if I were anonymous

I've struggled with this blogging deal lately {if two or three months can be considered "lately"}

and the best way I can describe my feelings towards blogging is

soured.

There's risk, I know, when one decides to write about her past, about secrets most hold tight to their chests. And there's risk when you share your deep-seated convictions about God or motherhood.


But I surprised myself a few months ago when a well-intentioned email made its way to my inbox in response to one of my posts, winning the prize for being the most {to date} off-based judgment of me, and it hurt. I thought, by now, I was impervious to that kind of pain.

But I'm not.

I'm still very much human.

That wound has put a {pause} between thought and typescript, between what's deep inside and what shows up on screen.

It's made me wonder what I would write about if I were anonymous, without the risk of rejection from

sharing too much,

getting too deep,


taking the stance too controversial,

                    or too narrow-minded.

What would it be like to write without hesitation, without the haunting presence of my invisible audience, hovering over shoulders, whispering and reacting as I click, click, click on the keyboard, and there goes the [backspace]

[and we strike a sentence or post or four]

for fear of being misunderstood, for fear of rejection, for fear of falling flat in this

alternate network or writers, of sojourners, of friends and strangers whose search engines and links and blogrolls find us each at each others cyber-place.

If I were anonymous, 

I would write about my struggles in ministry, about the disillusionment and discouragement my husband I and have to work through.

If I were anonymous,

I would write more about how I wrestle with this becoming the mother,

and the requisite laying down of dreams,

the fear of losing myself to sippy cups forever, and the Resentment I feel sometimes, followed by her bestie, Guilt.

If I were anonymous,

I would write about how I still, how I will always, wrestle with the stuff I have, the life I have, the comfort that is 7,128 miles away from destitution, injustice, rape, and oppression; 7,128 miles away from the mothers who cannot feed their babies in Sudan.

Until I can come up with courage, or the justification, to write about these things that press on my soul, I may not be able to find the middle ground. I've crossed a threshold, one that craves an honest answer and less platitudes, one that demands that what I write is in sync with the state of my soul.

My soul is wrestling right now; my heart has been quieted. 

And so may fall this blog, for a time.

Because the truth is, no one can have both the comfort of community and the license of anonymity. What we write and say and do has impact, both in our daily lives and here, in front of these screens.

So, I must sieve and sort and thresh these forces, this Self-Protection and this Authenticity, as they drive at each other, fighting for the better part of me.

I will find a way to write, with conviction,

just as I am,

to write as if I were anonymous fully knowing I am not.

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.

a thousand sorry's

You've known her and you've loved her and you've wondered,

[because of your own brokenness]

if her strong arms and fierce independence have come from pushing back the weight of secret doors

alone

for so many years.

You wait and you pray and you trust your God with his daughter

and then a tipping point is reached

and she decides she no longer wants the fight.

She

is

tired.

She lets loved ones in, come down the stairs, watch your step in these shadows,

this place,

where no light has shone.

Secret Dwelling. 

And then she says you can come in, too

and you step gingerly [you don't deserve to be trusted like this]

and you turn the corner

and you see it, there.

Pure.

Horror.

---


You weep for the innocence lost. You weep for the years she spent, sentenced to this dungeon, shouldering the atrocities all alone. You weep because you cannot undo it. You weep because a thousand I'm sorry's cannot remove the stench of evil. You weep hot tears whose cries for justice drown out mercy's voice.

For a later time, books and counseling, wisdom from the healing road and prayer will all find their place, will each take their turn. She'll take even bolder steps away from this place, Savior's hand held tight.

For now, Silence and Sadness are the only welcomed friends.

For now, a thousand sorry's. 

return to the red tent

I read The Red Tent years ago. It's a historical fiction account of what one author imagines might have happened between the matriarchs of our faith. Leah, Rachel, Zilpah, Bilhah--these four mothers of the 12 sons of Jacob (and subsequently, the 12 tribes of Israel), along with Dinah, the only daughter of Jacob, and their imagined relationships make for the basis of this book.

The concept of a "red tent," a place where menstruating or women in labor found refuge, isn't exactly factual, either. The author created such a place based on evidence from other tribal traditions in the area, portraying the red tent as a place where the women could gather, temporarily released from the daily demands of domestic life, to laugh, gossip, commiserate and share in life together.

What I should have gleaned from The Red Tent was an appreciation for the unique bonds women can share.

What I got, instead, was a strong distaste for the cultural values of that time--it only served to perpetuate my unanswered questions with God over what I perceive to be sexism and unjust treatment of women in the Bible.

From the marches of Susan B. Anthony to the we-almost-had-a-female-vice-president-or-president-in-2009, women in this country have been fighting to leave the proverbial red tent. We've protested and lobbied and debated and fought, all for the cause of equal pay, equal rights and equal respect.

And so should we.

We should have whatever career choice we desire, the option to work or stay home with babies, access to education and a culture to live in that grants us the respect we deserve as the other sex created in the image of God. We no longer live in an agrarian society, where physical strength is the capital of the workforce. Barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen (which is what I was for most of 2010) should not be the prescribed destination of every adult woman.

As much as a I believe in what I just wrote,


all I want to do right now is return to the red tent. 

The desire introduced itself when my mom came up and stayed with me for a week. We took care of the babies, cleaned, cooked and even finished a cornice board. We made coffee and talked about transitioning a family to two children and compared birth experiences.

I felt the urge again while visiting a girlfriend with a newborn only 2 weeks younger than Walker. We sat on her bed, curling and uncurling the babies' tiny fingers, swapping stories of c-section recovery, husbands' reactions, body image concerns and things only new mommies will share.

Later that afternoon, I reached for that connection with another friend, a mommy of three. I expressed my fears, choking through the tears, of failing Carter because I'm just...so...tired. We shared things you don't talk about until you're there, fears and insecurities, coping strategies and the perspective from someone who's further down the road than I.

For all of my fighting, for all of these years, against an identity solely comprised of Wife and Mom, all my heart longs for right now is the fellowship of other Wives and Moms. A safe place to gather and connect and cope and care for each other appeals to the deepest parts of me.

Let the feminists have their rights; for me, for now, a red tent is all I need.

the hands that led me back

Over the past couple weeks, my faith has been rocked.

shaken.

wrestled with.

doubted.

I almost felt like defecting.

(the forces that led me there have been badgering my soul for years)

I'm okay now. I'm actually doing really well.

But it wasn't on my own accord that I reached this higher ground.

There were hands that led me back.

My husband extended his hand by listening when the dam broke. It was late at night and I finally realized I couldn't shoulder the weight of my demons alone. He didn't try to fix me. He didn't throw pithy God-cliches my way. He respected my burden and made me feel a bit less crazy. A bit less alone. He promised to love me no matter where I landed. His grip was the first pull I felt towards sanity.

Solomon extended his hand to me in the form of his writings. His prose, once depressing to me and self-indulgent, became oxygen to my suffocated soul. I found comfort in his honest assessment of our condition. I found a way forward in his admonition to embrace the brokenness and love life and serve God. 

Margaret Feinburg extended her hand in her spiritual memoir. The essence of a woman known by Jesus bleeds through her pages and I was reminded, once again, of my own journey thus far. The same voice that Margaret spoke of is one I know, one I've known, once without which I would lose my only identity. Her reminder of intimacy made God seem safe again.

Beth Moore extended her hand to me with her studies. The first day I felt strong enough, "back enough," to try some real academic Bible study, she met me right there, on the first page. She spoke of the conflict the disciples felt when Jesus appeared to be something he was really not. She asked whether I would run when human logic told me to, or if I would stay near Jesus, even then. Even now. Her challenge helped solidify my new-found footing and I was able to move forward a few more steps.

My good friend, Sarah, extended the last hand I needed to finalize my journey. She initiated our conversation and I let her in on the craziness that had been plaguing me. When the final broken thought had been shared, she and I stood in awe of a God who doesn't let go. Who can handle it all. Who just might have wired my mind this way, that I might search for him and experience him in the darkness. 

I'm back.

But it wasn't on my own.

There were brothers and sisters who helped lead me to this safer place.

I'm not sure there's any other way. 

Who has helped you through your dark places?

mis hermanas

 She is a reverend in Alabama

loving and teaching and challenging the members of her congregation to know Christ

She is a mother in Florida

whose journey of infertility has led her to straight to the bosom of God;

new life has been birthed in her soul and identity

She is a secretary in South Florida

with teenage sons and jobs and neighbors to

take care of, to serve well

She is a missionary in France

leads worship in an indie band to reach the forgotten youth of Aix en Provence

She is a nurse in Tampa

courageously living a new identity

her love is fierce

She is a pastor in Ocala

filled with wisdom and grace, tempered by years of service,

a fire that won’t waver

This is my fellowship

A motley crew of sojourners, each burning with purpose and value and life

They’ll probably never meet, much less join arms to labor

on this side of heaven

---

I gain strength

comfort

perseverance

from each one;

A brief respite

from the loneliness acquired on this narrow road.

hospitality, re-vamped

For years and years, I've dismissed myself from believing I have "the gift of hospitality." I figured that if I couldn't cook like my aunt, and if hosting a dinner party stressed me out, I wasn't cut out for it.
 
And it's no wonder I thought that. 




Yesterday, I spent thirty minutes tracking with Ina Garten as she and her friend Matthew showed hospitality to their friends, Frank and Steven. Frank and Steven were coming home from a long vacation in England and their poor fridge was empty. So, Ina decided to stock it with white truffle mac n' cheese, lemon custard and fresh bread with cinnamon honey butter. Matthew took on the aesthetic challenge and set their table with fresh cut flowers, apples and placed firewood in the hearth.

It was a lovely homecoming. 

Ina ended the segment with a cheesy, "Yes! Mission accomplished!" and a wink to the camera when her friends confirmed, by text, that they enjoyed the surprise.

That's what I've believed, this whole time, that hospitality is all about.  

Perfectly executed recipes hosted in a beautiful home. 

And then I read this this morning: 

"Sodom’s sins were pride, gluttony, and laziness, while the poor and needy suffered outside her door. She was proud and committed detestable sins, so I wiped her out, as you have seen." 

Ezekiel 16:49,50

Remember Sodom and Gomorrah? They're the cliche for evil in the Bible, the icon synonymous with judgment and seriously rousing the wrath of God. We conservative Republicans are quick to credit Sodom's infamous judgment with her reputation of homosexual behavior, but God clearly spells out her sins in this text: 

Sodom was not biblically hospitable.   

I'm sure there were some serious parties in Sodom, maybe no white truffle mac n' cheese, but I'd bet the house on filet mignon and decent wine. God's bone to pick was that the parties were had and the lifestyles were lived out in total ignorance of the needy.  

So, I can master Bobby Flay's flank steak and I can learn how to use the recently-acquired pasta attachment to my Kitchen Aid mixer, and I can even invite some people over to (try to) enjoy the results, but if I am 

too proud to hang out with those outside of my socio-economic status,

gluttonous in that a dinner party is focused on the food and not the relationships,

and too lazy to meet the real, physical needs of my neighbors, 

I am not being biblically hospitable.

I'm beginning to think that the hospitality God calls me to has less to do with my perfectly executed productions and more with meeting needs. Even Jesus exhorted his disciples (you can read it here) to throw dinner parties for the needy and the rejects of society; not just for friends. 

I don't know what that looks like in my life. 

But I'm going to explore it. And I'm going to do something about it. 

I want to learn what it means to be biblically hospitable--the radical, Jesus-loving, un-cooking-show kind of way.

Basements and Jesus and the Ugly-Things

I've got a bright green door.

The kind of green that makes a great, big contrast with our yellow house. 

And when you open that green door (if you were expected), you'd most likely see a tidied up entryway and a dining room which leads into a kitchen with counters wiped down and then you'd see the living room, with no toys not too many toys strewn across the floor.

The guest bathroom won't have its usual potty seat attached to the toilet and the shower curtain should be pulled shut to obstruct the buckets and boats and balls that litter the bathtub floor.

What you won't see is my bedroom, with its unmade linens and laundry-still-in-baskets and you definitely won't be touring my closet or bathroom. 

Because that's the way we live.

And it's not bad, or hypocritical or full of pretense. 

We only have so much time to clean, and we prioritize what we want others to see and what we don't want others to see.

It's really okay--with our literal homes.

The problem occurs when we live like this in all of our relationships. 

When the only thing we let our close friends see are the tidied-up areas of our hearts, the places of success and happiness.

When we only allow our friends into the "guest areas"-- the ones that are presentable and under control and ready at all times for a realtor to show potential clients.

I just spent three hours with a friend who's been invited into my life, regardless of the conditions of the many rooms of my soul. The kind of friend who answers the question, "So, how's your heart?" without the obligatory superficial crap. 

This friend ever-so-boldly invited me into her own basement--the kind of human basement with cockroaches and cobwebs and things we as humans don't want to confess we own. It was with fear and pain that we walked down those steps as she shared her story with me. She brought her ugly-things into the light--the light of heart-felt confession to another human--and it wasn't easy

at all. 

Since her courageous invitation-- to know even the most regretted and broken parts of her story--I've been able to reciprocate. Today, we walked down into my basement and I showed her some of my ugly-things. Together, we flipped the light on, acknowledged the fallenness of our human condition and then turned our eyes to 

the Only Light we know. 

It's not just the confession and the invitation of another person into our brokenness that causes the life-resuscitating healing we so desperately need. 

It's the turning toward the Light of Jesus-- One who doesn't down-play our screw-ups and at the same time grants us a purity and wholeness--a freedom from shame-- we could never achieve on our own. 

Fear and shame and guilt make for stunted relationships and hearts that can only give so much. Only when we allow Jesus into our closets and bathrooms and basements 

(and he often invites another friend)  

will we discover the uninhibited freedom to love and be loved the way we were meant to. 

That's the power of the invitation. It requires much, but for those bold enough to risk it all, the rewards are immeasurable. 

Who have you invited into your basement? Is Jesus welcomed there?

dear sister, i hope this address is right

I was a young, bright-eyed college freshman when I snuck away from my roomies and found some alone space at the top of Dorman Hall’s stairwell. I brought my guitar, the one Dad had played in his Jesus-loving hippie revivals in Venice Beach.

My fingers strummed away, interchanging chords, hoping to find some melody to become the venue for my soul to express its pain. And I happened upon some chord pattern, just enough to write a song to my sister.

My sister whose actions told me that, although we started this journey together—

this bold adventure of following Christ at the nation’s 2nd foremost party school,

it wasn’t looking like we’d continue the journey together…

at least for now.

I sang out my hurt, I sang out my bewilderment, I sang out my sense of loss of friendship.

The chorus of my song, I fear, I’ll have the opportunity to sing time and time again:

Here we are, waiting
Waiting for you to come
And we’re all praying,
Praying that you know we still love you
And should your feet turn home--
Know we’ll meet you on that road.

Because that’s the nature of The Road.

The road that Jesus has beckoned me, and you, to, is one less traveled. Jesus himself called it “narrow,” and spoke of how so few take it.

Along the way so many different and diverse Jesus-lovers have intersected paths with mine, and I’ve learned to love and fight fair, to forgive and honor and to (I suck at this) try to put others’ wants over mine. I’ve disagreed with many—over theology and practices, stupid things and essential things—but I’ve cherished these travelers and have fought to bring myself back to a place of love.

Over the years, I’ve made indescribable and invaluable ties with the ones whose journeys have coincided with mine. Whether it’s partnering in ministry, or learning something together, or discovering that

you, too, are not alone in your struggle, 

these ties are what make The Road less lonely and less difficult. They lessen the time it takes to get back up when you stumble,

or when you stalemate. 

These ties are essential to The Road—Jesus couldn’t conceive a journey without them.

So it only makes sense that I’ll feel the pain I felt that freshman year

again,

and again,

and again.

The beauty of my God is that he gives us choice and some of my dearest friends I’ve walked alongside

choose

to


leave

The

Road.

The raw emotion still resonates within, memories of others’ leaving flash before my soul’s eye, and I remember praying to discern what my role should be. Eventually, I would release them to their decision and pray God they’ll return someday.

I don’t ever want to lose this sense of loss.

I don’t want a hardened heart, one jaded by years of traveling. 

I don’t want to not feel this pain when a friend makes a detour and tells me not to follow. 

As I freely embrace the joys of following Christ—the victories and celebrations and freedom-stories—may I freely embrace its sorrows.

Because that’s the nature of The Road.