behind the mic

I've always been a Talker.

My mom has, stashed away on stacks and stacks of VHS tapes, home videos of my talking.

The time I hosted a cooking show. The time I gave a tour of Grandma's garden. The time I directed a neighborhood play based on my all-time favorite movie, Hook. I've led Bible studies, I've sung from stage, I've even managed to find a way to send my thoughts through cyber-space with this blog.

And all the while, I've known that I've needed to listen more.

To be fully present when someone else is telling their story.

To ask questions that lead to more insight into the Other Talker's life.

To find increased appreciation for the opinions, life-experiences and values of the Other, without interjecting my own conclusions or related stories.

Last week was a grand experiment in the April-Needs-To-Listen-More-Project.

On a blue and green plaid couch, outside of Starbucks on creaky wrought iron chairs, in my dining room over pumpkin spice lattes, and later armed only with tap water,

I listened.


I listened to the stories of four different women. 

One with a heart-breaking journey through infertility. One with a brave story of following Jesus as a single woman. One whose happy-family-ever-after was tragically transformed in a weekend, launching her into the unknown territory of single motherhood. One who wrestled with God over dreams deeply rooted in her soul to discover a step or two closer to their fulfillment.

I want to invite you to listen, too. 

I channeled my inner Nina Totenburg (NPR journalist) and recorded, with permission, each conversation.

And I'm now in the process of transcribing them. They're part of an upcoming women's breakfast for the ladies at my church, Church at the Bay, and I'd like to give you the opportunity to be encouraged, inspired and challenged as well. You can email catbladies@churchatthebay.com to request to receive these conversations as email, which will be sent out starting on October 11.

As much as talking helps me process this world, I'm finding that listening is a far greater force for growth.

Would you like to join me?

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.