Drowning and Letting Go

I swim in open water. 

Deep. Dark. 

I pray.

Desperately I scan the horizon for a sign, a marker, something to indicate this won't last forever. Endless ocean fills my visage. 

I pray.

My arms are filled with precious things. Good things. Beautiful things. 

I pray.

I kick my legs furiously, but my arms are full and the water is tempestuous and . . . I choke and bob and gasp for air. 

I pray.

I fight the panic that threatens to consume. 

I pray.

I hear a voice . . . let it go. 

I contemplate releasing the precious, good and beautiful things that impair my ability to navigate the deep and choppy waters. But the people around me tell me to hold on and kick more efficiently. They can't see that my lungs are full of water, so I hold on and kick my legs harder. 

I am asked what's wrong with me, why I can't keep up...but I am unable to even take a breath without filling my lungs with water...and I can't form a thought or speak a word asking for help. 

I fear. Will my relationships survive me letting go? 

So I kick harder. I hold on to the precious, good and beautiful things tighter. I pray. 

I hear a voice . . . let. it. go.

There is no amount of work that I put in, no amount of attitude changes or silent prayers said, that decreases the amount of water entering my lungs. I hear voices asking what I need and how they can help me...but I can't take a breath . . . and I certainly can't speak. I'm too busy trying to survive to be able to form a coherent thought. I pray.

I hear a voice . . . LET. IT. GO. 

My head spends more and more time under the water, until it is consumed by it. 

As I sink lower and lower and lower into the depths, I am about to die. I pray. And I hear a voice . . . 

LET IT GO!

So I release one of the good, precious and beautiful things . . . but I continue to sink. So . . . I release it all. As I watch them float away, I wave my arms, kick my legs and am drawn closer and closer to the surface.

I can't breath yet. But there is hope. 

I let it go. 

Being Free

My soul gasps for breath,

Shovels full of dirt fill my lungs and eyes and ears and. . .

I try to scream, make noise. Anything to indicate that a living, breathing person is being buried alive.

To be seen and heard so they will let me out . . .

Of the box of who I used to be.

They don’t see me growing.

They don’t see me different.

They see the old mistakes and reactions and sins.

Somehow, I find the energy to place others in the same box.

I don’t see them growing.

I don’t see them different.

I imagine the shovels of dirt I am heaping onto their spirit.

People change. People grow.

Let’s pray for them and

just as we would with any other thing we pray for…

let’s EXPECT it.

Let’s set boundaries where they are needed but not build walls.

I lay down the burden of managing other people’s perceptions.

Their “truth” is just their perception,

given more weight.

Their “truth” doesn’t apply to me, If it’s THEIRS.

And just as I would never pick up someone else’s luggage at the airport,

I leave it where it sits.

So when they expect me to be the old me.

When they interact with me as though I am,

I remind myself that I’m not and feel no pressure to prove or clarify.

When I expect them to be the old them,

when I am tempted to interact with them as though they are,

I remind myself that they're not and feel no pressure to prove or clarify.

The truth doesn’t change because someone said it does.

At least not the kind that sets me free.

Don’t you want to be free?

Shootout at High Noon

It felt like

sitting at a table,

in the old Wild Wild West,

in a saloon.

with friends,

discussing the business of the day..

.making plans to build something.

All of the sudden the atmosphere changed.

It became toxic.

Out of the blue,

both of the other parties got up from the table,

walked ten paces in opposite directions

turned around and

shot their guns

I remained seated at the table between them

It felt like my soul and spirit were full of bullet holes and wounds gushing red

They ran for cover

While I lay there bleeding out.

But God was faithful.

He bound my wounds with His stripes.

Wounds are healed,

But questions fester

Spiritual agoraphobia threatens to envelop

If love keeps no record of wrongs, and believes the best,

Where did I go wrong?

Is life a Groundhog Day?

Am I relegated to reliving the saloon scenario over and over until my last breath?

A post mortem is in order.

Where did I go wrong?

I’ll tell you . . .

I didn’t speak up when the air turned toxic.

I talked more, laughed louder

to cover their silence

Instead of speaking the truth in love,

I filled the silence with noise

So . . . armed with this knowledge and the armor of God,

I let go of my spiritual agoraphobia

step out into the sun,

Walk over to the saloon

sit down at that table.

And when the air turns toxic,

I don’t talk more, or laugh to cover the silence.

I name the unnamed and

walk away if I need to.

Because yes, love doesn’t keep record of wrongs

but it also doesn’t shoot people.

I Am a Writer

“What do you do?” He asked. The ubiquitous question produced deeper thoughts and questions than were likely intended. The panelists in my head weighed the pros and cons of sharing the answer I longed to say out loud.

The words ‘I am a writer’ have rarely passed through my lips.

Even though I do write, which would intrinsically make me a writer, I’m hesitant to claim the title.

Long before I knew what it meant to be a writer, before I possessed the fine motor skills required, I composed stories that played like movies in my head.

But I have never been able to bring myself to possess the word, writer.

I am a writer.

It’s a word, but in my heart it’s a title that I don’t deserve, and feel afraid to claim. It isn’t just a word. It’s a badge to be earned, a ribbon to be won. I have neither earned, nor won.

The voices for and against are the voices of my high school sophomore English teacher, and my college English teachers.

Regardless of how hard I worked in 10th grade English, I couldn’t earn anything higher than a 54 on an essay. In college (which I took in lieu of 11th & 12th grade high school English), my professors raved over my writing. Once, she interrupted the semester final to read a portion of my essay, which I had written one hour before and turned in one week late. She gave me a 100, even after taking off points for tardiness.

I have never been able to account for or reconcile the two extremes.

What do you do? Is a simple question, but the answer isn’t quite as simple.

I answered, ‘Well, I handle the billing for a logistics company, but that’s not who I am.’

As I described who I am, my words danced around but never explicitly stated, ‘I am a writer’.

I think that until I do it well enough that someone wants to pay me for my work, I will have a hard time claiming the title.

For now, in the same way that a liar is someone who lies, I am a writer. Even if nobody likes my words or wants to commission my work or publish it.

I am a writer.

Spiritual Appendicitis

I’m convinced that no parent is perfect.

Sure, as with anything else, there are those who excel, seem to naturally embody the ideal. But most of us weren’t able to receive this, or give it. Even when it looks like Leave it to Beaver, it rarely is.

Grappling with my own limitations as a mother, I have wondered - why are some families able to forgive and heal, while others find the only way to love is from afar?

It seems that some families are satisfied in simply not talking about the bad things. They move forward and have a satisfactory relationship without ever bringing it up. The relationship might not be as fulfilling as it could be, but it is satisfactory enough to justify denying the pain and avoiding the confrontation.

I’m not one of those people. I need to process, to be honest about my part and how I feel so that I can move forward in the relationship untainted by the ugliness.

From observing, reading and continued thought, I believe the answer is in the ability - or not - to listen, accept and acknowledge what happened. Not blanket - ‘I’m sorry if I hurt you’ or ‘I did the best I could’ - apologies but real acknowledgement. Listening with an openness that can only be present when I love the other person more than my ego. When the desire for the relationship overcomes my fear of shame.

I practice this in my relationship with my kids, even now. Emphasis is on the word ‘practice’.

When I feel accused, and heat begins to rise in my gut, when the response comes automatic, when my mind desperately searches for a defense - I take a deep breath. Remind myself that it’s okay to be wrong, that this relationship and the person standing before me is important to me. More important, ultimately if not in the moment, than saving face, being right or playing the victim.

I ask myself, ‘do I want my pride or this relationship?’. The answer is always the relationship. Even with the pain of confronting my own sin. It’s worth it.

The pain of an appendectomy relieves the pain of appendicitis. Both hurt. One is an indicator of illness, the other is the cure.

Being Misunderstood

I read the words and conviction swelled in my heart. I heard a story from a friend in 2008, and allowed my perception of another person to be affected.

It turns out, the story was only partially true, and the part that wasn’t true completely changed the part that was.

I had spent 12 years misjudging someone.

I’ve shared a lot of stories. I don’t share as many these days. Partly because I’ve learned to curate them. Partly because, in the moment I want to share them, I don’t feel willing to offer my story at the altar of misunderstanding.

Being misunderstood is an inevitable reality of this life. Perhaps it’s a symptom of a fallen world, or maybe it’s just part of us all being slightly oriented in a different direction. We see the same story, but from a different angle, and draw a different conclusion.

Even when I believe I am communicating clearly, it’s possible to be misunderstood. How it is perceived isn’t only up to me, and isn’t only affected by me. In the same way that “beauty is in the eye of the beholder”, meaning is in the mind of the perceiver.

This propensity to misunderstand isn’t always the result of deliberate obtuseness. Or ill motive. It’s the result of different knowledge, feelings and experiences. Of viewing people through a simplistic lens. Of one small thing I know about them becoming the shade by which everything else is colored.

Trying to manage other people’s perceptions of me is exhausting and fruitless. It’s like setting a million eagles free and trying to control where they fly.

So, I’ve been intentionally allowing other people to misunderstand me. Remaining quiet when I feel tempted to clarify. Allowing myself to be unknown and unaffected by it.

The trick is to love anyway. It isn’t enough to hold my tongue. Remaining silent is not the objective, because it isn’t all about me.

During the time I would normally spend feeling unloved or trying to clarify, I spend intentionally seeing them as more than this one moment. Looking for things to love, trying to understand. Being curious about them.

Curiosity illuminates. Allows me to see complexity. Wholeness. To find compassion. To see people as God's children, instead of an enemy or competitor.

I’m not only misunderstood, I am also a misunderstander.

I can't control where the eagles I release go, but as an eagle I am in charge of where I fly. I don't want to waste another 12 years going in the wrong direction.

Plucked

Over and over I trusted the God who had plucked me from the darkness.

He called me, He would equip me. 

But after months of practice, I stumbled. 

Panic. 

The girl not to be trusted.

Incapable. 

Forgetful.

Girl who got pregnant before she was married and who would always be a loser. 

Rejected.

Unapproved of. 

Lost. 

And just like that, I located the most reliable person who could take up the reins,

trusted her, instead of God. 

It happened fast.

Automatic. 

Covert. 

Until God woke me up from my spiritual daze. 

He chose me. 

Me.

The girl not to be trusted.

Incapable. 

Forgetful.

Who got pregnant before I was married and who would always be a loser. 

Rejected. 

Unapproved of. 

Lost. 

But He called me. 

I wrestled the reins back and trusted the God who chose me to direct my steps. 

And He did. 

Sunflowers & Roses

Sunflower hands catch falling Rose petals

Grunt. groan. sweat. tears. 

Laboring to attach fallen rose petals to my Sunflower face

Aching for love. Longing to be lovely. Wishing I were as beautiful as she. 

I must be her. 

She is loved. 

She is lovely. 

She is a vessel by which men convey their love. 

I must make her beauty stick to my plainness.

I labor to no avail.

It doesn’t work. 

They won’t stick.

Nobody is fooled. 

A sunflower will never be a rose. 

Falling rose petals perish on the floor.

Hands no longer grasp for their beauty.. 

They won’t love me. 

I’m a sunflower, not a rose. 

And then, 

He picked me. 

He chose my beauty to convey His love.

I don’t have to be red. Or smell like a rose. 

He made me just the way He wants me. 

Her place doesn’t overshadow or nullify mine.

We both bring joy. 

We both belong in the garden. 

I love my yellow petals, green leaves.

I stand tall, turn my face to the Son, 

And bask in the light of the one who 

Thought this world needed my sunflower beauty,

Even though it already contained hers. 

Consuming Belief

Consumed by

doing things to please other people. 

earning their favor. 

manipulating them into giving me what I need.

I misunderstood 

my relationship 

with God 

other people.

It's called codependency.

I believed that 

if I just did the right things, 

in the right order, 

at the right time 

with the right people...

if I could just get all of that right,

God would love and save me.

It doesn't work that way. 

I'm never going to

do all the right things 

in the right order 

at the right time 

with the right people 

all the time. 

Salvation is based on my faith and God's grace. 

Not 

how often I pray 

the things I do to earn His favor.

the opinions of other people.

I love my children based on our relationship.

Not how well they behave

Or what they accomplish

The things other people say about my children doesn’t affect my relationship with them. 

Compliments are nice

Criticism is an opportunity for improvement.

I know my children. I know who they are. Feedback from others doesn’t change what I know about them or who they are.

God's opinion of me doesn't change based on how others feel about me. 

He knows my heart. 

When someone complains about me, they are not giving Him new information. 

He knows my heart. 

He doesn’t believe falsehoods, or change His opinion based on theirs.

He knows my heart.

If God’s opinion and actions cannot be swayed by the compliments or criticisms of others, why should mine be? 

Manipulate

The knowledge to simply say what I felt, eluded me. 

Every word a manipulation to wrestle my needs from the clutches of what I believed were hands unwilling to relinquish them.

Fear drove my communication . . . 

of rejection.

of being unloved.

Fear that my unspoken beliefs would be confirmed as true. 

  of being weak. 

In denial of these fears. 

My life would be made up of a string of gossip, assumptions, judgment.

Sarcasm. 

Passive aggressiveness.

Shallowness.

Drama.

Relationships stale.

Fragile.

Painful.

Dysfunctional.

Confusing. 

And then . . . 

I learned that 

directness is a virtue. 

I can say what I feel.

How they respond is a reflection of them, not me. 

And . . . 

to say what I feel . . . I have to know what that is. 

So . . .  “think about what I am thinking about.” 

Honestly.

Deeply. 

“What is in a man’s heart flows from his lips”

Diseased communication comes from a diseased heart.

Change my heart, Lord. 

Pride to humility.

Fear to trust.

Approval seeking to God seeking.

Avoiding to peacemaking.

Until “the meditation of my heart and the words of my lips are pleasing in Your sight.”