Burnout Part Two

This is Part Two. Click here to go to Part One.

Pause for Context: Rewind to January 2018

As the relational issues at church continued, I found myself increasingly aware that something was wrong. I started noticing that I was being left out of things, and I could sense a change in the way some people were relating to me. I asked questions repeatedly, trying to understand what was happening. Usually, I was told that nothing was wrong or that I had taken sides with someone else in a situation. That wasn't true, but I kept trying to understand what I was missing. I remained open to the possibility that I was somehow responsible for what was happening. I questioned myself and tried to figure out what I needed to do differently.

At some point during all of this, Michael and I went out to dinner. I don't remember all the details of that evening, but I remember looking at each other and realizing that we felt completely alone. Our entire support system was on different sides of the conflict. The people we would ordinarily have turned to for support were involved in what was happening, and we didn't know where to turn.

I think sometimes it isn't necessarily the specific events that are the most damaging. It's the experience of being alone in them. It's not having a safe place to process what is happening, not knowing who you can trust, and feeling like you have to carry the weight of everything without anyone really seeing what you're going through.

Throughout those months and years, Michael and I had made a concentrated effort not to speak negatively about anyone or share our frustrations with other people. We wanted to handle things privately and respectfully. As a result, we didn't even realize that other people were experiencing similar things until very near the end of our time there. We had been trying so hard to protect relationships and maintain our integrity that we had become incredibly isolated.

By the fall of 2019, I quit everything. I stopped running Celebrate Recovery and stepped away from all the other roles I had played at church. The relational issues weren't getting better, and I was beginning to recognize something that was incredibly difficult for me to accept: no amount of work I did was going to earn my place there. I could keep showing up, keep serving, keep being helpful, keep trying to understand what I had done wrong, but I couldn't make myself belong somewhere there wasn't really a place for me.

I think that realization was particularly painful because so much of my life had been organized around being useful to other people. I had invested years of my time, energy, and heart into that community. I had built relationships, taken responsibility, and worked hard to make things better. I wanted to believe that if I just kept trying, things would eventually work out. Eventually, though, I had to acknowledge that I couldn't fix the situation by working harder.

That doesn't mean I had no responsibility in any of what happened. I have always wanted to remain open to examining my own part in things. But there is a difference between taking responsibility for yourself and believing you are responsible for fixing everything. I was beginning to understand that difference, even if I didn't have the language for it yet.

Eventually, the church leadership made some decisions that Michael couldn't follow, and we left. About nine months had passed between my decision to quit everything and our actual departure. It was a difficult season, and I think we were both carrying more than we knew how to process.

When COVID came along, I was furloughed from my job for two months. In some ways, it was an unexpected gift. I had already stepped away from so many of the responsibilities that had consumed my life, and suddenly I had nowhere I needed to be.

I deleted my social media accounts. I spent time with Michael and the kids. I spent a lot of time in our backyard, just lying in the sunshine and looking up at the sky. Sometimes I read books. Sometimes I journaled. Sometimes I didn't do anything at all.

I remember seeing other people using that time to bake sourdough bread, take on home renovation projects, and find all sorts of productive ways to spend their unexpected time at home. I was lying in my backyard staring at the sky.

I don't think I was particularly intentional about resting. I think it was just about all I could do. I was relieved to have a break from the responsibilities I had been carrying, but I was also deeply tired. I didn't have a list of projects I wanted to accomplish or a new hobby I wanted to develop. I just wanted to be.

Looking back, I think I needed that time more than I understood then. I had spent most of my life dreaming of being loved and accepted. I was drawn to characters like Anne Shirley and Maria von Trapp, women who weren't necessarily wanted or appreciated at the beginning of their stories but eventually found their people. They were seen, valued, and loved, and everything changed. I think I was always hoping for that kind of redemption arc in my own life. 

I wanted to be discovered. I wanted someone to see past all the things I believed were wrong with me and recognize something wonderful underneath. I wanted to find my people, to finally feel at home, and to stop wondering whether I was someone worth keeping around.

I think I believed Celebrate Recovery and that church might be that part of my story. I had found a place where I was needed, where I could contribute, where people trusted me and seemed to value what I had to offer. I said yes to so many things, perhaps partly because I loved the work, but also because I wanted so badly to belong. I wanted to believe that I had finally found the place where the story changed.

When that began to unravel, I think I lost more than a community and a collection of responsibilities. I lost the possibility I had attached to them. And by the time I stepped away from everything, I was exhausted. Not just tired from doing too much, but depleted from spending so much of my life trying to become someone who would finally be loved and accepted.

In that backyard, there was nothing to earn, no program to run, no church responsibility to fulfill, and no one waiting for me to make something happen. There was just me. I don't know that I knew what to do with that at first. I only knew that I didn't have much left to give.

In the fall of 2020, I enrolled in three basic college courses. I had started thinking about what I might do with my life going forward. I wanted to take the work I had done through Celebrate Recovery and the experience I had gained serving in the church and put it together into something I could actually earn a living doing. I was beginning to imagine a future where I could use those experiences and abilities in a different way.

We had also started attending a different church. Life was changing, and I was beginning to consider possibilities that hadn't been part of my plans before.

I don't think I understood then how much I was still carrying from those years. I was making decisions about my education and my future, but I was also coming out of a season in which I had lost a community, an identity, and much of the sense of belonging I had built my life around.

I was beginning again, although I don't know that I would have described it that way at the time.

Going back to school may not sound like burnout recovery, but in many ways, it was. It gave me structure. It gave me something to focus on and a reason to get up and move through each day. I had learned the value of taking things one day at a time through recovery, and that became important again. I didn't have to figure out my whole life or know what came next. I just needed to show up for the day in front of me.

At the new church, I didn't volunteer for anything. I just showed up. And for the first few years, that's pretty much how I lived. I volunteered for nothing. I took on zero new projects. I didn't volunteer at my kids' schools or look for ways to get involved in other people's lives. I did very little outside of the daily rhythms of our family. I just didn't have it in me.

I also began approaching relationships differently. I identified someone who seemed to have a personality similar to mine, and I asked her to be my friend. Yes, I literally asked her. We talked openly about some of the struggles we had experienced in friendships, and we each offered the other the reassurance we needed. We said things explicitly. We didn't leave everything to interpretation or hope that the other person would somehow know what we needed. That was a new experience for me.

I also spent time figuring out what kind of capacity I had for family relationships. I learned, through trial and error, how much of myself I could give in those relationships and what happened when I gave more than I had to offer. I began to recognize that loving people didn't mean I had to make myself endlessly available to them.

Honestly, burnout recovery looked a lot like grief.

I grieved the relationships I had craved but that had never materialized. I grieved the love I had always longed for but never really felt. I grieved the phone calls I waited for that never came and the texts I sent that never received a reply. I grieved that I was not chosen. I grieved being the scapegoat and the black sheep. And I grieved all the things I had done to cope with those experiences. I grieved the relationships that didn't seem to have room for me to grow, relationships that only seemed to have space for me when I played the loser. 

I think there was a lot to grieve because I wasn't just letting go of particular relationships or expectations. I was letting go of the hope that if I could just get things right, if I could just be enough, eventually I would receive the love and acceptance I had spent so much of my life pursuing. And I was letting go of the belief that I was a loser who didn’t deserve to be let in.

Eventually, a time came when I felt ready to volunteer again. I wanted to participate. I had something to give, and I had some capacity to give it. Since then, it has been a process of trial and error. A dance between volunteering for too much, recognizing when I'm trying to earn my place again, stepping back, regrouping, and eventually trying again.

I've become very protective of my time and space. I pay attention to my capacity in ways I didn't before. But I still find myself operating under that old belief sometimes: that if I just do enough, I'll be loved. I still catch myself trying to prove my value through what I contribute. I haven't arrived at some magical place where those old patterns no longer exist. It's a process.

I've come to really love the word becoming. It leaves room for the future without diminishing the present. It acknowledges that I am still growing, still learning, and still changing, without suggesting that who I am right now is somehow insufficient. I don't have to be finished. I don't have to have everything figured out. I can appreciate who I am today while remaining open to who I might become.

And maybe that's one of the most important things I've learned through all of this. I don't have to spend my life trying to arrive at some version of myself who is finally worthy of love and belonging. I can live this life, as the person I am, while I'm becoming.

I don’t have to wait for other people to acknowledge that I’ve grown. I don’t have to wait for the phone calls or for someone to create space for me. I belong even if nobody else acknowledges it, even when the phone calls don’t come or there appears to be no room. 

And I think that’s been the biggest piece of my burn out recovery and burn out prevention. I belong. And that’s the end of the sentence.

Burnout: The Slow Work of Healing and Coming Back to Myself Part One

    The path lay out before me like an ocean, with no horizon or clear viewpoint of another shore. I stood on the last bit of shoreline, facing the task of jumping into the water and finding my way without clear instructions or a map. 

    Traveling the path back from the Valley of the Shadow of Death has been long and arduous, and seven years later, I'm still walking it. 

        The truth is, I think I walked the road much longer than I was aware I was on it. Maybe I was already there and only became aware of my predicament 7 years ago. I'm not sure the answer to that question, but I am going to spend some time processing it all and putting the story down on paper. 

The Groundwork

    Approval and love felt like scarce resources to me for as long as I can remember. Even as young as three or four years old, I felt like a failure. I have a vivid memory from when I was around 5. My family of origin went on a trip, and when we returned, I remember recognizing the opportunity for a fresh start. I sat in church attempting to sit and behave perfectly and thinking that all the people around me would see me behaving so well and think, "wow! she's changed so much. Look how good she is now! She used to be bad, but now she's good." As though a 5 year old girl needed a transformation story! 

Through my adult eyes, 

1. I don't know what I saw in myself that I labeled as bad. I didn't get into trouble a lot. However, I had a vivid and consuming belief that I was bad, that I was failing, and that everyone I knew was disappointed in me. I sensed contempt and condemnation from everyone around me. I learned that the most I could hope for was tolerance and attention, even if the attention was negative.
2. I recognize that I saw my value as a product of other people's assessment of me. I placed the responsibility of my self-worth and self-concept squarely within the purview of other people. I think this belief shaped me well into adulthood. 

    A few events from early childhood fed these beliefs. Several instances of people rejecting me when I didn't have a clear understanding of why led me to believe that there was something wrong with me and I couldn't see it. That everyone else could see my vileness, even if I couldn't. The contempt and condemnation I sensed from everyone else pervaded my self-concept. Instances and periods of various kinds of abuse compounded this exponentially.

    I did well in school until fourth grade. I found validation and some acceptance through being exceptional at reading, writing, and math. But even now, I recognize that I always saw this as a scarce resource that I could lose at any time. And I did. I attempted to hold on to whatever attention I could through nefarious means that fed into my own beliefs that I was bad. I told everyone at school that I was several years older than I was. I made up a story that explained me being in the grade I was in despite my age. Looking back, this got me attention, but didn't serve the true agenda. 

    This might be where I began to mistake attention for approval and connection. I felt unlovable due to my badness. Approval and connection seemed out of my reach, so I settled for short-term attention to meet the need in the moment. What this truly achieved was the contempt and condemnation I learned to expect from everyone around me. It was a cycle that fed itself, and that I was unaware of.

    In fourth grade, I had my first male teacher. All of a sudden, it seemed like nothing I did was good enough. He would make me rewrite essays over and over, but I could never understand what he wanted from me. I didn't know what I was doing wrong. I remember one time in particular that he made me stay in from recess to rewrite something. I was confused and at a loss for what he wanted. I tried rewriting it, but he rejected that as well. So I copied the first essay in neater handwriting, and he accepted it. I took great pains to write it neatly because the first draft had not been sloppy. I truly could not figure out what he wanted from me. At the end of the year, this teacher presented me with an award at our monthly award ceremony. I still remember what he said about me, "she coasted at the beginning of the year, but she's really picked it up and is making effort now." I was shocked by his words because I could not tell I had ever been coasting or that my level of effort had changed. I had no idea what he was talking about. 

    This experience fed the belief that everyone else could see how bad I was, but I was blind to it. My own actions also fed the narrative that I was vile. I made up lies and acted impulsively in ways that alienated me and fed the contempt I felt from other people. I never intended to hurt or harm anyone else, but I recognize that sometimes my actions did hurt them. 

    A cycle played out in my life, at least in my own head and heart. Someone would "falsely" recognize goodness in me and like me, but then the true me would come out, and I would lose their regard. I spent a lot of time desperately grasping to hold onto their regard, but all of my attempts only served to expedite the loss of it. My attempts to hold onto it would often include doing things that, if I were thinking logically, I would have known would feed the narrative for them and me . . . that I was bad. 

    In my mid to late teens I kind of gave up. I tried to maintain the facade of normality, but I was anything but normal. It would have been like if the picture of Dorian Gray was visible to everyone but he went around acting as though it weren't. This is called denial. I was trying to maintain the appearance of normality while privately believing there was something fundamentally wrong with me.

    I knew that the things I was doing to manipulate the attention of other people were wrong, but I did not know how to function normally. I didn't know what was wrong with me. I had never been able to figure it out, so I had learned to use these coping mechanisms that fed the narrative and had become reliant on them. I didn't know how to function without them. 

    When you feel like garbage, you live like garbage. And that's what I did. I think giving up was actually a benchmark of burnout. I had worked so hard for so long to figure out what was wrong with me and try to pretend I was someone else so I could get someone to love me. I didn't have it in me to do much more than exist. 

    But I did more than exist. I had 5 babies in 4 years. The truth is, being pregnant gave people a reason to see me as valuable. I saw myself as valuable. Being pregnant was a task I could complete without much effort. The only trouble is, once the pregnancy was over, my responsibilities compounded. Responsibilities that I was not ready for and couldn't or wouldn't complete. I loved my kids, but I was not mentally or emotionally capable of taking on the responsibility of motherhood. 

    At various points, people tried to help me. But their help was like putting a bandaid on a gaping wound where my guts were spilling out of my abdomen. If I encountered my younger self now, I would call CPS. Not because I didn't love my kids. I did love them, and I wanted good things for them, but I wasn't capable of doing good for them. I needed a lot more help than someone coming over once a week and telling me how to be a good mom or babysitting once in a while. 

    At 28, I hit rock bottom. It's like all of a sudden I couldn't pretend anymore. The gaping wound where my guts were spilling out of my abdomen had reached a pivotal point. I either had to set down all of the beliefs I had had about myself that were killing me and live, or I could die. I chose to live. 

    I began a period of reformation and transformation by setting down the baggage and accepting that God loves me. It changed my life. I began to trust that God loved me, and if God loved me, then I must be valuable. It's like I shifted from living my life from the assumption that I am garbage and interacting with the world from a place of asking it to prove me wrong, to using the framework that I am lovable. That freed me up to produce love, beauty, and goodness. I started baking elaborate and delicious things from scratch. I felt completely at ease and in flow in my kitchen while producing something delicious, beautiful, and good for my family. I had fun with my kids. We rode bikes, went to the park, and I greeted them each day with cheer and pure delight. My capacity to meet their needs expanded.

    But once again, a cycle of things being good for a while until I messed them up, played out. This time, the fall was quick and harsh. The only thing that kept me alive during this period was the thought that if I committed suicide, I would break my kids' hearts, and I would not be able to comfort them or explain to them that it wasn't their fault. I became engulfed once again in the beliefs that I was garbage and that I was ruining my family's lives.

    I wasn't just experiencing another difficult period. I was experiencing it through the lens of a deeply entrenched belief system. And that belief system influenced the decisions I made about my family, my future, and my own life.

    We moved back to Texas when we did because I was singularly focused on getting my kids and my husband to my in-laws. I believed that I needed to get them to a safe place so they could get away from me, and I could stop ruining their lives. That old narrative that I was broken and incapable of goodness enveloped me. It's all I could see. I wasn't going to commit suicide for the reasons I previously stated, but I was going to drop them all off at my in-laws and then go and commit a crime so I would go to prison. I knew there was no way I would be able to go and live a happy life away from them, so I decided this was the best way to accomplish the goal. 

    When we got to Texas, it felt like a fresh start. We lived with my in-laws for a while. I was able to lean into the simple rhythms of taking care of my husband and kids. At the time, they were the house parents at a group home, and I was able to serve the young moms in a way that made me feel like I wasn't completely useless. I had fun with my kids, too. We took walks, went to the Perot Museum, and played games. 

    At this point, it became clear that I was not the only problem in my relationships, and that some of the things that had happened to me were not all in my head. Events involving my parents, brother, in-laws, and marriage began to show me that I wasn't the only flawed person in these relationships. I had always believed I was the problem, the one constantly dragging everyone down. It was difficult to begin considering that perhaps I wasn't responsible for everything that had gone wrong.

The Next Phase

   

    This created space for me to take responsibility for my part in things, but let go of what was not my part. I was primed for the next phase.

    I learned about Celebrate Recovery at a church we had previously attended. The situation was a bit fraught because my in-laws had recently left the church under tumultuous circumstances, so going there felt complicated. At the time, I felt like I was choosing between life and death, so I went anyway. 

    We walked through the doors, and it felt like being enveloped in love. Looking back, this should have been a red flag, but at the time, I needed that envelopment. I immediately became immersed in the culture of the church. We weren't even members of that church, but my life became centered on it. I felt loved and pulled into a community. I needed that community. I joined a group of praying mothers, we joined a weekly bible study group, I participated in large group Celebrate Recovery, as well as a step study. I started pastoral counseling and worked out with one of the pastors' wives. I joined everything I could. 

Some context: I joined Celebrate Recovery at this church in September 2014. But to understand what that welcome meant to me, I need to go back ten months, to December 2013.

At the time, we were living in California and visiting my in-laws in Texas. They were still attending this church, and there was an event happening while we were there. My husband and children were quickly enveloped by the congregation, but I found myself standing on the outside. I felt completely alone, as though nobody noticed or cared that I was there. I wandered around by myself and eventually left for a while. No one noticed I was gone.

At one point, the pastor's wife appeared to be waving at me from across the room. I was relieved. Maybe someone did notice me. Maybe someone was actually happy to see me. I waved back, only to realize as she approached that she was waving at someone behind me. She noticed my mistake, laughed, and continued toward the person she had intended to greet.

    I think I was so relieved that these people, whom I had always seen as better than me, suddenly seemed to want me around. If I had thought about it more logically, I might have noticed the contrast between this welcome and the way I had been treated ten months earlier. I might have questioned it instead of simply receiving it as the love and acceptance I had been longing for. But the truth is, I needed to be loved. I needed a reason to keep living. I needed people to think I was special and treat me that way. And I think that what some people may have intended for selfish reasons, God worked for my good.

    As I began to heal and thrive, I started noticing the people everyone seemed to value. They were people who did a lot. They were relied upon. They were trusted. They were valued.

    I wanted all of that, and so I began to take on projects. I began to be relied upon. I began to be trusted. 

    But something felt off. I felt the constant turmoil of the situation with my in-laws and the church we were going to. I quieted my intuition at various points to keep the peace. And there was conflict between my husband and the church leaders. 

    And it always felt like no matter how much I did, I was never as valued as other people. I was never on their level. So I worked harder. 

    Now, I want to be clear. I want to own my part in things. While I believe there were unhealthy dynamics at play, I was responsible for myself and taking on as many projects as I did. I was trying to earn love and respect by being useful. 

    It felt like there was no soft place to land. Everything was a lot of work. I had to earn my place in every context, and it never felt quite good enough. It felt like I was a hamster in a cage that only consisted of wheels to run on. Rest felt like just getting on another wheel and having a different viewpoint, but still working as hard. I was working full-time in a secular job and doing full-time work for the church. On top of having 5 kids, a husband, and my own spiritual and social life. 

    All of this was taking place while I was processing my past, identifying beliefs I had been operating under, and letting go of them. I was learning that my worth wasn't dependent on my performance, but I was still organizing my life around opportunities to demonstrate my worth. That doesn't mean my healing was insincere or that I wasn't making progress. It means that changing an internal belief and changing the behaviors and circumstances organized around that belief are two different processes.

    My life cycle of doing well for a while and then crashing happened again. This time it didn't culminate in suicidal ideation. I didn't see it as all my fault. It was just a recognition that I couldn't do it anymore. It was finally admitting all of the things I had ignored and refused to acknowledge. This also led me to doubt myself and my sanity. I had allowed myself to start to believe that I was worth something based upon how other people felt about me. I thought that if they thought I was lovable, maybe I was. I had begun to use other people's affection as evidence that my negative self-concept was wrong. But that meant my sense of worth was still dependent on their assessment. In a way, I had exchanged one external measuring system for another. 

Before: If people disapproved of me, it confirmed that I was bad.

After: If people approved of me, it suggested that I might actually be good. 

Neither system gave me a stable place to stand.

    It eventually became clear that they didn't actually think of me what they had claimed to. And I finally acknowledged that people I had considered my friends didn't see me as their equal. 

    I had quieted my intuition because I wanted it to work so badly. The truth is, in all bad relationships, there is some good. If there weren't, nobody would stay in bad relationships. 

    As the relationships began to deteriorate, I realized I could not continue to run on the hamster wheel. When I tried to step away, I was given guilt trips. It was a true growth moment when I recognized the manipulation and quit anyway. And quit everything I did. I barely went to church on Sunday. And even when I went to church on Sunday, I couldn't bring myself to occupy a seat. I stood in the back. 

    It felt like my whole world was collapsing. I questioned everything I had believed and everyone I had known. You can read about that more fully in my deconstruction posts. 

    And then Covid happened. I was furloughed from my job and spent two months in my house, laying in my backyard staring up at the sky. In some ways, this was a beautiful time. It gave me space to process what had happened while it all came crashing down on me. I read a book and learned the phrase Dark Night of Soul. It changed my world. It felt like being seen and understood for the first time. 

    I questioned everything. It still felt like there was no truly soft place to land, nowhere I could go and know that I would be loved and supported. I felt like my husband couldn't handle it because he didn't really have support either. We both had to grapple with what had happened, what parts we needed to own, and how we would move forward.

    I think it's important to acknowledge that this feeling of being alone wasn't new. I had felt alone for most of my life. If there were people who would have truly supported me, I didn't feel it or know it. I realize there are people who would say that supporting me was their role, and maybe that's true. At the time, I did not feel loved or supported by anyone other than Michael and our kids. 

Processing all of this and figuring out our next steps felt like disentangling strands of DNA with our bare hands. It felt impossible, overwhelming, and exhausting. And it felt like we were on our own. 

We left that church, went somewhere else, and I went back to school. 

In processing it all, I decided to figure out a way that I could combine the work I had done at Celebrate Recovery, the work I had done for the church and a secular job. I was still working full time and I started going to school full time as well. 

That may not sound like a logical way to heal from burn out, and maybe it was the long way to go. I'll explore that further in the next part. 

Picking Up the Millstone

 Once again, I feel burdened by the weight of it all. The questions about whether I am loved or safe or worthy. 

I didn't notice the moment I picked it up again, but at some point I realized I was carrying it. It isn't as simple as just setting it down again, sometimes it is a process. A routine I've done a million times before. 

I used to think growth meant 'happily ever after', that once I grew and learned what I needed to learn that I would never struggle with the same thing again. 

Alas, I am 44 years old and the only thing that is really clear to me is that is not how growth works. 

Spiritual growth is very much like being a new body builder. You experience massive gains at first, but as you become a seasoned body builder, the visible and massive gains slow down. It becomes more about tweaks. The same things remain important: nutrition, form and consistency but the outcome changes.

Spiritual growth seems to be like that. At first there is a massive shift, a 180 degree turn, but as I live a spiritual life the gains become less visible and trackable. The same things remain important: spiritual nutrition, form and consistency but the outcome shifts. I struggle with the same things over and over, I just get a little better, go a little bit longer without doing the unwanted thoughts or behaviors, spend less time making the mistake and discover my error sooner.

There are certain beliefs that I am prone to revert to. One is that I am unloveable, and that nobody, including God, loves me. 

It feels like a millstone around my neck. At various points in my life I have set that millstone down. But just as often I have felt exhausted and burdened, only to discover that at some point I had picked that millstone back up and am carrying it around. I am oblivious to the moment it began to weigh me down. I suspect it happens a little bit at a time, but I'm still in the process of learning when and how it happens.

Seeds become planted in my mind, and then I allow them to be watered and they begin to bear fruit. 

For now, I notice, I set it down, take a deep breath and enjoy the rest. 

Weird Grief

My paternal grandfather passed away a few days ago. 

He was 91, and ready to go. In that sense, I am completely at peace. I know my dad and his siblings are grieving, but I am a bit removed from the grief directly related to his departure. My grief is centered around knowing facts about my grandfather, but feeling as though I didn't really know him. 

I have spent a good portion of my life not living near my grandparents and, even when I was a child, there were no phone calls or letters. I spoke to them if I saw them, and that was it. 

My family of creation moved to live near my grandparents when our kids were small, and even though we were in close proximity, I didn't spend much time really getting to know my Papa. I know facts about him: he loved fishing, camping, and music. He lived an eventful life. When he was 15, he rode a motorcycle from Oregon to Texas without having an exact address of where he was going. Only a geographical proximity. 

The lack of knowing isn't a moral failing on anyone's part, and I'm not looking for anyone to blame. 

I knew someone for 44 years and still don't feel like I knew them, and they didn't know me. 

There is something strange about grieving a person you don't feel you know well enough to grieve.

I don't have a collection of small, ordinary memories that come to mind when I think of him. I don't have stories about conversations we had, things we did together, or the ways he shaped my understanding of the world. I have facts, stories I've heard from other people, and a handful of memories that belong to my experience of him rather than to a relationship we built together.

I know things about his life, but I don't know what it felt like to be him.

I know he loved fishing, but I don't know what he thought about while he sat beside the water. I know he rode a motorcycle across several states as a teenager, but I don't know what prompted him to do it or how he felt when he arrived. I know some of the things he did, but I don't know the thoughts, fears, hopes, and experiences that made those things meaningful to him.

There is a whole person in those spaces between the facts.

The truth is, I don't know if he liked me very much. And I guess that's what feels the most tender. While he did a lot for me monetarily and I believe he was a good man, I don't feel confident that he thought I was special or felt any real affinity for me.

I'm not angry, it's just something I've felt for a very long time and never admitted. 

I wish I knew whether there was a version of our relationship that might have felt different to both of us.

But I don't.

He was my Papa for 44 years. I am grateful for the things he gave me, and I can recognize the good man he was without pretending we had a closeness that we didn't.

I think I am grieving the things I never knew, the things I never felt certain of, and the opportunity to find out.

I don't know if that is a strange way to grieve someone. But it is how I am grieving him.

They Didn't Choose Me, and That's Okay

The explanation seemed reasonable. 
Until it didn't. 

My heart formed the real and radically honest confession. 
They didn't choose me. 
They could have. It would have made sense. But they didn't. 

A long-embraced intention felt torn from our grasp.

Anger and resentment feel less vulnerable than grief. They are wrong for not choosing me feels easier than "they didn't choose me, and I feel hurt". 

Sitting in the vulnerability of what it means that they didn't choose me could overwhelm me if I allow it to. 

More than the pain of being left behind, I am afraid of what it means. And those are the fears and thoughts I have to keep an eye on. 

Maybe they have a reason for not choosing me. Maybe I'm too awkward. Maybe I'm too fat. Maybe they just don't like me for some other reason. I don't know the reason. 

Even though it doesn't feel okay, it is okay for them to not choose me. 

They are not required to choose me. I don't know why they didn't choose me, and it probably isn't wise for me to spend a lot of time trying to figure it out. 

Ultimately, their reason is about them. And that's the truth that is hard to embrace. 

It's not my fault. It doesn't mean something is wrong with me. 

I'm not their people, and they aren't my people, and that's okay. 

I choose to bear the weight of grief. 

Anger, resentment, and shame are too heavy a load to bear.

They Allowed Me to Be Broken

 They Allowed Me to Be Broken

There was no space for my brokenness.
Other people's wounds mattered more.
Mine were labeled as my fault,
and therefore unworthy of help,
unworthy of healing.

I broke the leg of my soul. 

The soul-bone both shattered and tore through the soul-flesh.

I needed multiple surgeries and a long convalescence.

I gritted my teeth and walked on it,
because everyone else seemed to need
and deserve nurture more than I did.

It felt as though no one cared.
My identity erased my permission
to be wounded,
to be broken,
to be flawed.

So I lived with a shattered soul-leg,
dragging it through years of pretending.
The wound festered.
Infection spread.
What could have been set and healed
became something far more dangerous.

The stench and the pain became unbearable.
consumed my thoughts
and shaped my every step,
until relief mattered more
than staying where I had always been.

So I walked through the doors.

They asked me to sit down.

They looked at my broken, putrid soul-leg
and responded–not with disgust,
not with dismissal,
but with compassion.

They allowed me to be broken.

And I needed that.

They didn't see a preacher's kid
who should know better.
They didn't see the girl
who had to make everything look fine.
They didn't assume I was okay
because of where I came from.

They saw the wound.

They allowed me to be broken.

And I needed that.

They didn't pass me by
for someone who looked more obviously injured.
They didn't minimize it.
They didn't ignore it.
They didn't tell me it was my fault.
They didn't shame me.
They didn't tell me it was all in my head.
They didn't rub dirt on it
and call it healed.

They allowed me to be broken.

And I needed that.

Instead, they knelt beside me.

They cleaned the wound
that I had spent years hiding.
They showed me that pain acknowledged
can finally begin to heal.

They allowed me to be broken.

And I needed that.

They acknowledged my wounds
and taught me that I was worthy of healing.
They showed me that the Great Physician
had never turned away from me.
He had always been willing,
always been ready.

And I needed that.

They helped me understand
that my brokenness
did not disqualify me from being healed.

They allowed me to be broken. 

And because of that, I began to heal.

A Real Life Bible Story

 11 years ago, I got a job as a file clerk in an office. All I had to do was know my A, B, C’s and place the files accordingly. Walking in every day became a process of tensing every muscle in my body, bracing myself for the sound of my name. For an angry voice to tell me I had done something wrong. I felt terrified because I thought I was too dumb to hold a job. A job that a 5-year-old could likely do...I thought it was too much for me.  

There are so many versions of myself that would be flabbergasted that I have completed my Master of Science in Marriage and Family Therapy degree. 

I remember telling people that I was going to be a marriage counselor when I was 16, but 16-year-old me and every version of myself between now and then weren’t ready to do the work. 

One of my very favorite people in Scripture is Abraham. What I really love is the beautiful way God fathers him. God takes him from a man who struggles to take even a step in congruence with His instructions to someone who trusts Him so deeply that, when God tells him to sacrifice his son, Abraham doesn’t just declare his faithfulness; he walks it.

I would never compare myself to Abraham, but I feel like God has walked with me in a similar way. He has fathered me beautifully. Sometimes, it feels like I’m experiencing a real-life Bible story.

He has taken me from a girl who was broken, believed she couldn’t be loved, was suicidal, and couldn’t tell the truth to save her life…to a girl who is still broken but healing by God’s grace, is grateful to be alive, and tells the truth radically.

From a girl who couldn’t stick to anything to a woman who maintained an A average over six years of school and has been happily married for almost 25 years.

I don’t tell you this to brag. I want to communicate what a miracle all of this feels like to me.

This isn’t a happily-ever-after story. Life doesn’t work like that. This is more like one of those vista points where you stop to look back over where you’ve been, take in the view, and then keep going because there’s still more to do.

“He who began a good work in me will bring it to completion…”

Is There Room at the Table?

I approach the table; one or two people look up and smile, then go back to their tasks. I feel unwanted and unwelcome, so... 

I find an empty table and sit down alone. 

I feel lonely and unloved. 

So I am determined to join the crowd.

I approach the table. Someone says ‘hello’ and then goes back to their task. I lose my nerve when I feel unwanted and unwelcome again, so... 

I find an empty table and sit down alone.

Once again, I feel lonely and unloved, but convinced I don’t belong at the table. 

I feel lonely and unloved, but tell myself that the people sitting at the table just aren’t demonstrative and their reaction isn’t about me. 

And then I see someone else come into the room. 

Several people look up, scoot over, and pull up a chair for the new person. 

I feel stung, and see this as evidence that, at least to some degree, it IS about me. 

It is me they don’t want. 

I spend years examining myself, trying to figure out what is wrong with me,

Why don't the people at the table want me there? 

I morph and change, trying to become someone like the people at the table. 

Maybe if I’m like them, they will want me there. 

With each change, I approach the table only to experience the same reactions as before. 

Until finally, I stand up, take my chair to the table, pick a random spot, ask the people sitting there to scoot over, and sit down. 

I’m sitting at the table. I belong here. 

And I ask them to keep moving over, bring in a new chair, and watch for the next person to enter the room. 

I am determined that nobody else will walk into the room and feel unwelcome.