child, but i could help one at a time–and that was enough.
learned that God’s calling looked very differently than what i thought it did. maybe it isn’t this one, big, catch-it-or-you-miss-it-forever, once in a lifetime kind of thing. maybe walking with Jesus meant that life became a series of calls–some here, some there, some unexpected, some for a week, a year. maybe healing my heart wounds in a counselor’s office every tuesday was a call, one to health, and wholeness. maybe teaching underprivileged youth was a call, one to patience and mercy. maybe writing love letters to orphans in Liberia was a call, one to encouragement and steadfastness. maybe using my words wisely and writing out my story on this lil’ ol’ blog was a call, one to transparency and being vulnerable, to hold others’ hurts, to make space, to say, “me, too”.
maybe merging my life with with world’s most loving, most compassionate, most patient, most extraordinary man–maybe this is a call, too. a call to believe in better stories. to have faith in redemption with skin on. to see beauty from ashes.
maybe all these things were just as much a call as my four and a half years in Liberia. maybe they’re neither better nor worse, neither less important nor more. maybe it all matters.
maybe i’m just one of those people meant to take the long way home.
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photo from flickr; creative commons
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stay
yesterday, i put my heart on my sleeve for all of social media to see when i wrote this post:
IT’S BEEN A WEEK, Y’ALL. emergency rooms + doctor’s offices, car breakdowns + mechanics bills, grad school deadlines + the end-of-year blur. long days + short nights, weary bones + achy souls. it’s been a week of gritting my teeth + digging in my heels, of emotional highs and lows (mostly lows, if i’m being honest), of frustrated tears + counting down to the weekend, to this very moment. every part of me needs a break, needs to take off my life for a little while + simply rest. i need to stop + look + listen + wait for everything to come into focus again. i need to remember the light.it wasn’t really an easy thing for me to post. i don’t like to be weak. i don’t like to let others see my struggle. i want to be looked at the as the girl who can hold it all together, who knows how to take care of herself and still roll with the punches.
the problem is: sometimes we just can’t do this life thing alone.
in response to that moment of sheer vulnerability, i was overwhelmed with comments, messages, texts from people who wanted me to know they loved me and were praying for me. it was completely unexpected; i didn’t write it for the response. i wrote it because, quite frankly, i needed to word-vomit. but in that moment of weakness, i was reminded yet again that i need people. i need people to reach out and pray and console and encourage. i need people to stay.
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so this one is to celebrate all those who stay. you know the people i’m talking about. the ones by your side when the going gets tough. they cook you meals, bring you coffee, let you use their cars when yours is in the shop. they sit in waiting rooms, and they remind you to breathe. they stay up late because they know you need to talk. they let you sleep in because they know you need to rest. they don’t give you easy answers because they know that’s neither helpful nor healing. they point you to the light. they pass you the tissues when you can’t stop the tears. they love you instead of trying to fix you. they let you fall apart instead of putting you back together before you’re ready. they hold hands, hold hearts, hold secrets, hold their tongues, even. they’re simply present.
they put aside their own schedules, their own agendas, their own to-do-lists. they make space. they start conversations. they ask the hard questions, like “how is your heart?” and not “how are you doing?”, and they don’t pressure you if you don’t know how to respond. they nourish your body, your heart, your soul. they see all your messy parts, and it doesn’t scare them away. they get right down there with you instead; they make your hard places their home. “i’m with you,” they whisper. “i’m for you.”
and until the storm passes, they hold your face in their hands, and they remind you that is really is going to be alright.
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because it’s all messy, after all. “the hair. the bed. the words. the heart. life…” (w. leal) and if we’re all glorious wrecks when we get right down to it, maybe the best thing we can do is just to grab somebody’s hand and pull one another along.
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in the end, we always remember the ones who stay.
may we know them. may we love them. may we thank them.and may we be them.
[photo credit: flickr, creative commons]
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wordless things
i’ve wanted to write for weeks now, to sit down at a table with some coffee and a pen, and flesh out all the things i have inside of me. but every attempt ends up with the page blank and me frustrated and reeling in disappointment. and then i read this::
“I always find it more difficult to say the things I mean than the things I don’t.” (W. Somerset Maugham)
maybe the reason i can’t seem to find the words is because life in this season is full of the wordless things, things i shouldn’t speak but feel instead, in the slow beating of my heart and how my breath sometimes catches in my throat. those are the things i’m after, the things i live for these days. these are the things that make me weep silently into my pillow at night, the things that make me laugh until my belly hurts and my cheeks feel stretched and tight from smiling. they’re the things that make me want to create, make something beautiful with my words and my heart and my hands; the things that feel weighty and worthy, like they could weather a storm and endure the years long after i’m gone, be carried into generations yet to come.
these are the things i carry with me, and i long to share them with others, to open up this bleeding heart of mine and show you the wordless things, how they’re are all folded up inside of me. i want you to see, to understand, to maybe even tell me you’ve been there, too.
but these days, i just don’t know how to say it. it’s not even just in my writing. it’s in the way my mind never slows down and my heart always feels full and heavy, but no matter what i do, i can’t seem to get any of it out.
how do you talk about 4,000 people dying in west africa, in the same streets your own feet once walked? how do you talk about fear and guilt and shame in the face of such a crisis? how do you talk about helplessness? how do you talk about the exhaustion you carry around with you like a blanket, heavy on the shoulders? how do you talk about the ache associated with the in-between places, when you’re standing tall in the here and now though your heart already can sense what’s coming there, in the not-yet, and it knows it looks like starting everything over…again?
what are the words for love, for hope, for finally understanding what home feels like? for laughter and breaking bread with soul-sisters at the table? for dreams about someone you haven’t met yet but has been a part of you all along? how do you explain what it feels like to see rays of early light dancing on the asphalt, for the minutes you have in the morning quiet, a mug in your hands? for the moments of struggle and tension that come along this faith-walk, messy and glorious though they be? for sitting with the knowledge that all of us, we’re connected, somehow, and this, this very moment and whatever you’re doing in it, it matters more than you could ever know?
honestly, i don’t know. but i’m starting to wonder, and i like that, this feeling of wonder, of maybe. maybe life these days is more about wordless things than the ones i can explain away because it’s actually giving me some sort of favor, a blessing in disguise. maybe i’m learning how to simply be in the moments, to take them in and allow them to move me. maybe this is the only way: to feel and experience, to cry and laugh and ache and question and long and love.
maybe in doing that, life is lived instead of just talked about.
(Photo by Khaz // Creative Commons // Flickr)
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in this place
sometimes people ask me about when i first got “saved”, and i tell them the story of the old Pentecostal church and a preacher who spoke with a slow, Southern drawl. i was young, not yet 18 years old, and still finding sure footing in my new country, in my new family who had taken me in as their own. i sat in that church and listened to stories about Jesus, and then i went home and prayed like i never had before.
i grew up Catholic, not necessarily in practice but definitely in name. i was the daughter of an Italian immigrant, who went to mass and was taught by the sisters. religion didn’t have much of a place in our home, though; God wasn’t something we talked about or prayed to ‘round the dinner table. still–i believed, even then; it’s just that i didn’t quite know it yet.
i had a large extended family (mainly Protestant, mind you) who cared for me and nurtured me during my early years:: sweet aunts and sturdy uncles, sources of consistency and dependability amidst all the chaos surrounding my childhood. it was in the basement bedroom of one of my father’s sisters that i knelt and “asked Jesus into my heart” for the first time. i didn’t really understand it, to be honest. but i was young, and i was scared, and the idea of a savior who could somehow fix the problems i dealt with on a daily basis appealed to the deepest parts of me.
it was years later–nearly a decade, in fact–that i found myself in that Pentecostal church during a Sunday evening service, and my heart was beating so hard i was sure it’d thump right out of my chest. i don’t know how i knew, but i did. God was real–like, really real. and looking back, i suppose that’s where it all started. i guess it’s where faith became a reality, where God became more than a word to me.
as a “baby Christian”, i was naive, and i was unsure. but mostly i was ignorant, as is to be expected, i suppose, in the early days. back then, the world was very much black and white for me; i hadn’t yet been introduced to the beautiful in-between, the sacred space that exists in the gray areas. i had my carefully constructed ideologies of what was Christian and what was not, and i was merciless in holding everything–and everyone–up to impossible standards. looking back, i cringe to remember how critical i’d become, how far from grace i was living, how little i resembled the Jesus i claimed to believe in. i didn’t know any better, to be sure. still–i’m sure i owe many an apology:: for when i judged instead of loving, for when i criticized instead of caring, for when i was quick to speak and slow to listen, even when the scriptures clearly told me to do the opposite.
and then i got divorced. and everything i’d built my neat and tidy little life upon crumbled into nothing but dust. i suffered loss after loss, became fearful of holding onto anything too tightly lest it slip through my fingers. and then i went to Liberia, a tiny nation i knew very little of but felt drawn to nonetheless. nothing could have prepared me for what was waiting on the other side of that ocean. Liberia was both tragic and beautiful, and i scarcely knew what to do with everything it showed me, all the hard lessons i had to learn because of it.
here’s the thing, though, if we’re going to get right down to the heart of it. God is in this place; he just doesn’t look or smell or feel like he used to. now, here, today, he’s sweat and mud and sea breezes rolling in from the Atlantic. he’s hot sun and dust under my fingernails, and he’s a gulp of cool water, a blessed reprieve. he’s a handshake with snapping fingers, hugs with a kiss on both cheeks; he’s toothy smiles and weathered skin and little fingers that claw my legs, stroke my hair. he is hunger, and he is need. he is unmarked graves and children who leave this world much too soon. he’s the wailing of a widow in black robes, and he is the cry of the orphan, the poor, the oppressed.
God is here, has always been here, and because of that, everything is different for me now. God is no longer found solely on a Sunday morning while sitting in a pew with my head bowed. i’ve come to find him in both my comfort and my discomfort. my joy and my pain. in my excess and my lack. in fulfillment but also in the not-quite-yet. in a father who carries his baby on his back and also in a mother who prepares my daily bread with love. in the land of my canaan but also in my desert. in the hard places, in the uncomfortable and the mess, where i’m stretched thin and my heart feels heavy and yet full.
[Photo by Indigo Skies Photography // Flickr // Creative Commons]
God, in all things–i’ve really come to believe that. for years, i was ignorant, my eyes closed, merely surviving my way through the sacred. and then one day, i became Jacob, feet covered in the dust of holy ground, as i bend low and echo his ancient refrain. “surely God is in this place–and i didn’t know it.”
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your words mean more to me when i get to see you speak them
attention, people of the internet; let’s do REALTALK for a moment or two here, okay? pour yourself a drink, settle in for a little bit, and stay with me here. i may not know much about some things, but i’ve learned a lot about knowing people, and something tells me i’m not the only one who’s been feeling this way lately.
i’m weary, y’all. weary of these false connections forged over computers, of the tapping of fingers on a keyboard, of likes + comments + notifications, of reading between the lines and flickering phone screens.i want more. i want relationships again. i want heart-and-soul connection, ones that are tangible, ones with skin on; i want what’s deep and real and rich and true. i want to memorize the way your hands cradle a cup of hot coffee or the way your lips curve as you spill out your stories and life-lessons in a torrent of emotion and weighty words. i want to see the fire in your eyes, to encounter the God that lives in you. i want your laughter, your tears; i want to create a safe space for you in which we can talk and share and feel and be changed, somehow. i want to hear your heart in full sentences and honest conversation, in inflection and the way we sometimes stumble over the words. i want to listen and be listened to; i want you to walk away and know you were heard. i want us to understand that time is valuable, but so is relationship; and i want us, like Mary, to choose the better thing that it may not be taken from us. i’m so sick of fraudulent emoticons that try and make themselves a substitute for emotional expression, and i’m tired of computer screens and vague facebook posts, of mass emails and group texts and trying to update those who actually care about your life in 140-characters or less. puh-lease. ain’t nobody got time for that, and life is just too. dang. short.
what happened to being a person and not a user name?
what happened to seeking as much as we’re saying, to listening as much as we’re answering?
what happened?somewhere along the way, i think we got a little lost, or the lines got a bit crossed, and we forgot that there are real, live, actual people on the other side of that screen; people with voices and feelings and stories and struggles, people who want to know and be known and be loved for it anyway.
[Photo by Rachael Shapiro, Creative Commons]the irony of me typing up this blog post on my macbook while i sit solo in a coffee shop filled with people is not lost on me, and i’m the first to admit that technology and online-living in this modern age can be an incredible communication tool. as someone who has many long-distance friendships, sites like facebook and twitter allow me to stay connected, in a way, even to those who are so far from me. and i’m sure many of you can relate.
but even so, there are still times when we need to take a few steps back and get outside in the sunshine, to breathe deep and breathe heavy, to fill our space and time and senses with those who are right-here and right-now, who need us and ache to connect just as we do. we’re all in this thing together, after all, each of us stumbling our way through this crazy-beautiful, messy-glorious thing we call life.
so do yourself a favor and shut down for a little while–shut down and shut off. unplug and reach out. say what you want to say, but say it face-to-face. seek ways to create community, intentionally, through honesty and emotion and one heart to another. catch up over coffee and not a computer screen. be a person, a person who loves people, and watch as you set the world on fire. -
when the heartache sometimes haunts you
five years ago this october, i went through one of the most heartbreaking, messiest, soul-tearing experiences of my life. after nearly seven years of marriage, i found myself in the aftermath of a divorce, picking up the pieces of broken dreams and shattered expectations. it took me a long, long time to get over him, but the day finally came around when i could think of him without crying + when forgiveness had settled itself down deep in my bones. i remember how freeing it felt to finally be able to take a breath without feeling the crushing force of heartache in my chest. i was wide-eyed and hopeful once again, stronger and wiser than i had been before.
still, it was then that i made a grave mistake, a misinterpretation that would haunt me in the months to come. i drew a correlation between my healing and a lack of pain; i figured now that i was put back together again, i would no longer hurt over what was lost. i was wrong.
the Bible teaches that marriage is not only the union of two in body but also in heart + soul + spirit. divorce is the tearing of that union, the brutal, bloody severing of what had been fused into one. though i was now divorced with my ex no longer in the picture, there were parts of me that still throbbed and ached from being ripped from what i was once fused to.
[Photo from Gabriella Camerotti on Flickr]
it was like experiencing phantom limb pain, where nerves at the point of amputation send pain signals to the brain, making it think the limb is still there. pieces of my heart and soul would start to hurt, seemingly out of nowhere, and i began to understand how every part of me was learning to process the trauma of amputation.
as human beings, our natural inclination when we feel pain or discomfort of any kind is to immediately alleviate it, by any means necessary. take a pill, avoid the pain source, shut down completely if we have to–anything to make the hurting stop. i was no different. i became desperate to find another to cleave to, to make me “whole” once more. i was reckless with my heart and my emotions, believing that it was the price i had to pay in order to fully connect with somebody again. i accepted the lie that i needed somebody else to complete me, that i couldn’t be enough on my own. like i said–anything to make the hurting stop.
the thing is, the old adage that time heals all wounds is actually true. i’ve reached the point where my phantom pain is all but gone. sure, i feel a twinge now and again, but it’s nothing like the dull ache that used to seem a part of my very existence. and i’ve come to realize that i don’t need a man in my life to make me happy. would i like to remarry? of course i would, and i believe that will be my lot in life one day. but that’s not where i am right now, and i have learned to accept that for what it is + even to give thanks for it. in my singleness, i have grown as a person and grown even stronger in my walk with God. i’ve traveled, spending years living overseas. i have had opportunities that simply would not have come my way had i been married. and it would have been foolish of me to throw it away just for the sake of jumping into a relationship as a quick fix for the parts of my heart that were still hurting.
neither my life nor my self is diminished in any way, shape or form, just because i am single. i have great friends, literally all around the world, who love me deeply, and i feel the same for them. i’m smart, compassionate, and probably one of the funniest people i know–and i will wait for the man who sees, understands and appreciates that. i still believe he’ll come around one day, but the difference is now i’ll be okay–more than okay, really–even if he doesn’t.
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an embodied story
back in my baby Christian days, i hated tattoos.
at that time in my life, the world around me was very much black-and-white. there was good and bad, “Christian” and not, and i hadn’t yet learned about the beautiful in-between, the sacred tension that comes from the gray areas.
tattoos were sinful in my book because of that one little verse in Leviticus that had been taken out of context, twisted to fit a certain ideology and wielded as a weapon by the mainstream church.
and then i got divorced. and then my whole world came crashing down around me. and then the very “brothers and sisters in Christ” i had so proudly linked arms with for nearly a decade deserted me.
and then i started to see that perhaps this faith-walk is not meant to fit into neat little boxes. i realized that life was messy and beautiful and hard, and maybe all the things i had been so sure of i didn’t really know all along.
so i got a tattoo, the word “faith” in small, delicate lettering on the nape of my neck. at that point in my life, faith was the only thing i had to hold on to. everything i had known, everything that had been comfortable and supposedly secure had been stripped from me. i was hanging on by a thread, and that just happened to be the last little bit of faith i had in me. it seemed fitting for me to mark my body with that one little word, to serve as a remembrance in later years that faith as small as a mustard seed truly was enough.
two years later, i got tattooed again. the word “hope” was etched into the thin skin of my foot, big and bold, hinting of promises of a better tomorrow. i had come out of the fire, tested and still standing on the truth. i understood that though i couldn’t change my past, Jesus could somehow make good of it and give me a new story in exchange for all my broken pieces. i came to know something of this Living Hope, one that could not be taken away by pain and circumstance. hope had become a mantra of sorts, something to cling to as i walked through my healing, and i wanted my body to tell the story.
shortly after, i packed two fifty-pound suitcases for a journey that would forever change me. i left behind the memories of another life, the woman i used to be, and traveled halfway around the world, settling in the small nation of Liberia, West Africa, to serve Jesus by loving orphans. in the nearly four years i lived in Africa, i healed, i laughed, i cried, i prayed, i loved. in the midst of poverty and the aftermath of war, with death and sickness and injustice all around me, i learned what it felt like to have my heart break for the very things that broke the Father’s. as i held dirty, hungry and dying children in my arms, i would weep silently, rocking them and praying that somehow my love would be enough to heal their heart-wounds. i grew to embrace a culture so very different from my own, a people who deserved so much more. Liberia took a lot out of me, and i have since left the mission field full-time. i gave when i felt like i had nothing left in me; i was stretched to the point i was sure i would break; i loved deeper, fiercer, wilder than i ever thought possible. but each time i look at the wrist of my right hand, i see a reminder of the place that taught me what true love looks like, a land of red earth and green trees and blue sky that i will carry with me for the rest of my life.
and this i know, friends: my story is not over. there are chapters still being written, still unfolding, even as i write this today. i may not mark each of them with ink, but they will be no less real, no less permanent, no less a part of me. i regret not one of the tattoos i’ve gotten; i wear them proudly, my battle-wounds from the crazy-beautiful mess we call life. and i believe one day i will sit at the table with my Jesus, and i will show him these scars, and he will show me his, and we will talk about them and laugh and cry and remember.
{this post was inspired by the A Deeper Story synchroblog. for more information, check out this tribe of inked storytellers who have embodied the good parts, the bad parts, and everything in between. xo}
