I've hesitated to write this post for awhile, though I think my ministry posts elude to a lot of what I have to say already. In my former life, the church was a big part of my identity and my faith process. I knew that my love affair with ministry fueled my own issues (my need for approval, my comfort zone of only being with fellow Christians, my need to be above reproach [this is Bible-speak for looking like a good person all the time], my need to be on the top of the heap [church is a hierarchy], and more) but I also knew that those ugly truths were in bed with the good stuff too (I honest to goodness cannot fake anything, so all appearances of commitment, love of God, goodness, belief in others, boundless energy for service were real). I didn't know how to separate my love for God with my love for ministry. Many people cannot see the absolute need to do such. I think we want to justify good behavior that comes from our own sinking holes of need because we think good behavior leads to good things regardless of motive. There's even something in the Bible to that effect (something about Paul saying that preaching Christ has value even if it's coming from a bad source). Plus, when we put all our hopes (and more importantly, the church's future) into our ability to do good things, how else can we move forward, knowing that all of us have coexisting good and bad motives?
It's hard for me to admit publicly that I'm not going to church. I fear, as all of us with ministry baggage do, that my story may serve as a discouragement or may be used as endorsement for all choices remotely similar to mine. I have secret fears of how this will affect my children. (I also simultaneously fear what the church would teach my child if she were there). I expect that some (many) will write me off as someone who has fallen away (lost their faith) or who does not keep my commitments (something I really disrespect). I want to clarify that within myself, I am really proud of my choices and am open to telling my story to certain people who I trust and respect, knowing that it's largely possible that they will understand where I'm coming from. But to admit this publicly, ONLINE, is a totally different thing.
I've worked hard to protect my "sacred space" (which oddly, sounds sexual, but not what I'm referring to). I define this as my soul, my theology, my self-concept, my heart. I am impressionable. I cannot be a part of a group and not identify with its larger story. Some of the lessons I am working to undo from my lifetime in church are essential to my personal faith process (saying no, embracing my humanity, putting myself in the shoes of the downtrodden versus the saviors, listening to my voice, taking risks, focusing on what I have in common with "the world", relinquishing anything that reeks of entitlement or consumerism, refusing to believe that everything has a solution or one "right" answer and that I know those things). This makes the church environment a great source of temptation for me. I immediately fill my calendar, gain approval, show my niceness, and find incriminating things in my heart to feel guilty and shameful about and set to work on self-improvement.
I live in hope that one day, when I'm MUCH less bitter and able to set firm boundaries in said environment, I will be able to be a part of a church. I have no idea what my future church looks like. For the last 3 years, my church has looked like my living room and my fellow parishoners are my female friends. I am very selective about who I allow into that sacred space now. I look for women who are open, honest and actively struggling in some shape or form. I am a big fan of people who are "in process."
I imagine some people would read this and roll their eyes. Like, what is the big deal? So you don't go to church. Most people don't. Why is this shameful or embarrassing? But with my background, this is a big deal. Is it possible that the church sound system is so loud that we can't hear God? Could it be true that the group mentality is speaking in direct contradiction to what I personally need to be doing in my life? I'm learning to set better boundaries to where the church may one day be a safe place for me to share my soul again. But for now, this sojourner is keeping company with just a few.
Tuesday, September 30, 2014
Tuesday, September 9, 2014
The Story Within The Story
As a perfectionist, I want to categorize everything, particularly as "good" or "bad." Today would have typically been categorized as "bad." I woke up with a migraine and two small children that needed my care. I was able to get Macy off to school okay, but once it was just me and Penny, the adrenaline wore off and I started throwing up. Today is, by the way, the second time in a month that I've been alone with Penny and vomiting from a migraine. I've been working on my migraines my whole life, my most recent effort being a major diet overhaul. So, on top of the pain and nausea, there is a sense of soul-sucking frustration and defeat. I want to feel good. I want to have energy. I want to live my life the way I see fit without always having to think two steps ahead of my body's reactions.
That's the big story of my day. Feeling terrible for most of the day. Being exhausted and discouraged. Missing my husband. Feeling sorry for myself. But the story within the story was this: I am loved. I am not alone. My friend Amy came at the drop of a hat and took Penny to play at her house with just one text from me. That gave me several hours alone to recoup. My friend Jenna knew I wasn't well (we had plans I had to cancel) and left me homemade hot soup (that I can actually eat with my food intolerances!) on my door step right when I felt really hungry. I found out that my best friend in San Diego was having a terrible day and the encouraging book I had bought her on amazon arrived at just the right moment. Once I was well enough to get outside, I realized it was a gorgeous day. I even got to watch my kids play outside with the neighbors for awhile.
And while I can't say today was great, I'm trying to pay attention to the story within the story. In life, perfectly wonderful days (and their counterpart, perfectly ghastly ones) are few and far between. But are there beautiful moments within a terrible day? There are and I don't want to miss them. They make a difference. They tell us something about our lives. For me, friendship has always mattered greatly. So it is no surprise to me that on a day that I feel pain and isolation, my life would reap the rewards of genuine friendship. I'm so grateful for the people in my life.
I hesitated to write this post because I don't want to minimize the truly terrible days. I hate it when people make me feel bad for feeling bad about something that really is to its core, bad. But maybe, after we've already decided we're having a terrible day, we miss a moment of good, a moment where our values and our lives are being reflected back to us. For me, today that means that while my health is unreliable, my friends are not. And that's all the good I needed to feel like I can make it another day.
That's the big story of my day. Feeling terrible for most of the day. Being exhausted and discouraged. Missing my husband. Feeling sorry for myself. But the story within the story was this: I am loved. I am not alone. My friend Amy came at the drop of a hat and took Penny to play at her house with just one text from me. That gave me several hours alone to recoup. My friend Jenna knew I wasn't well (we had plans I had to cancel) and left me homemade hot soup (that I can actually eat with my food intolerances!) on my door step right when I felt really hungry. I found out that my best friend in San Diego was having a terrible day and the encouraging book I had bought her on amazon arrived at just the right moment. Once I was well enough to get outside, I realized it was a gorgeous day. I even got to watch my kids play outside with the neighbors for awhile.
And while I can't say today was great, I'm trying to pay attention to the story within the story. In life, perfectly wonderful days (and their counterpart, perfectly ghastly ones) are few and far between. But are there beautiful moments within a terrible day? There are and I don't want to miss them. They make a difference. They tell us something about our lives. For me, friendship has always mattered greatly. So it is no surprise to me that on a day that I feel pain and isolation, my life would reap the rewards of genuine friendship. I'm so grateful for the people in my life.
I hesitated to write this post because I don't want to minimize the truly terrible days. I hate it when people make me feel bad for feeling bad about something that really is to its core, bad. But maybe, after we've already decided we're having a terrible day, we miss a moment of good, a moment where our values and our lives are being reflected back to us. For me, today that means that while my health is unreliable, my friends are not. And that's all the good I needed to feel like I can make it another day.
Sunday, September 7, 2014
Leavin' on a Jet Plane...
Tim and I have a long history with goodbyes. When I finally bit the bullet and locked that boy down in a committed relationship, it was 3 weeks before I moved to Ireland for 13 months. I was 21 and he was 23. We were virgins, if you can believe it! We were SO IN LOVE. Poetry, public sobbing, hours and hours of phone calls, hand-written love letters, clinging to each other in airports til the last possible minute - we were that young couple.
We flew back and forth across the world to get a few days together every few months. I moved to Dublin in July. He came to visit in September. I flew home to San Diego for Christmas and he flew me up to the Northwest to meet his family. He came to Dublin and proposed in March. I flew home again in May to find wedding locations and attend our first date buddies (we doubled at Disney) wedding in Oklahoma. I was home for good in August. We got married in a huge church wedding in January and were off to Vancouver, WA in March.
Yes, it was a whirlwind. We were only officially a couple and in the same room for 6 weeks before we were engaged. But for us, we knew this was IT on our very first date. We didn't get together right away (I had just committed to moving to Dublin - not the best timing ever) but our eventual coupling was absolutely inevitable. The momentum was building and we just hopped on for the ride of our lives.
As you can imagine, almost 10 years of marriage, 2 kids, 6 years of ministry, and physical and mental health challenges later, a lot has changed. Sometimes being together is hard. Not because our relationship is hard but because life is hard. And any forever relationship will be subject to the difficulties of life, no matter how tightly you hold onto each other.
Tim and I just said goodbye. He's going on a much-needed solo road trip to visit some friends now before his work life gets too busy.
As the time drew to a close, we woke up the kids. I made him breakfast to go. We took pictures. We hugged and kissed again and again. We professed our love. Finally, he got in the car and drove away waving to me. And you know what? As much as life has changed, it really, really hasn't. My heart fit right back into that groove of loss without him. I shed a few tears. I hugged my kids. And I felt like I really needed to write this post, just to capture that feeling. That oh so familiar feeling. It feels like when you get on a boat and it takes a few minutes to get your sea legs. You're wobbly and disoriented. It's physically obvious to the people around you that you're off your game. Of course, you adjust and adapt to the movement of the boat. But you don't feel really right until you're on dry land again.
We flew back and forth across the world to get a few days together every few months. I moved to Dublin in July. He came to visit in September. I flew home to San Diego for Christmas and he flew me up to the Northwest to meet his family. He came to Dublin and proposed in March. I flew home again in May to find wedding locations and attend our first date buddies (we doubled at Disney) wedding in Oklahoma. I was home for good in August. We got married in a huge church wedding in January and were off to Vancouver, WA in March.
Yes, it was a whirlwind. We were only officially a couple and in the same room for 6 weeks before we were engaged. But for us, we knew this was IT on our very first date. We didn't get together right away (I had just committed to moving to Dublin - not the best timing ever) but our eventual coupling was absolutely inevitable. The momentum was building and we just hopped on for the ride of our lives.
As you can imagine, almost 10 years of marriage, 2 kids, 6 years of ministry, and physical and mental health challenges later, a lot has changed. Sometimes being together is hard. Not because our relationship is hard but because life is hard. And any forever relationship will be subject to the difficulties of life, no matter how tightly you hold onto each other.
Tim and I just said goodbye. He's going on a much-needed solo road trip to visit some friends now before his work life gets too busy.
As the time drew to a close, we woke up the kids. I made him breakfast to go. We took pictures. We hugged and kissed again and again. We professed our love. Finally, he got in the car and drove away waving to me. And you know what? As much as life has changed, it really, really hasn't. My heart fit right back into that groove of loss without him. I shed a few tears. I hugged my kids. And I felt like I really needed to write this post, just to capture that feeling. That oh so familiar feeling. It feels like when you get on a boat and it takes a few minutes to get your sea legs. You're wobbly and disoriented. It's physically obvious to the people around you that you're off your game. Of course, you adjust and adapt to the movement of the boat. But you don't feel really right until you're on dry land again.
Monday, September 1, 2014
On the Cusp of Something
I'm in that weird vortex between two seasons of life. We all are. I've got one foot in fall and one foot in summer. Macy starts 1st grade on Wednesday. In some ways, this is awesome! I love the fall and frankly, I'm totally over sweating. I want to break out the skinnys and the boots. I want to have pumpkins on my porch and my child in school all day. I love her, but she is my mirror. And sometimes it's hard to look at my precious firstborn and not see myself in all my glory. I see her pleasing. I see her perfectionism. I see her enthusiasm. I see her insatiable need for love and attention. I see her wanting more and more from her loved ones. I hear her voice talking on and on. I see her passion, her anger, her smile, her fear. Sometimes it's overwhelming. Sometimes for my own sanity, I want to set her on a shelf for awhile. It's terrible, but it's honest and there's no way I'm the only parent who feels that way. I'm just that person who always outs themselves in brutal honesty.
I'm ready to slow down. I'm ready to take more time and energy for myself. I'm ready for some quiet. But the perfectionist in me also feels let down. Summer is over. All the things I wanted to do this summer that I didn't get to do are scrolling through my mind like a parade of shame. All the hours I let my kid watch TV while I hid in my room, I remember. I really tried to cut myself some slack this summer, but I still wish I was capable of more, that I could just go on forever. There's a grace in me being unable to do and be everything I want to be (and everything I feel pressure to be). Because if I could go on forever, I would. I would not eat, sleep, rest. I wouldn't. And that is one of the beautiful things about being human. I don't have a choice. Thank God for that.
As a caretaker, I often pull up short when my own needs present themselves. I don't realize I need to eat until I'm starving. I tuck self-care in the nooks and crannies of taking care of everyone else. This is common for women in this "season of life" when you have small children. But when I have noticeable emotional needs, it surprises me. Gah!
When I was in college, my therapist mentioned to me that small transitions require extra self-care for me. (Yes, I'm in therapy now and I was in therapy then. Best time/money spent ever). I need to give myself a little extra grace when the seasons change, when my schedule changes, when my friends leave and when new ones come. The changes don't have to be "bad". In fact, they are often the changes that I anticipate that throw me the most.
This seemingly small transition from one season to another is greatly exacerbated by Labor Day. I know, weird. It's such a non-holiday. But in our family, it has served as a benchmark of pain the last few years. 3 years ago, it was on Labor Day that we walked away (not by choice) from ministry forever. It was on Labor Day weekend last year that I took my husband to the ER and had him admitted for pervasive suicidal thoughts, with 7 week old Penny in tow. He then went to a respite facility for 2 nights, finally with dear friends for 3 weeks in town. In those weeks, I was raising our newborn alone (with MASSIVE support from friends and family), caring for a traumatized 5 year old starting kindergarten, and myself in a frightening post-partum experience. It was, by far, the worst thing I've ever endured. I learned I was capable and that I need help. I learned that marriage is a choice and depression is not.
Well, Tim had a minor surgery on Thursday that landed me in a medical facility waiting for his medication and discharge for 2 hours with 2 hungry, tired kids. We then ended up in the exact same ER as last year 90 minutes after he was home from the surgery because he was vomiting all his pain pills. I missed Macy's Back to School night because I was juggling my now very mobile daughter while my husband was treated. And since then, I've been racing around caring for the 3 of them on our final days of summer. It's all way too familiar. Tim will have to get a stent removed from the surgery sometime this week, which means there will be another procedure. I've found myself crying in parking lots, crying in my kitchen, crying now at my computer. This is an anniversary I wish to never revisit, a season of life I would like to bury forever. I wouldn't wish the way I witnessed my spouse a year ago on anyone. Sometimes life has a way of sticking it to you, right in your weakest places, making the world that I usually see with naively rosy glasses suddenly feel cold and untrustworthy.
I know today is not a year ago or 3 years ago, for that matter. As familiar as this feels, it isn't the same. This weekend gives me an opportunity to continue to grieve the pain that was last year and previous years. But it also serves as a reminder that we've come a long way. I choose to sit in that rather than focus on how far we still have to go. But sometimes on nights like this, it feels heavy. I try to be present, to sit in the mess. As you can imagine, perfectionists don't like messes, particularly emotional, familial un-fixable ones! I have a savior complex. Being "in process" myself, not being able to control the processes of my family members, and waiting for simple moments that come more often now but not often enough is not an easy thing for me.
I'm learning that we don't get to choose our life, only the way we're living it. I choose to live mine honestly. I choose to tell my story when I'm crying in parking lots and when I'm laughing with my kids. It's all part of my story. And I have to believe that ultimately, my story is good, that I'm part of a greater story that matters. Our suffering has value. It's not a punishment. It's a reality, a critical piece of our human experience. In some ways, it is what most greatly unites us. I want to connect with the people around me, with their humanity, with their compassion, with their story. I don't want to live in an ivory tower, rising above everyone else. Of course, I'd love to get out of the trenches for awhile. I don't want to stay here forever. But if being in the trenches makes me a more open, honest, compassionate and generous version of myself, is it worth it? I think it just might be. Luckily, it's not up to me to decide if I stay in the trenches or not. We usually stay in longer than we thought we would or intended to. We're antsy and ready to rise above the ground. I believe I will, stronger than ever, in time. But for now, I'll be down here if you need me, in the trenches.
I'm ready to slow down. I'm ready to take more time and energy for myself. I'm ready for some quiet. But the perfectionist in me also feels let down. Summer is over. All the things I wanted to do this summer that I didn't get to do are scrolling through my mind like a parade of shame. All the hours I let my kid watch TV while I hid in my room, I remember. I really tried to cut myself some slack this summer, but I still wish I was capable of more, that I could just go on forever. There's a grace in me being unable to do and be everything I want to be (and everything I feel pressure to be). Because if I could go on forever, I would. I would not eat, sleep, rest. I wouldn't. And that is one of the beautiful things about being human. I don't have a choice. Thank God for that.
As a caretaker, I often pull up short when my own needs present themselves. I don't realize I need to eat until I'm starving. I tuck self-care in the nooks and crannies of taking care of everyone else. This is common for women in this "season of life" when you have small children. But when I have noticeable emotional needs, it surprises me. Gah!
When I was in college, my therapist mentioned to me that small transitions require extra self-care for me. (Yes, I'm in therapy now and I was in therapy then. Best time/money spent ever). I need to give myself a little extra grace when the seasons change, when my schedule changes, when my friends leave and when new ones come. The changes don't have to be "bad". In fact, they are often the changes that I anticipate that throw me the most.
This seemingly small transition from one season to another is greatly exacerbated by Labor Day. I know, weird. It's such a non-holiday. But in our family, it has served as a benchmark of pain the last few years. 3 years ago, it was on Labor Day that we walked away (not by choice) from ministry forever. It was on Labor Day weekend last year that I took my husband to the ER and had him admitted for pervasive suicidal thoughts, with 7 week old Penny in tow. He then went to a respite facility for 2 nights, finally with dear friends for 3 weeks in town. In those weeks, I was raising our newborn alone (with MASSIVE support from friends and family), caring for a traumatized 5 year old starting kindergarten, and myself in a frightening post-partum experience. It was, by far, the worst thing I've ever endured. I learned I was capable and that I need help. I learned that marriage is a choice and depression is not.
Well, Tim had a minor surgery on Thursday that landed me in a medical facility waiting for his medication and discharge for 2 hours with 2 hungry, tired kids. We then ended up in the exact same ER as last year 90 minutes after he was home from the surgery because he was vomiting all his pain pills. I missed Macy's Back to School night because I was juggling my now very mobile daughter while my husband was treated. And since then, I've been racing around caring for the 3 of them on our final days of summer. It's all way too familiar. Tim will have to get a stent removed from the surgery sometime this week, which means there will be another procedure. I've found myself crying in parking lots, crying in my kitchen, crying now at my computer. This is an anniversary I wish to never revisit, a season of life I would like to bury forever. I wouldn't wish the way I witnessed my spouse a year ago on anyone. Sometimes life has a way of sticking it to you, right in your weakest places, making the world that I usually see with naively rosy glasses suddenly feel cold and untrustworthy.
I know today is not a year ago or 3 years ago, for that matter. As familiar as this feels, it isn't the same. This weekend gives me an opportunity to continue to grieve the pain that was last year and previous years. But it also serves as a reminder that we've come a long way. I choose to sit in that rather than focus on how far we still have to go. But sometimes on nights like this, it feels heavy. I try to be present, to sit in the mess. As you can imagine, perfectionists don't like messes, particularly emotional, familial un-fixable ones! I have a savior complex. Being "in process" myself, not being able to control the processes of my family members, and waiting for simple moments that come more often now but not often enough is not an easy thing for me.
I'm learning that we don't get to choose our life, only the way we're living it. I choose to live mine honestly. I choose to tell my story when I'm crying in parking lots and when I'm laughing with my kids. It's all part of my story. And I have to believe that ultimately, my story is good, that I'm part of a greater story that matters. Our suffering has value. It's not a punishment. It's a reality, a critical piece of our human experience. In some ways, it is what most greatly unites us. I want to connect with the people around me, with their humanity, with their compassion, with their story. I don't want to live in an ivory tower, rising above everyone else. Of course, I'd love to get out of the trenches for awhile. I don't want to stay here forever. But if being in the trenches makes me a more open, honest, compassionate and generous version of myself, is it worth it? I think it just might be. Luckily, it's not up to me to decide if I stay in the trenches or not. We usually stay in longer than we thought we would or intended to. We're antsy and ready to rise above the ground. I believe I will, stronger than ever, in time. But for now, I'll be down here if you need me, in the trenches.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)