Naked and proud no matter the scars

New Year’s Eve is often a time to reflect on what you have done and learned in the year ending, and what you want to do and learn in the year to come. Typically, those things for me have revolved around what was going on with the kids, or with my career, or with the other busyness that comes with life. This year is a bit different for me. This year, when I look back at these past 12 months, the thing that is most significant is none of those things.

Don’t get me wrong, it was an incredible year in the life of my family. Aaron graduated top of his class, and gave an amazing valedictory address that made me so proud I could hardly stand myself. He was admitted to and completed his first semester at an amazing university where he has made tons of friends and has blossomed in ways I never would have imagined. Clayton has grown as an artist, and as a student, and most importantly as a person. He humbles me each and every day with his maturity, his grace, and his loving heart. Mike and I celebrated 20 years of marriage, and successfully survived sending a child away to college. I had a wonderful year at work, making a difference in ways that matter, and growing relationships with colleagues that will last long beyond my time in this position.

Those are all big things. Good things. Great things even.

But the thing that I look back on this year with the most gratitude and the most pride isn’t an event that happened to me or to my family but something that happened inside me.

The thing that means the most to me from this past year is learning the meaning of real courage.

I always thought courage meant that you pushed through when hard things happened.

I thought that I was courageous when I survived child sexual abuse without ever telling anyone what I had gone through. I thought I was courageous when my dad died and I stayed strong for my mom even when what I really wanted to do was fall apart. I thought I was courageous when I survived the end of a marriage and a difficult and unexpected end of a much loved job to start a new one and a new life. I thought I was courageous when Aaron was so sick and there were no answers and no way I could help him and then the answers we found were scary, and instead of falling apart, I read, and learned, and taught myself to be a better advocate for him. I thought that I was courageous when I was sure I was being led to a new stage in my career but doors kept closing in my face and I kept knocking on new ones, despite the disappointment and the heartbreak.

This is what I thought courage looked like.

I learned this past year that those things aren’t about courage. They are about perseverance.

Real courage, true courage, doesn’t look like that at all.

Real courage comes from being willing to strip off all the armor that you’ve built up over a lifetime.

Real courage comes from telling your story, even when it’s painful and even when it shames you.

Real courage comes from being vulnerable with people with the truth of who you are.

Real courage comes from being willing to face the pain of your past, and walk through it, one step at a time, one painful memory at a time, until it doesn’t hold power over you any longer.

Real courage comes from being willing to say to those closest to you, this is what my inside voices tell me, and I need your help knowing the truth. Real courage comes from learning to believe them when they tell you the truth, even when it’s not what you tell yourself.

Real courage comes from speaking your beliefs, and your passions, and the hopes of your heart, even when you know that not everyone will understand or agree.

Real courage comes from being unafraid to let go of what you always thought you would be or should be and embracing the plan that God has for you, even when it makes no practical sense to do so and people may think you’re crazy.

Real courage comes from just being real.

I’m not the same person that I was a year ago. When I look back at photos from this time last year, I am amazed at how different I look. I can say that it’s because I’ve lost weight. I can say that it’s because I’m eating better and exercising more. I can say all those things. And some of that is true. But the inner glow that I have now, the spark in my eye, and the joy in my heart, those have nothing to do with the physical changes that have happened over this past year. They have to do with the transformation on the inside.

The changes in me don’t come with the physical weight I lost, but the emotional weight. The expectations of who I should be that were from society and not of God. The weight of guilt and shame that I carried both from things I did and things that were done to me. The limitations that I placed on myself as to how God could use me.

I’m far from perfect. I’m far from done. I’m far from the point where I have stopped listening to the voice of the enemy who tells me I’m not enough. Or I’m too much. Or I don’t matter and don’t belong. Or I can’t fully serve God the way that God intends me to because of mistakes I’ve made and shame I carry. That’s a battle I will fight my whole life.

I’m far from perfect. But I’m trying really hard to be real.

Because that’s where real courage comes from.

Naked and proud no matter the scars.

Be who you are. Because who you are is beautiful.

I have different playlists I listen to at various points during the day, depending on my mood. The one that I typically listen to on the way to work currently has a mix of worship, uplifting, and motivational music. Right now, one of the tracks on it is This is Me from The Greatest Showman. As I was listening to that song this morning, I was reflecting on the movie itself that I finally watched the other night for the first time.

And I realized that the reason I liked the movie so much was because it reminds me so much of my life and of the groups of people with whom I choose to invest my time: the misfits, the outsiders, those who aren’t enough, those who are too much, those who don’t quite fit in anywhere else.

I realized this is true of my church as well. Which is why I love it so very much. I’m not saying that the people there are misfits. Well, not everybody. ;-) In the movie, there is a point where the bearded lady, on behalf of the rest of the circus, tells PT Barnum that although many of their mothers had turned their backs on them, he had given them a family. That too is true of many in our church. There are people there who have been told by their families, or by society, or most sadly by other churches, that they didn’t belong. That they didn’t quite fit in. That who they were wasn’t compatible with Christian teaching. That they weren’t enough. That they were too much.

Which is exactly what my church does not say. It says God loves you and so do we. Come join our family.

Be who you are. Because who you are is beautiful.

As with PT Barnum, our church doesn’t try to hide the people or things that others don’t understand or are frightened of, but instead brings them out into the open and says come see.  Come learn. Come understand. Come love. And through that, God is glorified. Through that, God uses those things we see as weaknesses or failures or disabilities, to achieve things, and to bless others, far beyond what we can imagine.

Be who you are. Because who you are is beautiful.

We started several new small groups a few months ago, and my small group that meets on Sunday mornings is an eclectic and quite frankly hilarious group of people. We are on all places on the political spectrum. We come from a variety of different faith backgrounds. There’s a lot that we don’t agree on. Sometimes we get pretty vocal about what we don’t agree about. But we come back each Sunday and we walk this road of faith together still. We respect each other despite our differences. We respect each other because of our differences. We tease each other and we laugh at each other and ourselves and most importantly we love each other and we love Jesus. Our group name is Real People. I call us my favorite group of irreverent Jesus lovers.

As someone who at various times in life has felt like both not enough and too much, I am grateful to have found a place that not only tolerates me but celebrates me. Who loves me as I am and challenges me to use who I am to serve God in a way that only I can do. Who encourages me to let go of the things of my past that hold me back and to learn from and use the ones that will help others. Who loves and supports my family and me in all things, and in all ways.

And who says to all of us:

You are enough.

You are not too much.

You are perfect just as you are. Just as God made you.

God loves you as you are and how you are.

And so do we. Come join our family.

Be who you are. Because who you are is beautiful.

This is me. This is you. Flawed and imperfect in the sight of man. Holy and beautiful in the sight of the Maker.

“I am brave, I am bruised. I am who I’m meant to be, this is me.”

Just who we are. Because who we are is beautiful. Because God made us that way.

The last of the line

Each time I hug her goodbye, I’m shocked at how frail she seems. Her skin has gotten thin and easily bruised in the way that I remember my Granny Brewer’s and Granny Self’s skin being, but which doesn’t seem right in the context of my mother. She will turn 81 in just a couple of weeks, which also doesn’t seem right.

As of yesterday, she’s the last of her siblings left alive. She was the youngest of 13 children. Her father has been gone now for more than 55 years and her mother more than 30. Her mother was only 19 when she married her father, a widower with 4 young children. My grandmother raised these 4 she didn’t give birth to along with 9 more of her own.

My mother tells stories of growing up, moving from place to place, never having a home they owned until she was a teenager or later. Most of the houses they had didn’t have running water so her stories involve running water from a well, and fighting her father’s many geese on the way to and from the outhouse. The food they ate was what they grew themselves, and was often all the food there was, when times were especially tight.

Names of long dead relatives and neighbors color her stories, along with retellings of friends and the siblings closest to her in age.

She tells of the years she and my dad were first married. He was the oldest of 7, she the youngest of 13. The importance of family for both was always strong. The sense of responsibility for family a bit different, based on the experience of birth order.

She’s lost so many of her people. Both parents. Mother in law and father in law. 12 brothers and sisters. Brothers in law and sisters in law. Aunts and uncles. Nieces and nephews. A husband of 34 years.

She has experienced much loss in her life. But has seen so many blessings. Three children, 10 grandchildren, 7 great grandchildren.

She has always been both my biggest cheerleader and my greatest support. She hasn’t always understood my life choices, but she has always stood by me, no matter what. Having never finished 9th grade, I don’t know that she has ever truly understood my need to continually educate myself. But she has always supported it. And she has always been my boys’ absolute biggest fan.

I am very aware that I learned to be a good mom from having had a good mom. I know that is a gift not given to all. It is one I cherish. One that I will always be grateful for.

I know that she won’t be with me forever. I am conscious of that each time I tell her goodbye. And the thought both makes me sad and scares me. Who are you when you no longer have your mom? The person who has known you longest and loved you best? 

I know what it is to be a fatherless daughter. I’ve known that for almost 28 years. It’s still not easy. The ides of being an orphan is one I dread. Even at 50, you still need your parents. 

So I try to imprint the memories on my heart. To be with me when she no longer is. Until then, I will enjoy this time as a precious gift. One I get to unwrap each day. 

Christmas is

Our youth and children presented the church service yesterday. The music was beautiful.The sheep were adorable. The message was heartfelt. One line stood out to me amidst all of it. It keeps coming back to me. The essence of the line is this, “Christmas isn’t something you make. Christmas is.”

My favorite part of this Christmas season has been the understanding of the meaning of Advent. It’s been consciously preparing my heart for Jesus. 

It’s been spending my time fostering connections and building relationships rather than buying things. 

Typically I spend lots of time each Christmas trying to figure out the best gifts to get the people I love. This year, I’ve put much less focus and worry on that. 

Typically I spend lots of time making things for people as that’s always been one of the ways for me to express my love without making myself too vulnerable. But somewhere along the line this became more of a habit than a true labor of love. I’ve done much less of that this year. I’ve only made a few things. 

Only one has been a true labor of love and, in the making, I was blessed as much as the recipient, as I spent much of the creation time praying for the one to wear it.

This year instead of giving things, I’ve given of myself. The deepest parts of myself. I have made myself vulnerable and truly real to those I care most about. 

I have learned to step out of my no touch safe zone and enter other peoples spaces, physically and emotionally, to connect with them on a level that wouldn’t have been possible if I had held myself back in an effort to protect myself. 

I have opened my heart and my soul to all of you over these past months. As a way to heal myself. But in a way they God has used to help to heal others. 

In the giving of myself, I have received so much more than I have given. And so much more than I would have received by just giving things. 

I am so grateful for the gift of Jesus that we celebrate this time of year. I pray that we remember always, not just this time of the year, that Christmas is. Today and every day. 

A Prayer for Christopher

I blogged a couple of months ago about the death of a child on one of my cases. Of my experience standing by his hospital bed, and holding his hand, and the prayer with no words. I wrote of this child who touched my heart, and my soul, and of the change that he had made in me.

Yesterday, a group of us gathered together at the park for a balloon release in his memory. The gathering was small. His grandparents, his three sisters, and about 8 people from CPS whose lives were also touched by his life and his death.

It was a cold, clear day with the bright blue skies that make my heart happy. The winds were strong and they whipped our hair around our faces as we waited. Christopher’s grandfather passed out balloons to the little girls and to some of the others who were there. I stayed back, feeling like I didn’t really belong, but needing to be there all the same. The wind caught the balloons as soon as they were released and blew most into some nearby trees, where they stopped, their strings caught in the branches. A couple managed to fly over the trees and away, into the cloudless cerulean sky.

The grandparents asked the oldest girl to pray, but she was unable or unwilling. It was all I could do not to step in and say, please let me. Finally, the grandfather offered a short prayer. With the sentiment that Chris hadn’t had a very good life on this earth and he hoped that the next one was better.

As we left, I felt very dissatisfied. I felt that this precious child, who had so touched me, and touched so many others, through the circumstances of his pitiful life and his heartbreaking death, deserved so much more than a few balloons that got stuck in trees and a prayer of less than 25 words. He deserved so much more in this life than he received. And he deserved so much more in his death.

I talked to my pastor last night about my feelings of hurt and disappointment that this brief ceremony was all the recognition there was of this child’s life. That the legacy that he left was summed up in such few words and short time. She assured me that his legacy was so much more. That his memorial would be that his life would live on through me, as he had become a part of me. That his life, and his death, I would carry with me forever. And it would affect all that I do and all that I am, and that was the true legacy of his life. And I realized that she spoke the truth. For me, and for all those who Christopher touched.

And so I pray now the words that I wanted to speak yesterday, but could not.

Gracious God, we gather here on this cold and windy day to remember and to honor Christopher’s life. To remember who he was and to mourn who he was unable to become. Lord, we ask you to comfort the hearts of his sisters and all those who loved Chris. To wrap your loving arms around them and hold them close. To give them peace and comfort to know that even as we stand here today, shivering in the cold, that Christopher is warm and safe and whole. Loving God, we thank you for the bright sun and the beautiful blue sky that you give us a reminder that even now, Chris is running and playing in the green grass and warmth of your Heavenly Kingdom, fully healed, fully loved, and fully cherished by you. God, we thank you for the honor of knowing Chris. Some of us for a lifetime, some for only a few days. We thank you for the impact that he had on us, through both his life, and his death. We pray that you use his life to influence us to be better people and better advocates. We pray that through his tragic life and his tragic death, others will be saved. We pray this in the name of your own precious son. Amen.

It isn’t enough.

It will never be enough.

But he was enough.

And I will remember.  Always, I will remember.

The years that the locust has eaten

We wrapped up our semester long study of the Prophets in my disciple class this past Sunday. What I get out of that class most weeks is so much more than what was in the text that I may or may not have gotten around to reading that particular week. Our group facilitator puts so much work and thought into the lesson each week that we have amazing discussions, despite the preparedness, or lack thereof, of the rest of the class.

One of the verses that we read in this last segment has just stuck with me the past few days, and really hit home to me last night in a deep conversation with a good friend.

The verse comes from the book of Joel and reads as follows: “And I will restore to you the years that the locust has eaten” Joel 2:25 (ASV)

In all that I have learned about myself and about God in this past year of deep reflection, deep work, and deep realization of the character of God and of my own character, one of the biggest lies that I have managed to recognize and finally overcome is the lie that God could not use me because of the mistakes that I have made in my life and because of the shame of my past. For so many years, I have carried guilt that I was not fit to do the work that God would have me do because if I did so, and if people found out about the sins and shame of my past, that I would actually cause more harm than good.

I’ve realized in the last few months that, contrary to my belief that the wounds and scars of my past would hinder me from serving God, that God would actually use those wounds and scars as a way to use me to help to heal others in a way that I wouldn’t be able to be used without those very things that I thought held me back.

There was purpose to the pain.

I have been deeply humbled by the ways that God has used the words that he has given me in the past few months to help people to heal from wounds of their own. I am both amazed and grateful at the journey that God is leading me on into ministry to serve the broken and the hurting and those who have felt less than for far too long. I stand in awe and thankfulness at the amazing people that God had placed in my life who fill me with love, and courage, and confidence, to follow the path that God has set before me.

And I realize that part of what God is doing in this journey, in addition to gifting me with the ability to touch and to help others, is fulfilling the promise that was made in Joel 2:25. God is restoring to me the years that the locust has eaten.

There was purpose to the pain.

God has used the things that were meant for my destruction to form me and to shape me into exactly who I was meant to be. God has used the things that were meant to keep me from living out my life fully for God’s purpose as the way in which God’s purpose will actually be served.

There was purpose to the pain.

And years to rebuild what was taken away.

And I am grateful.



Loss with the gain

Working in child welfare law, there aren’t many happy days in court. Many people say that adoptions are the happiest days in this field, but honestly, for me, the happiest days are the ones where people get their kids back. Because they have done the hard work to face their demons and heal themselves, and have learned to put their children above all else.  Adoptions are happy, but they also come with loss. You can’t become a part of a new family without losing an old one. There is loss in the gain. And there is sadness in that for me. It doesn’t take away from the happiness of the occasion. But it adds a richness of feeling that I can’t overlook.

Today was a day that started off with a particularly special adoption.  A precious little boy became a forever part of a wonderful family. A family who loves him fully and absolutely. A family to whom this little boy belongs unquestionably. But he had to say goodbye to three other families before this miracle happened. The mommy whose body he grew in and whose heart he grew under, the first foster family who cared for him in his earliest days of life, and the family who cared for him for the next year. Loss in the gain. But even with that loss, seeing this precious little boy with this family, it was all joy. 

Maybe it’s the season. Maybe it’s the little boy. Maybe it’s the family. But as I stood in the room this morning while the papers were being signed and the last minute details were finalized, what I watched most was this little boy sitting in his daddy’s lap, snuggled up against him watching cartoons on his mommy’s phone. Other than waving a big hello to each new person who came in the room, he was unconcerned about what was going on around him. Because he was safe in his daddy’s embrace, and he knew that.

When we were in the courtroom, during the adoption prove-up, this precious little boy threw his arms around his daddy’s neck and hugged him with all that he had no less than 15 times. And after resting his head on his shoulder for a moment, safe in his love and in his protection, he would lean back, give a big smile, and throw his arms around him all over again. He was saying I choose you.  Again, and again, and again. 

I thought how closely that relationship represents the persona of God as AbbaFather.  Daddy. How that is best represented in those moments when we are so comfortable in that fatherly embrace that we just lean back, knowing we are loved, knowing we are protected, and so comfortable in that love and protection that whatever else is going on around us isn’t really all that important. I thought of how that little boy just held on to his daddy. How he rested his head on his shoulder, knowing fully that he was safe and loved and cherished. How he threw his arms around his daddy’s neck, time and time again, in absolute joy, saying  without words, “You’re my favorite.  I choose you.”  Again, and again, and again. How his daddy received that love, returning unconditional love of his own.  That is the picture I carry in my head and my heart of the fatherly relationship that we have with God as Abba Father. The father figure who adopted us as heirs as in Romans 8:15. 

There is much I have learned in the past year of who God is and who he isn’t. How God is so much bigger and so much more than I ever realized. How God is both father, and mother, and brother, and friend. How God is master, creator, king. Provider, healer, protector. In that broadening of knowledge, I’ve recognized that even with all that knowledge of who God is, one of my favorite images will probably always remain the image of Abba Father. Maybe it’s because I have no earthly father to love and protect and cherish me. Maybe that’s why that image resonates with me the most. Maybe it’s because I can relate so deeply to the idea of being adopted into a family of love and trust. Maybe it’s just because that’s the first image of God I ever remember having. Whatever the reason, this precious little boy brought that image to me so clearly today. In this season of Advent, in preparing for the arrival of the son of God, I recognize how great that sacrifice was. That God would send his beloved son to us, in order to offer the opportunity to us to become members of the family as well. So that we might be given the opportunity to rest in the embrace of our AbbaFather, and throw our arms around his neck, saying “You’re my favorite. I choose you.” Again and again and again. 

Loss with the gain. But all joy.

This is 20 years

Today is the 20 year anniversary of when I married this handsome guy. Truth be told, most if not all of the people who were at our wedding that day probably didn’t expect to see us last this long. Truthfully, the odds were against us that we would. We were both recently divorced. We were creating a stepfamily which is a stress for any marriage. We hadn’t really known each other all that long, and jumped into a serious relationship pretty quickly after we did meet. Common sense said that this marriage wasn’t going to last. It hasn’t always been a smooth marriage. We have had some really hard times and been through some things that could have broken us.  Probably should have broken us. But God’s plans were bigger than our failings and our weaknesses.

The last 20 years, while not always easy, and not always fun, have been a blessing. We have raised some amazing children. We have done some good in this world. We have stuck together and supported each other even when we doubted.

We took a cruise this past week and on the cruise, we started talking to three young couples in the hot tub one evening. When I mentioned that we were on a cruise to celebrate our 20 year anniversary, one of the young girls said that she and her husband were newlyweds and asked me what advice that I had. What came out of my mouth wasn’t some magical and golden bit of wisdom. It wasn’t something like put the needs of your spouse first, above yourself and above your children. It wasn’t never go to bed angry. It wasn’t laugh more than you argue. Those are all good pieces of advice, but none of them what I actually said. What I actually said was, “you’re not always going to like each other.” Probably not the most inspirational piece of advice ever, but the truth.

Marriage is hard.  Living with someone 24/7 for years on end is hard. There are days you aren’t going to like each other. And sometimes those days can last for weeks. That’s just the reality of marriage, if we are being honest about things. When two people become one family, they still maintain those difficult parts of their individual personalities that make merging pretty hard sometimes.

What I’ve learned over the past 20 years is that much of marriage is learning to adjust to a new normal. A new normal of being married instead of single.  A new normal of parenting children part time who have another parent most of the time. A new normal of having children full-time instead of being able to do what you want when you want. A new normal of navigating school, childhood illness, aging parents, career changes, home remodeling, moves, children growing up and leaving home, all the things that take place over 20 years time.

Staying married is a choice. A choice each day to say I choose you again today.  Just like I did 20 years ago. Not with the romantic ideals that I had back then of what life was going to be like. But with the well-worn wisdom that even when it’s hard, it’s worth it. That God created each of us with our gifts and our failings. With our shiny parts and those not so shiny. And he created this marriage the same.

Thanks for going with my ideas and my callings, even when they seem crazy or you don’t understand them. And thanks for doing life with me these past 20 years. Here’s to at least 50 more.

This is 50

We’ve been on a cruise the last few days and spent one of our days in Cozumel. We snorkeled in the ocean, walked through gardens, tasted different kinds of tequila, watched a sea lion show, and admired dolphins. All the fun things you do in Cozumel. And, except for the snorkeling, I took photos of all of it. 

I took some good photos of Mike. We took some cute photos together. And I asked Mike to take some photos of me. 

Despite the fact that I had on no makeup. Despite the fact that my hair was a tangled mess. Despite the fact that I wasn’t wearing the most figure flattering clothes. 

I had him take photos of me, and took and had taken, photos of us together, because I’m trying really hard to be honest and real about what life looks like. 

This is 50. 

Those lines you see at the corners of my eyes are one of my favorite parts of my unmade up self. Because they represent many smiles and much laughter. 

The sparkle in my hair doesn’t come from expensive salon treatments but from the silver strands I’ve gained during many days and nights spent taking care of or worrying about sick children. 

The body that isn’t as firm as it was at age 20 is much stronger than it was then. It has carried and nurtured two amazing children. It has held the hands of friends and patted the backs of hurting children and their parents. 

The mouth you see with the fine lines at the corners has spoken up and spoken out for hundreds if not thousands of people over the past 24 years who needed a champion in their corner. 

The eyes that you see hide sadness over the loss of all 4 grandparents, and a father, and countless uncles and aunts and cousins and friends. 

The hands that you see aren’t as young and smooth as they once were. But they have worked with fabric and thread to craft and distribute pillowcases and blankets that have comforted thousands of children who were hurting. 

This is 50. And it’s real. And it’s imperfect. But it’s meaningful. And it’s beautiful. And I wouldn’t trade it for 20 if I could. 

Hurting people in a broken world

I wrote an entire blog post a few weeks ago about brokenness and how we have all experienced being broken in different ways at different times in our lives. Sometimes physically, sometimes emotionally, sometimes mentally, but all of us broken in different ways at different times. But how, despite our brokenness, together we can be whole. And how we sometimes view ourselves as broken while others, who have the thing we think we are lacking, view themselves as broken because of that very thing we think we are missing.

I went on to talk about some of the bravest people I know who struggle with depression, and mental health diagnoses, and who have been so open to share their struggles and their journeys. How open and brave they were to admit their brokenness.

I wrote about an experience I had with a precious friend the weekend before where she was having a bad day and through the opportunity to spend time together, her day was made better, and how that gift was reciprocated the following day when I was having a struggle of my own, and time with her had done for me what I had done for her the day before. I wrote about how the act of being honest with our struggles and with our pain, and the willingness to sit with each other in those struggles and in that pain, helped to heal us both.

I finished with the following thoughts: 

“We are all broken. But despite our brokenness, together we can be whole. Through God’s grace. Through connection. Through vulnerability. Through honesty and through courage to admit our brokenness and our need. In our weakness, we are strong. Not through our own strength, but through Christ’s power. We are surrounded by broken people. But we are also surrounded by a loving and sovereign God. And we are surrounded by people who love us and want to help us to be more than we can be on our own. Despite our brokenness, together we can be whole. “

It was a solid post. It made a lot of good points.  But I didn’t publish it. It just didn’t feel right. I wasn’t sure what about it didn’t feel right, but something didn’t.  And, honestly, I kind of forgot about it. And then earlier this week I saw the quote that you see here. And when I scrolled past it initially, I stopped.  Stopped scrolling. Backed up. Then stopped. It was one of those lightbulb moments where what you thought you were seeing isn’t at all what is. I saved the quote to my phone. I came across the quote on my phone again yesterday. I read it again. It was then that I realized what was wrong with my post about brokenness.  

What was wrong is that we aren’t actually broken at all. We are just hurt. We don’t need fixing at all. We just need healing. 

Wow. As the quote indicates, those concepts are completely different. Indeed they are.

One involves self-shame and one does not. One involves a need to change the core of who we are and one does not. 

I think the basic tenets of my prior post are still correct, but what a difference a change in language makes:  

“We are all hurting. But despite our pain, together we can be healed. Through God’s grace. Through connection. Through vulnerability. Through honesty and through courage to admit our pain and our need. In our weakness, we are strong. Not through our own strength, but through Christ’s power. 

We are surrounded by hurting people. 

But we are also surrounded by a loving and sovereign God.

And we are surrounded by people who love us and want to help us to be more than we can be on our own.

Despite our pain, together we can be healed. “

I’m not saying that there aren’t some people in this world that I would argue are broken. People who prey on children or harm others with no conscience. But somehow I think God sees even those people as hurting people in need of healing. 

I’m not saying this world isn’t broken because I absolutely believe it is. When there are children starving in third world countries while we decide what new model car we want to buy, this world is broken. When there are parents who will risk separation from their children in an effort to gain a better life for them, away from abject poverty and gang violence, this world is broken. When children here in this country are starved and abused to the point of death and nobody notices, this world is broken. 

And this broken world results in a lot of hurting people. 

Friends, if you feel today that you are broken beyond repair, know that you are not. You are just hurting beyond reason. You don’t need to be fixed, you just need to be healed. God is the great physician and the great healer. God equips us, each of us, with the ability to be comforted by the love and connection with others. And God equips us, each of us, with the ability to love and care for others and to heal them through connection and through that love. God also provides amazing doctors and amazing medications and treatments when love and connection alone are not enough. And that’s okay too. 

We are surrounded by hurting people. 

But despite our pain, together we can be healed.  

Jesus, they are thirsty

One of my favorite scriptures in the Bible is Luke 2:19 “But Mary kept all these things, and pondered them in her heart” The reference is to the shepherds coming to where Jesus had been born and telling of the story of how they had come to be there. That scripture has just always given me the warm fuzzies. As a mother, I know exactly what she must have felt. She kept all these things, or treasured all these words as another translation says, and pondered them in her heart.  As mothers, we often treasure the things that others say about our children and ponder them in our heart.  As a brand new mother, Mary would have especially treasured those words about her precious baby.

In the book that I am reading now, the author talks about the story of the wedding at Cana, where Jesus performed his first miracle by turning water into wine. She describes the story where Mary goes to Jesus to tell him that the wine has run out and initially he dismisses the need. But instead of going away, she turns to the servant and says “Do whatever he tells you.” She is respectful. She doesn’t badger. But she is persistent. The people are thirsty. She will not remain silent about the need that she sees. And Jesus hears her. And he meets that need.

I’ve thought a lot about the difference between the teenager new mother Mary and the more experienced Mary of a 30 year old Jesus. About her growth in confidence.  About her growth in relationship to Jesus. I think that, as women, we experience that growth in confidence in ourselves and in our willingness to speak up and speak out. I think as Christians we experience that same type of growth in our relationship to Jesus.

When we are young girls and young women, we are inclined to listen to the directions of our parents or our elders, in determining what we think or how we act. As we grow older and we experience life on our own , we learn to form our own opinions and thoughts on the things of life. When we see that things aren’t the way they should be, we become less likely to stay quiet and more willing to speak up.

When we first meet Jesus, whether we are 8 or 80, we treasure and we ponder the idea of Jesus, and all we learn of him, in our heart. Our faith is like the newborn that Mary held in her arms 2000 years ago. But as we grow in our faith, we grow stronger in our walk and bolder in our questioning. When we see needs that we don’t think are being met, we name them. And we take the steps that we can that are within our power to meet them and turn to Jesus for the things that we can’t. We say to Jesus, the people are thirsty. The people are hungry, Jesus. The people are hurting. And when we do our part to meet those needs, and we refuse to remain silent about the needs that are there, Jesus hears us. And he meets with us to meet those needs. It’s not always in our timing. Or in the way that we would choose. But he meets us as we meet the needs of others.

I pray that as I continue to grow in years, that I also continue to grow in wisdom and boldness. That as I continue to grow in faith, I continue to grow in questioning. That I may always be willing to say, Jesus, they are thirsty. And that I will always be open and able to meet those needs within the limits of my power, and that Jesus will always meet me in that need, to take the steps that I cannot.

Leaning in

I’m reading a book right now that I am loving but that is at the same time making me really mad. Not because of what the author is saying but because of some of the memories and feelings that she is evoking and what her words are making me feel. 

I’m processing my feelings with two different dear friends at the same time, both coming from very different perspectives. One who is guiding me through the process, and one who is struggling through the process with me. 

Both of them at some point used the same phrase. The first suggested, when I said that I was loving the book but it was making me so mad about some things, that I might lean into that a bit. When I told my second friend that, she commented that her observation of the author of the book was that she, through her writing and her experiences, takes you to the anger and gets you to the other side. That she has leaned into it and come out better.

And so I thought, what does it actually mean to lean into something? Is it, as my second friend suggested, going to the anger and coming out the other side better? I googled the expression. Wiktionary described to lean into something as “the act of accepting something negative but unchangeable; to find a way to benefit from, or alleviate the harm of, risk, uncertainty and difficult situations.” Urban Dictionary described lean into as “the act of embracing something, or a situation, by using it to empower yourself. To ‘lean into’ something is to own it, to cast off disparagement. The phrase may have risen itself from the physical act of bracing yourself against an impacting force, in the same way a person may tighten their stand against an incoming tidal wave.”

All of those words to basically say that leaning into something is learning to deal with the things that make you mad, or sad, or helpless, or cause you guilt, or shame, until you can accept that they are what they are, and find a way to use those things to benefit you and make you stronger while taking away their power to hurt you. To, as my friend said, go to the anger, and come out the other side better. 

My first instinct is to think that you need to use the practice of leaning into things that have happened to you that you had no control over. But really, I think you need to use that practice with all the hard things in your life. Including the things from your past that haunt you because of the role and the responsibility that you played. That’s a bit harder in ways. At least it has been for me. Part of working through mistakes that you’ve made and harm that you have done, accepting them, and working through them to the point that the shame you feel about them releases its hold on you, involves forgiving yourself. For me, forgiving others is always easier than forgiving myself. But I think that’s part of the process of leaning into a thing hard enough to break its power over you. The second part I think is to be open and real about those things, as hard and as embarrassing and as shameful as that may be. In my experience, people are surprisingly willing to grant grace to people who are honest and sincere about their failings and their mistakes.

Leaning in to something isn’t an easy thing. Like the image that the expression came from, that of a person standing against an incoming tidal wave, it’s exhausting and painful to lean into thoughts and memories and feelings that batter against you one after the other. But as we stand firm against the waves, our muscles strengthen. Our confidence grows. We grow better even as we grow weak and wounded. 

And in those moments, when we feel we don’t have the strength to stand any longer, we lean into the strength of others. Our families. Our trusted friends. Our God. Who hold us up when we can’t hold ourselves any longer. Who whisper words of encouragement in our ears. Who let us know we are not alone, even in the midst of the wind and the waves. And as we come out on the other side, stronger, braver, and wiser, we learn to hold up others as they lean into their own tidal waves.

Don’t be afraid to lean into your own struggles. And as you do so, don’t be afraid to lean on others to give you the strength and perseverance to do so. God created us for connection. God didn’t intend for us to walk through this life by ourselves. It’s not always easy to ask for those life preservers when we need them, but we should never fear asking. And we should never fear offering, when we see others in their own struggles in the deep.