to the little girl I used to be

 

To the little girl I used to be who looked on while she wasn't chosen, 

I choose you. 

To the little girl I used to be who lied to get attention,

you have mine, and you don't need to earn it. 

To the little girl I used to be who acted impulsively and often regretted it,

you're not the only one, and it's okay. 

To the little girl I used to be who felt left behind and unpreferred,

it wasn't your fault and had nothing to do with you. 

To the little girl I used to be who was told to shut up,

please keep talking. I want to hear what you have to say.

To the little girl I used to be who needed reassurance and lost the friend when she asked,

it's okay to need reassurance, it's okay to take up space, you didn't mess things up. 

To the little girl I used to be who was pinched by the big girl,

I know that hurt and I'm sorry. 

To the little girl I used to be who did the same thing to another girl,

I forgive you, and I love you.

To the little girl I used to be who was called a dog and treated like trash,

don't believe them. 

To the little girl I used to be whose clothes weren't good enough,

beautiful flowers don't need pleasing frocks to wear. 

To the little girl I used to be who promised herself she would be "somebody" to prove all the people, who thought she was nobody, wrong,

you have nothing to prove. 

To the little girl I used to be who spent hours hiding in her bedroom pretending the people she knew thought she was something special,

you already are something special, even if other people didn't notice.

To the little girl I used to be who felt unloved, lonely and depressed,

you are worthy of love, attention and friendship. You don't need to lie. 

To the little girl I used to be who thought she was too fat, too ugly, too evil, too stupid and too needy,

you aren't. 

To the little girl I used to be who did things she wasn't proud of because she felt desperate for love, connection and feeling cared for, 

Ah, to you sweet girl, words are not enough. To this precious girl I used to be, I give my compassion, endless overt affection and delight, and all the forgiveness that a daughter of the woman at the well is due. 

To the little girl I used to be: You are beautiful and sweet and lovely and pure and smart and fun. You have ADHD, which explains the impulsiveness and propensity to lie. You did what you thought you needed to do in the moment to get the love, connection, and attention you needed. That doesn't make you evil, it makes you human. There is nothing wrong with you. You are a normal little girl. I love you, and I forgive you for the lies you told. But more than that, I accept you. I see you, and I think you are the coolest. 

The Trap

Locked in a room I don't want to be in, 

searching diligently for a way out,

I lied, but the door locked tighter,

My face grew hard and I pretended not to care,

but the walls pressed in. 

I silenced my voice, but the door remained locked. 

I was vigilant for opportunities to be nice,

but still the lock persisted.

The longer I've remained stuck, 

the smaller I've tried to become,

the less I've tried to need, 

the quieter I've learned to be,

the slighter I've shared the real me,

until the only person who knows I exist is the man who shares my life and bed.

None of it worked. 

No matter what I did, the doors remained closed. 

The more I tried to solve the problem, the more it stayed the same. 

I could hear the crowd outside laughing and enjoying a party, 

but I was locked inside. 

I can't remember when or how I came to be trapped,

and I can't remember whose fault it is. 

I've asked for and received help, 

but I was still trapped. 

I attended "How to get untrapped" meetings, 

but I was still trapped. 

I hired a professional de-trapper,

but I was still trapped. 

I wrote in my journal, 

but I was still trapped.

I've gone for a walk, taken cold showers, and seen my doctor,

but I'm still trapped. 

I've become a pro at processing feelings, 

stopped telling lies and 

grown in a million ways . . . but I'm still trapped. 

But I'm still trapped inside this closet. 

Is it my life's work to get out of being trapped?

To be the person God intended me to be?

Or is it my life's work to figure out how to make the best of being trapped?

I don't know.

My next step is to cut off one of the things that I think is keeping me stuck. 

It feels like I'm getting closer to be free.

Grief is Not Jealousy

We've never been close,

They belong in a sea of people,

I am other than,

Bound by blood that isn't thicker than water,

We share freckles, lineage and passiveness. 

It's not jealousy, or greed. 

Grief. 

Grief at the reminder of my otherness. Grief that I am once again not chosen. 

Like a blade of grass under a magnifying glass on a bright, sunny day, my soul is singed by knowing. 

I am found wanting. 

I'm not a preacher, or a preachers wife. 

I'm not a baseball player, or a fisherman,

I'm not a neighbor, or a nurse. 

I’m just me. 

A singer and a poet.

A dreamer and a grower.

A binger and a loser.

I'm just me.

A flawed human being. 

A wildflower basking in the sun. 

A try hard and a people pleaser.

A rebel and a liar. 

I'm just me. With the blood that isn't thicker than water, freckles and otherness.

And I'm okay. Unchosen and unknown. Grief is human, and okay. 

Praise God that human choosing isn't a factor in His choosing.

The Branch

Following years of hanging on, I slipped and fell

from the cliff that had been threatening to consume me.

In terror I grasped for anything to break my fall,

I found Their Branch. 

They held me there in safety. 

With white knuckles and eyes clinched shut,

I clinged to Their Branch,

grateful for it's strength and protection,

for peace and quiet after years of turmoil and strife

For space to confess and confront my sin.

Until one day, I started to choke, flail and gasp for air

I opened my eyes to discover water rising

I was going to drown. 

This also came with another stark revealing,

my feet were on the ground,

they had been on the ground for a long time,

but I had continued to hold onto Their Branch, with white knuckles and eyes clenched shut,

even though it was time for me to stand on my own. 

I didn't have to drown, 

I could walk away. 

But I wasn't alone there, 

The soul knitted to my own had to go with me.

So I waited, as I continued to choke, flail and gasp for air. 

With heavy hearts we walked away. 

From our support system,

The support that had seen us through trials, 

and the laying aside of the sin that was entangling us.

The community who prayed with us, 

held our hands, taught us how to break patterns, 

who donated their skill and labor to replace the shag carpet in our home.

But had also kept us stuck. 

As we walked away and I could breath again, 

I sifted through what remained

some wreckage, some fruit, some . . . unlabeled debris,

the emotional fallout,

to find the truth.

It has felt like walking alone through a haunted forest by moonlight,

trying to decipher truth from malevolent shadow,

finding brightly lit homes where the people around me connect, 

but I am left standing outside wondering how to get in. 

Doing the right thing doesn't exclusively feel good, 

or lead to connection, 

but it is still the right thing. 

So I put one foot in front of the other, 

and trust that either in this world or the next, 

The truth will be clear and the shadows will be gone. 

A Poem of Lament

To start this series from the beginning, click here.

Alone in the wilderness,

I built a fire, constructed a shelter 

and surrendered to life there

waiting for my name to be called through the trees. 

Utterly alone, 

I thought I heard a voice, 

my name being called through the trees,

saying it's time to go home. 

It was a sound mirage, 

So I've learned to live life alone in the wilderness

Slowly building a life there,

surrendered to what is. 

I don't know if I will ever hear that voice, 

the one telling me I'm safe, and it's time to go home,

My soul hovers in the middle place,

between despair at being lost in the wilderness and trusting that I will eventually make it home. 

Like a Bubble Boy, I exist in the invisible wilderness bubble,

I see other people, but I'm alone there. 

I hear other people, but I'm alone there. 

I speak to other people, but I'm alone there. 

I am spoken to, but I am alone there. 

And that's the worst kind of alone.

But this I know,

He who formed the trees I rest in,

and built me in my mother's womb,

Hears my voice as it calls His name through the trees.

The God who brought me to this place, will take me home. 

Grief: Not Belonging

I don’t belong, but it isn’t anyone’s fault. Not theirs. Not mine. I just . . . don’t belong. They aren’t my people and I’m not theirs.

And that's okay. But sometimes it's not.

I've learned that they know. They know I don't belong. There is a cognitive and verbal acknowledgment that I am "other". I am left out, and left behind in favor of others. 

I accepted this abandonment based upon the premise that it wasn't intentional, that they didn't know what they were doing. 

Questions surface within my heart about what their knowing means about me. What is wrong with me? 

Shame overwhelms me. I have caused this. I must be unworthy of love.

And then the truth bursts in like a cowboy in a saloon. It began long before I could have had any culpability in it. 

The truth is that it has nothing to do with me. The preference for others is not about me. It can't be, because they don't know me well enough to make that judgment. This assignment of otherness isn't based upon some characteristic of mine that is found wanting. It's based upon a lack of knowledge. 

So, what now?

Acceptance. 

Even if they know they prefers others, they probably don't know what this has done to me. They probably don't know that this has left me alone and vulnerable. They don't know that like a sheep left behind in a wilderness, I was taken out by the roaring lion seeking to devour me. 

Even if they know there is favoritism, they don't know what it has cost me. And they don't know what it has cost them. 

So, I accept what is. I forgive them for the favoritism, and I forgive myself for the things I did when I was vying for their affection. 

I don't belong, and I don't know whose fault it is. It isn't theirs, and it isn't mine. I just . . . don't belong. 

How Bad Marriage Counseling Helped Save our Marriage

(I'm sharing this with Michael's permission.) 

It felt excruciating, and I couldn't see past the current circumstances. 

Each time my mind would run the gamut of possibilities, and I tried each one on. I imagined what it would be like and feel like to take whatever steps I saw as possible. What would it be like to get a divorce? 

I didn't allow myself to just think of the relief of not being linked to this person anymore. I imagined the hard things. I imagined sending my children off to spend the weekend with their dad and some other woman. 

As I allowed myself to explore the possibilities, I always came back to "the best possible scenario is making this work". And if I am going to make this work, I'm not going to settle for making it work. I'm going to make it good. 

I did that for years before he really started making an effort to change things. For years, I was the one reading books. I was the one trying to get better. 

And the truth is, with only me working with intention, our marriage got exponentially better. 

Even when we went to marriage counseling after being married for 13 years, when the counselor asked us to each rate our marriage, Michael rated our marriage much higher than I did.

He didn't know what marriage could be like, he thought that not fighting was the limit of what marriage could be. He didn't know that we could live in intimate communion. And honestly, I didn't yet know what it could feel like and what it could be. 

Funny enough, bad marriage counseling was the catalyst for a revolution in our relationship. The counselor unfairly blamed me for some of Michael's issues, and that triggered Michael to clearly see that I was not to blame. His drawing that conclusion helped me to understand that I wasn't to blame as well. This shift allowed me to let go of his part of things, and provoked him to step up his game. 

(Don't get me wrong. Originally, I was the source of a lot, and maybe MOST, of our problems. But I had been working so hard for so long that I had improved things as much as I could without him making the same commitment to the marriage. But even at this point in our marriage, I still blamed myself for everything.)

Here are some things we've learned:

1. A lack of conflict is not a sign that things are good. There is conflict in good marriages. The only way to have true communion is by showing up as our authentic selves. Being authentic can lead to disagreement, and that's okay. 

2. One person working on themselves can make a big difference in marriage. 

3. The first step to a good marriage is each partner working on themselves. This is more effective than pointing out the other persons faults. The only person I can change is myself. 

4. The most effective way to change my spouse is through prayer, doing my best to fulfill my own role, and honestly and lovingly communicating my needs and boundaries outside of moments of conflict. 

5. The best marriages have conflict. One or both partners are hungry, annoyed, triggered, tired, stressed, etc., sometimes and may not react in the absolute optimal way. It's okay to disagree, argue and have times that don't fit into Hallmark movies or "happily ever afters". It doesn't mean the marriage is bad. Maybe we need to work on things, However, we probably won't ever be able to work on it enough that there are absolutely never ever times when we disagree. 

For us, I think the benefits we received from bad marriage counseling is a very real manifestation of God working all things for the good of those who love Him and are called according to His purpose. He used bad marriage counseling to help us build a better marriage. I don't recommend bad marriage counseling. Get good counseling, but if it's not available to you . . . get what you can. 

 

Believable Love

Visits were marked by loud, emotive words expressing love and appreciation as she looked into my eyes. 

But the words just made me uncomfortable. I didn't believe them. They were counteracted by constant and pervasive criticism.

My waist size was too big, I argued with my brother too much, my posture was bad, I talked too loud, laughed too much, wore my hair the wrong way, didn't sing on key well enough, listened to the wrong music. The list could go on and on. I never measured up. 

The words of love faded in comparison to the criticism. 

As I found myself sending texts to my children declaring my love to them, I felt convicted. Do these words pale in comparison to my criticism? Do my kids feel the love I am declaring or do they roll their eyes in disbelief and discomfort?

As a mom, I've developed the habit of constantly scanning my environment for potential trouble. So I notice the problems with haste and precedence. Hairs out of place, disparity between how my children are dressed and how I think they should dress, rogue facial hairs, characteristics that I am afraid will be a stumbling block to relationships or acceptance by their peers, misspoken words with the potential to be misunderstood and lead to ostracization, habits that could be embarrassing. . . the list could go on and on.

I often characterize all of this as a mothers desire to see my children thrive, but honestly, some of it is my desire to be validated as a mom. I feel that how my children are perceived and accepted is a reflection of my own worth as a human being. 

This is something I'm working on. Letting my kids be who they are and detaching my self-worth from my children's successes and failures, or acceptance by society or people in our church family and community. I want to love them for who they are. I want my declarations of love to be believable because they are backed up by my actions and the larger context of our relationship. 

The End of the Dark Tunnel

 

Sunshine caresses my face, and seeps into my soul. 

After being lost in the dark wilderness, not knowing if I would ever find the way out, stepping into sunshine and civilization feels like the first sunny day after a winter of dark skies.

What began as a Dark Night of the Soul, turned into questioning my faith, myself and all the people in my life. It felt like being buried alive. Or lost at sea. 

I made a decision to stop deconstructing. To hold on. To be faithful. 

I made that decision over 2 years ago, but the Dark Night lasted until about a month ago. I spent over 5 years walking in the Valley of the Shadow of Death. Feeling alone and lost and unsure of whether hope was realistic. I lost most of my support system. 

Healing came in waves, or stages. The last year felt like I was on the cusp of something, but never quite getting there. A million revelations promised to end the Dark Night, but never quite did. 

About a month ago, I felt compelled to read my Bible. Not as an act of defiance to the Darkness, but as a way to know God. I began to feel connected to God in prayer again. Things I felt confused by, are now clear. 

There are a million shifts and repentances that I could recite as the catalyst to this change, but I couldn't tell you which one did the trick. The truth is, I doubt any of them did. Maybe I just needed revolution in my heart. Maybe this is what had to happen to get me from where I started to where God wants to take me.

I don't know. What I know is that I feel incredibly grateful. And relieved. 

22

 

Think of the happiest, longest married couple you've ever known. 

What do you know about them? 

I've sat at funerals and anniversary parties while people recounted all of the challenges that the long married couple had been through. 

What I've come to understand is, it is likely that none of us knows about the biggest challenges those people faced in their relationship. The hardest things I've been through in my marriage, most of the people in my life don't even know about. And when I share pieces of my own story with women who've been married a comparable amount of time or longer, they've been there too. 

Happy, long marriages are not devoid of the problems that drive other people to divorce. People in happy, long marriages work it out. Each partner grows, and the relationship flourishes and deepens. 

Don't fall for the lie that social media and society are telling us right now. 

I just came across an Instagram post that said something like, "If you have to look through your partners phone, you're in the wrong relationship." Eh, not true. Maybe there is work to be done. Some rubber to lay down on the road. Because, if I'm looking through my partners phone, I will probably be looking in my next partners phone too. The grass isn't greener or more well manicured on the other side of the fence. I'm not in the wrong yard because the grass I'm in is brown and overgrown. The grass is green where I water it and tend it. 

It takes two to make a marriage really flourish, but just one partner working can do a lot. 

I'm not advocating for staying in abusive situations. I'm saying that the world is full of reasons why my relationship isn't the "right one", but if I'm waiting for the right relationship - there isn't one. I have to make the relationship right. 

Cultivating the Older Woman/Younger Woman Relationship: A First Step

They lament the state of current music.

It happens in every generation. Older people rag on current music and extol the virtues of the music from their day. People my age are doing it currently. This has been happening since the beginning of time ad nauseam. I think this is a manifestation of the cycle of dysfunction between generations, and we miss opportunities to connect and collaborate when we participate in it.

While older generations are scoffing at and belittling younger generations, the younger generation is dealing with the mistakes that have been handed down by the older generation. The people in the older generation endlessly talk about how things were better in their day, while the younger people are living through the fallout of the older generations' flaws creating a toxic environment of pride and dismissal. 

Each new generation sees the flaws and mistakes of the ones before it and thinks they need to take over so they can save the world from the ills of the older generation. We reject elders and their advice because we see it as flawed and irrelevant.

However, eventually, the new generation becomes the elders. The old, new generation worked hard to do things differently than their parents, and to make changes. But guess what?! The world is still flawed and the new, new generation sees those flaws, blames the previous generations, and vows to do things differently. They reject the old, new generation as their elders seeing them as flawed and irrelevant. They think they've figured it out and that they need to take over so they can save the world from the ills of our generation....and on and on and on. 

It is an endless cycle of pride, defensiveness, contempt, stonewalling, and a whole lot of not listening. And it is perpetuated by all sides.

One of our family's favorite things to do is create Spotify playlists for road trips. We give them fun names and everyone in our family contributes to them. We listen to every song and don't complain about someone else's choice. We practice listening simply because someone we love enjoys that song . . . so we give it a real chance to become a song we enjoy too. Even if it never makes it onto a list of my favorites, I get to spend a few minutes looking into the soul of one of my family members and it provides an opportunity to show them how much I value them. And you know what? I've heard some amazing music that is now on my favorites list.  

I've learned that music that doesn't sound the same as it did in "my day" can be good too. And not all the music from "my day" was good anyway. The stuff that stands the test of time is good, but you know what?! There is a whole lot of music that gets forgotten about. 

There are both virtues and vices in all generations. Younger generations stand on the shoulders of older generations, and a lot of good is done with the ideas and energy of younger generations. But we get caught in this cycle and stop listening to each other and working together.

In my view, a first step to empowering older woman/younger woman relationships is acknowledging this cycle and intentionally stepping out of it.