how's the healing going?

We meet early.

Like, 5:55 a.m., pillow wrinkles still embedded in cheeks, did-you-sleep-at-all-last-night? early.

We grab our coffee and head to my patio, books tucked under arm, my baby's monitor in hand. And before the sun rises to reveal backyard toys, overgrown grass and the latest art project drying and draped over a chair,

we begin to talk of healing.

My friend, my dear friend of A Thousand Sorry's, and I are reading and working through Dan Allender's book and workbook, The Wounded Heart. We're completing one chapter a week and then we meet to talk about what we wrote, what we reflected on, and a few hundred other diversions equally important. Like, how our history of abuse plays out in our marriages. How it plays out in unhealthy coping mechanisms and serious character flaws. How we hope to change, but can't seem to.  For my friend and I, Dan Allender's material has been good on an individual basis, but used between two friends or in a group, it's exponentially more powerful.

Our times of meeting have become a place of safety, a place of deep soul confession and insight, a place that welcomes the Spirit of truth to stop in, settle down and rest a minute and then lead us to places flesh cannot go. And it's been good.

So, my dear friends, I'd love to ask you--

how's your healing going?

What are you doing to pursue wholeness? What steps are you taking on your journey?

That's all I got!

I'd love to hear from you, I really would.

on dreams deferred

When asked as a child what I wanted to be when I grew up, I didn’t answer this.

When thoughts turned to words scribbled in hot pink journals, I didn’t pen this.

When dreams manifested as goals, as steps to take, as a path to follow, I didn’t chose this.

But God did.

My husband is a pastor.

And I am a pastor’s wife.

I saw us Somewhere Else when my husband and I were just dating, just dreamers, when the world lay before us. He would go into business and my calling was advocacy—I would become the next Erin Brockovich, or Mother Teresa, or Condoleeza Rice. I would fight and bleed and give voice to those who had none.  My major, my networking, our move, it all lined up with my dream and my husband fully supported me.

And then God called him.

I was there.

Right beside him, Bible hugged to chest, bare toes digging through matted apartment carpet. Something inside him broke, some hidden current, nameless and unsuspecting. The dam burst forth and he wept and dreams and desires found words and labels and a way to rise to the surface and become part of the conversation. 

And as if we were part of some holy cosmic game, people and opportunities aligned within months, without our doing.  A mighty hand maneuvered us to the place of vocational ministry,

serving the local church,

pastor and pastor’s wife.

I wrestled and I surrendered. It was no new thing, this request by God to lay down my Isaac for his will. I had seen it, lived it, before so I knew the drill. I would fight him. I would cry. I would submit.

And then I’d know the fellowship of obedience.

The fellowship that is sweeter than any passion that pulses through my veins, more real than the dark children who call my name from across the sea, from across the socio-economic lines of our city. 

I’m learning now that my heart was probably too soured by prejudice towards white, middle-class suburbia to be of good use to a loving God.  I’m learning that I had infused my God-given dreams with a prideful agenda and had made them about me and the identity I so desperately wanted.  

I’m learning how to love those who look like me, who have no physical need, whose wounds are deep and hidden, whose façades of perfection are convincing and deceptive.   I’m learning how to discern and meet the needs of my family, of my community.  I’m experiencing the thrill, the rich satisfaction, of the journey towards selfless.

I’m a pastor’s wife and I’m walking in the footsteps of another person’s dream.

But my God is good.

My God is here.

And knowing him in this is better than the fulfillment of something forced, something worked out by the determination of my independent will.

Years ago, I would be expecting God to intervene and make a way for me.  Years ago, I would be watching the clock, impatiently holding up my end of the bargain, expecting the reward of what I’ve claimed to come my way. But I know better now.

God owes me nothing.

Not even my dreams.  

Religious Bullies, or, April in Wackoland

My little guy has been watching Mickey Mouse for the past two years. Who can blame him? Mickey is cute and non-threatening. The plots are pointless and the colors are garishly bright. It's got just the right amount of preschool-stuff to appease his attention span.

Somewhere between the fifth and thirty-fifth episodes we've watched together, something started

to

bother

me.

Pete the Cat is a bully.

And Mickey totally enables him.

With a chuckle and a gosh-gee and a let's-find-a-mousketool, Mickey Mouse cowers to Pete's ridiculous demands every. single. time. Recently, Carter’s attentions have turned to another Disney character, Jake, who actually stands up to his bullies every single time. Thank God for progress in the world of cartoons.

I had an encounter with a bully last week. 

A religious bully.

I was perusing the aisles of Whole Foods, soaking up every ounce of silence while the kids played at Grandma's house. As I pushed my cart towards the baking aisle, a man headed the opposite direction passed by me and would have been totally anonymous but for the fact that he muttered loud enough to be heard:

Read the Bible.  

No eye contact. No pausing. No breaking stride.

Excuse me? I whirled my cart around.

Did you just tell me to read the Bible? 

His whole demeanor softened, changed. He smiled but shrunk into his shoulders a bit as if he'd never been caught before in his game of drive-by-evangelism.

Yes, I did. He walked toward me.

Well, I'm a Christian, I do read the Bible. In fact, my husband is a pastor here in town. And I just want to tell you that your method isn't working. If you truly felt compelled to talk with me, you should have stopped and made the time for conversation, you know, find something you have in common with me and then share what you have to say…

You didn't even make eye contact with me.

He stammered, Well, you know, sometimes you don't have time for that. I figured it couldn't hurt.  

I totally disagree. I said. It does hurt. The way you just did that comes across as judgmental and condemning. It will only push people further away. Jesus gave people a sense of dignity when he interacted with them.

Well, he continued to deflect, I just do what the Holy Spirit tells me to. You know, maybe you were supposed to hear that you should read your Bible. 

I do read my Bible. I did this morning. And the Bible says we are to worship God with our minds, so I want you to consider the fact that your method isn't working. Pray about it, if you have to.

And with that, I was off to find my coconut oil. 

I had a whole 'nother hour to myself, a vacuum of mind-space immediately saturated with wittier, more sarcastic versions of the conversation. I was freaking awesome in my If-Only-I'd-Said-This-Instead conversation. You should have seen me.

But even then, I knew I responded the way I did, restrained, and sprinkled with Christianese to buy myself the street cred, because I thought there may have been a time,

a long time ago

when Bob the Religious Bully really cared about people reading the Bible. The Holy Spirit may have legitimately prompted him to talk with people he didn't know and he may have been entirely moved and motivated by a love for others and a love for God.

Maybe, I considered, he's just gotten pigeon-holed into some hyper-spiritual Christian community that's so out of touch with what's normal that he needed a girl shopping Whole Foods to help him towards a reality check.

Maybe.

It made me wonder about the others to which Bob the Religious Bully has dropped a condescending line or two.

It made me wonder how many of you have been religious-bullied, in one form or another.

And it made me wonder about the times I’ve thrown my spiritual weight around, carelessly knocking people over with my immature and untempered zeal.

I think the reason I gave Bob the time of day is that I was reminded of a younger and more immature version of myself in the [failed] attempt to do something good. Ya’ll, I did some weird stuff in the name of Jesus back in the day.

And while I'm not stuck condemning myself, wisdom teaches me to lean into the regret long enough to learn from it. And I am sorry.

I’d like it if I could apologize on the behalf of all the other religious bullies out there. I’d like it if this post could help heal those of you who have been wounded.

And I’d like it if one less Bob could drop one less line while walking through the grocery store.

May Jesus change our hearts, bullies and bullied alike. The aisle that separates us isn’t as wide as we think it is.

And ten minutes after my conversation with Bob, a John-Wayne-ish older guy walked by me, leaned in and said with a drawl, "You look like Liz Lemon." Not kidding. I promptly headed for the check out. 

And then a wasp bit me as I was getting in my car.

What about you? Have you been religious-bullied? 

How did you work through it in your relationship with God?