Light

 

I’m coming to realize that one of the reasons I like camp so much is because campgrounds usually have golf carts.

And I like driving golf carts.

 

When I was in college,

And a little more adventurous,

I used to drive the golf cart like a mad woman.

I sped around camp.

I slammed on brakes to make skid marks in the gravel.

I put the golf cart in neutral at the top of the hill and sped to the bottom, racing around curves.

I even drove the golf cart across the street to a bigger hill so that my passengers and I could go  faster!

 

This past weekend,

At age 46,

I carefully drove the golf cart around camp,

Escorting campers to and from events,

Intentionally driving across a field,

Trying to avoid all the many bumps

And not letting the cart get overcrowded with passengers.

 

At one point, I was driving the cart alone at night,

But the cart didn’t have lights,

So it was very dark.

I could barely see where I was going, so

I almost ran into a fence.

Then, I picked up a passenger

Who had a flashlight,

A simple, small flashlight.

She shone the light in front of us, and

Suddenly, we could see.

 

It’s amazing, really.

How one small light can brighten the darkness.  

 

It’s amazing, really,

How one small life can change someone’s world.

 

Amen.

On Death and Dying

I had a rough night last night. Out of nowhere, thoughts of death and dying descended upon my mind and heart and I couldn’t shake them.

It’s not so much that I’m worried about my own death and dying—other than not wanting to die alone and not wanting to leave behind a mess of stuff for unknown loved ones to sort through.

It’s that I worry about the death and dying of those I love. I think about the holes that will be left behind. I fear the silence. I worry about the gut punches that will land every time a memory appears. I think about going through stuff. I think about holidays. I think about traditions. And I am overwhelmed by sadness.

I don’t know when these thoughts began to appear and sit on my chest like bricks. It may have been when I did my unit of chaplaincy and death and dying became so very real to me. It may have been long before.

Regardless, on nights like last night, when the bricks are piled high, I’m thankful that I can look up and see the image of Jesus carrying a man who is exhausted, worn out, and left with nothing to give. I’m thankful to know that Jesus is holding me, letting me cry, hearing my fears, and reminding me to breathe.

Help us all to breathe today, God. Literally and figuratively. And for those taking their final breaths in these days, surround them with your light and love and be peace that passes understanding. Amen.

Semicolon Superfan

I went to see Brooke Simpson at church last Sunday. As I spoke to her after the service, she interjected, “I like your earrings.” I said, “Thank you. There’s more to the story, eh? There’s more to come.” “Yes!” she exclaimed. “Yes!...”

A few years ago, I became a semicolon superfan. Until that point in my life, the semicolon was just a grammatical tool used to “separate two independent but related clauses or to replace the comma to separate items in a complicated list.” I was a fan of semicolon and used it often in my writing, but it wasn’t until I heard this that I became a semicolon superfan:

“The semicolon is a symbol used as a message against suicide and other mental health issues and represents choosing to start a new chapter in your life…” (Merriam-Webster)

In 2013, a movement called Project Semicolon began as a movement dedicated to presenting hope and love to those who were struggling with depression, anxiety, suicide, addiction, and self-injury. It was started to encourage, love, and inspire.

The movement chose the semicolon as its central icon because a semicolon is used when an author could've chosen to end his sentence, but didn’t.

The message, then, is that the author is the individual and the sentence is his/her life.

When someone has a tattoo or other form of a semicolon on her body, she is saying that she is choosing to finish the sentence with new life rather than letting depression, anxiety, suicide, addiction, or self-injury defeat her.

She is saying that there is more to the story and that she is choosing to write it. She is saying that there is more to come…

A good friend of mine knew that I was a semicolon superfan and gave me my earrings as a result.

Now, whenever someone sees me, they can know that I am choosing not to let my anxiety/depression defeat me; rather, I am choosing the rest of the story.

Likewise, whenever I see someone with a semicolon, I know that they are choosing the same.

God, may we each hold to the rest of the story and know that you are working with us to write it. Help us to be a people of encouragement, love, and inspiration to those who need it most, and help us to accept encouragement, love, and inspiration from those around us. I love you. And I thank you for the semicolon. Amen.

Dispelling Darkness

I remember being afraid that I’d be judged—that people would say that my relationship with God wasn’t strong enough—that I didn’t need counseling but that I needed to “get right with the Lord.”

I remember shaking when I first asked for help—feeling vulnerable—weak—sick. I remember crying.

I remember feeling lost as I walked into counseling for the first time. I remember having no idea what to say or do. I remember sitting on the couch and feeling very weird. I remember spewing a whole bunch of things that were in my heart and on my mind. And I remember crying again…to a total stranger…who would come to be God’s Love and Light when I needed it most.

I have been in counseling for twelve years now, and I have seen three different therapists. There have been months when I’ve not seen anyone. Life has kept me away. But for the most part, I have been in counseling at least once a month for all of those twelve years—sometimes in crisis, most of the time in the normal rhythms of the life of one who struggles with anxiety and works in the helping professions—all the while in a safe space of no pretense—a container of holding for every part of my life—pleasant, unpleasant, and neutral.

Counseling has helped me understand God more fully and deeply. It has expanded my understanding of the Creator, made me more amazed at the Redeemer, and caused me to be ever more aware of the presence of the Sustainer. Trinity God is alive, active, and well, and counseling has helped me see and understand that much…all the while helping me to see and understand myself.

And yet…there is still such a stigma about counseling. There is still the belief that Christians (or strong people in general) shouldn’t need counseling—that if our relationship with God (or our family or friends) is strong enough then we shouldn’t need outside help—that if we just “get right with the Lord” then all will be well.

Well, friends, I’m here to tell you: That stigma is a dark, damning lie.

God has not called us to go at life alone. Instead, God has given us the ability to know that there are times when we must ask for and seek human help. As a result, God has given us family, friends, colleagues, church family, pastors, teachers, doctors, counselors, and other professionals to provide us with the help that we need.

Dear friends: Depression and anxiety are illnesses. They are very often brain chemical imbalances that need to be treated, and the best treatment is talk therapy (and oftentimes the addition of medication). We have no shame in treating most physical illnesses; therefore, we must stop shaming the reality of mental illnesses that are crippling millions of children, teenagers, and adults, and we must stop punishing ourselves by pretending that everything is alright when it so clearly is not.

May we be a people of Love and Light; telling our stories and dispelling the darkness of fear, shame, and lies; offering hope and giving permission to seek help to those who need it; and mustering the courage to ask for help when we ourselves need it most.

Amen?

And amen.

Between The Lines

I’m a really bad dancer. But I appreciate really good dancers. I suppose it’s no wonder, then, that I enjoy watching both Dancing with the Stars and So You Think You Can Dance. I enjoy watching the dancers improve each week and I enjoy seeing the unique musical interpretations of the choreographers. Most of the time, I watch the dances, smile, and casually give my civilian critique. Yet every once in awhile, I watch the dances, cry, and find myself so completely moved by emotion that I can’t say a word. That’s what happened a few years ago when I first saw, “Between The Lines.”

I still remember the package that played before the dance. The choreographer asked the two young dancers to reach into a place that connected with the darkness of addiction. They were challenged to feel very deeply and to put themselves into the emotional space of not being able to overcome that which was controlling them. I remember the male dancer being profoundly impacted by the dance—being pushed to tears by the connection that was so powerful that it radiated from his dancing. And I remember watching the dance in awe—sitting in stunned silence—tears filling my eyes—because I got it—and then I watched it again—and again—and again—because, each time, I got it.

I get wanting to move beyond fears that paralyze…
I get wanting to shake off chains that bind hands behind a wounded back…
I get wanting to break free of the power of negative self-talk…
I get wanting to leave failure behind and walk forward in peace…
Yet having fear, chains, negative self-talk, and failure come from behind and grab hold of me until I can do nothing but stumble forward—or collapse under their weight.

Drugs, alcohol, unhealthy relationships, playing the victim, playing the martyr, disordered eating, cutting, picking, burning, self-harm, gambling, pornography, chocolate, texting, Social Media, money, violence, work, power, sex, control…

It’s all the same yet all so different yet
I get the strange addiction of staying with those things that I know—
even if what I know is slowly killing me.

I get those moments when that strange little monster of everything I hate rears his ugly head,
comes out of hiding, and hijacks all sense and sensibility…

I get those gut-wrenching jolts of human reality that slap me in the face with everything I thought I’d moved beyond and pick me up and leave my legs flying pointlessly in the air…

I get those dark days when all that is hiding between the lines comes out of remission and begins its cancerous quest to take over all that is good and right…

And those days are hard.
Human reality is hard.
Strange little monster moments are hard.
Addictions are hard.
Fear, chains, negative self-talk, and failure screaming are hard.

And sometimes all I can do is pray for God to read between the lines of my broken heart’s prayer: Dear God. I can't. You can. So please, Lord. Have your way. And help me to be all that I cannot. Amen.

Full, Expanded Circle

I’m looking out over the Winston Salem skyline as I write these words tonight. The sun is setting in the distance with beautiful oranges and purples and reds while the moon is shining bright just over my head. To my right, atop one of the tallest buildings in town, the American flag stands tall, one last reminder to say thank you to a veteran today.

I’ve attended fifteen hours of workshops and seminars over the past two days. The North Carolina Music Educator’s Professional Development has filled my Veteran's Day weekend, yet I’ve observed and learned a lot, and I’m glad for the opportunity to reconnect with old friends and add tools to my music teaching tool belt. My existing tools are still being dusted off after five years of disuse, so it’s nice to have some new ones.

Six years ago, I came to this conference immediately after leading worship with my now defunct band. I stayed until Tuesday and returned to real life to attend whatever class I was taking at the time. During that last conference, my body was here but my mind was not. In fact, I sat in the sessions reading books for divinity school. At that time, I was in the process of deciding whether to continue teaching or whether to pursue full-time ministry, and I had subconsciously begun a spiral downward that would land me in a very dark place in coming months.

After class that Tuesday night, I called a friend whom I often stopped by to visit and was greeted with the phrase, “We don’t know where Kay is.” Within an hour, we were standing at Kay’s house watching rescue workers roll away her body. After getting my band settled that Sunday, Kay, my friend, mentor, and music minister at the church, sick with a stomach virus, had gone home to fight the virus only to have the force of her sickness cause her heart to stop. The next few days were met with grieving, cleaning, planning, preparing for a funeral, and trying to wrap my mind around the fact that my band members and I were the last people to see Kay alive. I think I may have taken off that Wednesday from work.

As I watch darkness settle in tonight, I can’t help but think of the darkness that consumed me for so long after Kay died. I continued with life. I did everything I could not to let it interfere with my work; however, it was a reality I couldn’t shake. Yet just as I am seeing stars, planets, and man-made lights come into view before my eyes tonight, I know that I was surrounded by God’s presence and the presence of people who were light to me when I couldn’t find light within myself.

I stood in line at Starbucks this morning and thought to myself, “This little corner coffee shop is going to make more money in one day than I will make in an entire month.” I bought my food last night and today and thought to myself, “I’m not going to be reimbursed for this even though I’m working.” I listened to a colleague share about the challenges of a forced week of vocal rest. I thought, “She has devoted so much of herself to her job for so long that she has literally damaged her voice.”

For the past two days, during and between conference sessions, I have experienced so many different thoughts and emotions that it’s hard to put them on this page. Yet the overwhelming feelings that surround me right now are feelings of gratefulness and peace.

This is the first year I’ve focused on Veteran’s Day at school. I’m sad to admit that Veteran’s Day is a holiday that I have often overlooked. But not this year. This year I’m very mindful of the role that the men and women of our military play toward keeping our country safe and free and toward helping give dignity to many persons around the world. I’m very mindful of the sacrifices they make when leaving their families and loved ones to answer the call of duty. Teaching at a school where your students, parents, and colleagues are either in or married to someone in the military will open your eyes and shake your core as military planes fly overhead and practice bombs are dropped in the distance. So today I am humbly grateful to people beyond myself…but I am also grateful that life has brought me full-circle while allowing that circle to expand along the way.

Am I back in a profession to which I didn’t expect to return? Yes. Am I making tens of thousands of dollars less than I was? Yes. Do I know all of the latest tricks of the trade? No. Am I the best music teacher in the world? Absolutely not. Am I sad as I remember losing Kay? Yes. Do I curse the darkness that afterwards ensued? No. Could I have stopped it? I don’t think so. Do I regret going to South Carolina? No. Do I know that walking away from teaching for five years was exactly what I needed to do? Yes. Do I know that God has been with me every step of the way? Absolutely. And do I know that where I am right now is exactly where I need to be? Yes. Yes. Absolutely yes.

And so, for now, I am at peace.

Sun completely set. Moon shining even brighter. Flag still standing tall. Knowing that darkness must come for the night…but that joy will come in the morning…and then my students will challenge it :-)…yet everything will be okay.

Is It Really Like Falling In Love?

The other morning as I stumbled around my apartment in the zombie-like state into which I awaken almost every day, I caught myself singing along to the song on the radio.

When I first moved to Columbia, the radio at Mary’s house (where I first lived) was set to the Christian music station. Even though they play the same songs over and over again, I got used to the morning show and have listened to it ever since—subconsciously learning the words to a whole bunch of songs that I otherwise would not know.

So there I was singing, “It’s more like falling in love than something to believe in. More like losing my heart than giving my allegiance. Caught up, called out, come take a look at me now. It's like I'm falling, oh, It's like I'm falling in love,” when I suddenly thought, “Wait a minute. No it’s not. Let me listen to more words.” So I did. And I thought, “I don’t really agree with the words to this song…” but I kept singing anyway because the chorus is catchy.

I think the point of the song is that religion alone does not sustain us—that we must have a relationship with God in order to live a life devoted to God and God’s redemptive work through Christ—and I can agree with that point. We will fail religious doctrine—we will cross inappropriate lines, misuse words, break obligations, abandon creeds, and just flat out goof. If doing everything right by doing nothing wrong is our ultimate goal, then we’ll never achieve our goal. However, if feeling as if we’re in love with God and on an emotional and spiritual high all the time is our ultimate goal, then we’ll never achieve that goal either. God does move in powerful ways at various times in our lives, but mostly, I think, God is just quietly with us, day in and day out, guiding us and working with us as we seek to live into our understanding of who God has made us to be and how we can best share and live God’s message of love and redemption in this world.

There have been many times when I haven’t been able to feel God. I knew God was with me. I knew God loved me. But I couldn’t understand God. I couldn’t understand life. And I couldn’t feel anything other than the hurt and sadness that surrounded my heart. I don’t know about you, but if I don’t feel something when I’m falling in love—if I don’t understand it and coast on it in a state of elated bliss—then I think twice about how I’m falling. If, after long enough, I don’t feel anything in return, then I begin to walk away and toward another love. If, however, I believe in the love—if I believe in where it’s been and where it’s going and I’ve committed to seeing it through and there’s nothing fundamentally wrong or unhealthy about the love—then I will stay—because I believe in something more than the warm fuzzy feelings and elated laughter and tears of joy that I feel in that initial period of falling in love.

In those times when I can’t feel God, it’s not because I’m not trying. It’s not because my life is racked with sin. It’s not because I’m doing anything wrong. I pray. I read. I write. I keep seek. I try to stay grounded by Christian community. I ask for spiritual direction. I sit in silence. I talk to God all day, every day—sometimes even praying for characters in books I’m reading!—and I know that God is with me. I know that I am loved. But it’s not because of a feeling. It’s because of a quiet, gentle presence that is steadily living, moving, and breathing into my life… even when I cannot see or hear or feel or understand.

Yesterday, a friend of mine posted one simple word: Balance. I jokingly responded with the word: Beam. But in all actuality, I thought, “Yes. Balance. Balance is what we need so desperately in this world.” And balance is what we need in faith, too. Like I said, I agree that religion cannot sustain us. But I also believe that relationship based off of feeling alone cannot sustain us either…and I fear that too many of us are relying on our emotions these days—on our feelings—and that we’re doing the body of Christ damage to the body of Christ. As I finish my Cookie Mocha Frappuccino lite, I liken feeling-based relationship to living solely off of caffeine and sugar. It’s really good while it lasts…but what happens when it wears off? What happens is that we must keep eating vegetables and fruits and proteins to sustain us every day and allow Starbucks to be a special treat.

Chances are good that I’ll sing along the next time I hear, “It’s More Like Falling In Love.” Thanks to the Christian music station, the lyrics and melody are firmly planted in my mind. But chances are good, too, that I’ll think twice about what I’m singing and possibly even change the words to more accurately reflect my belief.

What about you? What do you believe? And have you heard a song lately that made you stop and question the words—Christian or not?

[What is Christian music anyway? If being a Christian means being a conscious follower of Christ, then how can music itself consciously choose to follow Christ since it doesn’t have a brain? Shouldn’t it be music written by Christians instead of Christian music? And can’t music written by Christians be music that doesn’t make it to the Christian radio station? And how did the radio station become Christian if it doesn’t have a brain? Isn’t it a radio station managed by Christians? Isn’t Christian a noun instead of an adjective? But that…that’s another note…thanks to another friend who posted a blog by Derek Webb :-).]

Me and Valentine's Day

I didn’t realize how much I disliked myself until my world began to unravel around Valentine’s Day 2007. I remember the date because Valentine’s Day is supposed to be a time of joy, but for me it was the beginning of a long period of darkness. Along with the depression that had been lurking for years, feelings of intense self-hate, -doubt, and -insecurity had been lingering for quite some time, but I had stuffed them deep inside and tried to cover them with work and relationships. I knew that something was wrong when I had to begin taking blood pressure medicine at age 25, but even then, though I was able to restructure some of my work habits, I didn’t stop to consider the deeper issues of why I felt the need to work so hard. The bottom line? I was ashamed of myself; therefore, I tried to hide myself by focusing on what I could do instead of who I was.

I grew up in Smalltown, USA, the youngest daughter of the preacher of the most prominent church in town. I lived in a fish bowl where all of my actions were watched, so I felt the need to be perfect. I saw how people talked about anyone who transgressed in any way and I heard how important it was to be holy, blameless, and pure. No one ever said it in so many words, yet I knew: being different and having my own thoughts was bad—it was wrong—hence I, as the good little preacher’s daughter, grew to believe that I had to do everything “right” lest I became bad and wrong as well.

I figured that if no one knew how I felt inside—that if I made perfect grades, was a leader at church, excelled in academics and music, demonstrated wisdom beyond my years—then no one would know that I felt bad and wrong. I would be accepted. I would be adequate. I would be celebrated and applauded and people would think that I was great. No one had to know that I was starving inside. No one had to know that I was miserable and desperate for companionship. No one had to know that I feared rejection and failure. No one had to know my real thoughts and beliefs.

And so I did my best to live, but I basically lived two lives—a public life and a private one. Over time, I got tired of hiding my thoughts and beliefs—which really weren’t bad, if you want to know the truth—and desired just to be me. And yet, I was afraid. I was afraid of being me. I carried such a deep sense of shame for being me that I felt bad and wrong. If anything bad happened to me, I deserved it. If anything good happened to me, it was just a fluke because…“if they only knew who I really was.” If only they knew, then they would reject me. They would think I was weird or radical. They might turn their backs on me or stab me in the back. They might not be able to see Jesus in me. If only they knew…

Around the time life began spinning out of control, I started counseling, and in counseling, I realized:

There is a disconnect between what I know to be true and what I actually live out in my life. I know that God loves me. I know that God wants me to love myself so that I can be most fully self and love people. But there’s just something inside of me that won’t allow me to fully love myself and fully embrace myself.

(struggling through tears) I am an authentic being…and a whole self. And I have to recognize what I’m feeling and how things affect me…and when I’m hurt and when I’m angry…and not always just try to feel for other people and try to make them better.



This struggle to love myself has been life-long, and it has been hard. It has led me to make many poor choices. My inability to love and have compassion for myself has caused me to question both God’s and humanity’s ability to and reason for loving me and it has profoundly affected my work and ministry—often causing me to work and act not out of a sense of call but out of a sense of the need to be wanted or needed. Yet, my inability to love myself, I believe, has given me a direct point of understanding between so much of humanity. I dare say that many people struggle to love and have compassion for themselves. Like me, they may not realize the struggle for what it is because it may lurk in the shadows of hyper-functioning. But I believe it’s there in the eyes of so many people—people who are running from themselves for whatever reason—for fear of rejection, hatred of sexuality, pain of abuse, grief of loss, heartache of confession, guilt of mistakes, yearning of acceptance, for uncertainty of call.

Somehow, in the midst of loathing myself, I developed a theology that believes that God created each one of us wonderfully and uniquely—that before we were born, God whispered into our ears who we were supposed to be and that it is our quest to live into that design while we are on this earth. I believe that the world (including parents, friends, schools, partners, and the church) tries to make us into its image but that our challenge is to live into the fullness of who God alone created us to be—just as Christ alone lived into the fullness of his being.

As a result of my journey, my desire in life is to support people on their journeys by helping them discover who they are and encouraging them to live into their gifts and passions. Just as my counselor created a safe place for me to be fully myself, I want to create a safe place for others to be fully themselves. I want to be a healthy presence at all times, in joy and in hardship, but especially when someone stops running from himself and/or God. In those moments, I want to show the love and grace and compassion that I know, now, are life-transforming. I want to hold a light in darkness, yet when light is too bright and my companion is unable to embrace its presence, I want to wait patiently until she can allow it to illuminate her life.

Valentine’s Day is marketed as a joyous day of love, but for five years, Valentine’s Season has been the marker of my spiral into darkness. Today, though, I am humbly proud to say that I can finally celebrate the Hallmark Season again without re-spiraling into darkness (I’m a Hallmark Platinum member, after all) and that I can celebrate life and love and live with the courage, strength, purpose, and compassion to help others build their lives on the Love that never fails. What an amazing journey of grace…

From Hyper-Functioning to Compassion

Over the weekend, I had the opportunity to teach college students about compassion. Five years in the making, what I shared in two one hour break-out sessions was information that has literally changed my life.

One of the key teachings and practices that have changed my life over the past few years is the teaching of self compassion. Self-compassion is extending compassion to one’s self in instances of perceived inadequacy, failure, or general suffering. There are three basic components to self-compassion: self-kindness, common humanity, and mindfulness:

Self-kindness: Being warm towards oneself when encountering pain and personal shortcomings rather than ignoring them or hurting oneself with self-criticism.

Common humanity: Recognizing that suffering and personal failure is part of the shared human experience. In short, you are not the only person who has ever felt what you are feeling. You are not alone.

Mindfulness: Taking a balanced approach to one's negative emotions so that feelings are neither suppressed nor exaggerated. Negative thoughts and emotions are observed with openness so that they are held in mindful awareness. Mindfulness is a non-judgmental, receptive mind state in which individuals observe their thoughts and feelings as they are, without trying to suppress or deny them. Conversely, mindfulness requires that one not be over-identified with mental or emotional phenomena, so that one suffers aversive reactions. This latter type of response involves narrowly focusing and ruminating on one's negative emotions.

Practicing self-compassion is a daily practice in my life, but it’s a practice that I know is part of an ever-deepening relationship with God and has allowed me to make great strides toward having a healthy view of and love for myself as one of God’s beloved creations. The following reflection more adequately speaks of this practice’s impact on my life and ministry:

The struggle to love myself as one of God’s beloved children has been life-long, and it has been hard. My natural inability to be patient with and have compassion for myself has caused me to question both God’s and humanity’s ability to and reason for loving me and it has profoundly affected my work and ministry—often causing me to work and act not out of a sense of call but out of a sense of the need to be wanted or needed. Yet, my inability to love myself, I believe, has given me a direct point of understanding between so much of humanity. I dare say that many people struggle to love and have compassion for themselves. Like me, they may not realize the struggle for what it is because it may lurk in the shadows of hyper-functioning. But I believe it’s there in the eyes of so many people—people who are running from themselves for whatever reason—for fear of rejection, hatred of sexuality, pain of abuse, grief of loss, heartache of confession, guilt of mistakes, yearning of acceptance, for uncertainty of call.

Somehow, in the midst of my darkest period of loathing myself, I developed a theology that believes that God created each one of us wonderfully and uniquely—that before we were born, God whispered into our ears who we were supposed to be and that it is our quest to live into that design while we are on this earth. I believe that the world (including parents, friends, schools, partners, and the church) tries to make us into its image—however lovely that image might be—but that our challenge is to live into the fullness of who God alone created us to be—just as Christ alone lived into the fullness of his being.

As a result of my journey, my deepest desire in life is to support people on their journeys by helping them discover who they are and encouraging them to live into their gifts and passions. Just as my counselor once created a safe place for me to be fully myself, I want to create a safe place for others to be fully themselves. I want to be a healthy presence at all times, in joy and in hardship, but especially when someone stops running from herself and/or God. In those moments, I want to show the love and grace and compassion that I know are life-transforming. I want to hold a light in darkness, yet when light is too bright and my companion is unable to embrace its presence, I want to wait patiently until she can allow it to illuminate her life. I know that I cannot magically save someone who is hurting. But I can be a child of grace, and I can only love other people until, and regardless of if ever, they learn to have Compassion for themselves.

What is one of the most profound and life-changing teachings and practices of your faith? What are some ways you experience self-compassion? And what is your deepest desire in this life?

Hallmark Movies and Dark Sides

Sometimes I think it’d be nice if life were a Hallmark movie. There would be tragedy, yes, but everything would resolve within two hours and everyone would live happily ever after. I should know. I watched at least six Hallmark movies over the weekend. It may have been eight. I lost count.

My dad called to say hey last night. He was cutting out coupons and thinking of me. As we were talking and I told him that I’d been at my apartment all weekend, he said, “Well it’s good you’ve been able to rest and have some time to yourself. But the danger in that is that it can make you feel lonely and alone.” He is exactly right. After so many hours of sleep and Hallmark movies—all of which end with the guy getting the girl or vice versa—one can begin to feel sort of lonely and alone. And when this one feels lonely and alone, her thoughts can turn very dark and unrealistic. I’m glad my dad called. And I’m glad that Iron Chef America pulled me away from the Hallmark channel.

A few weeks ago, I got Kelly Clarkson’s latest CD. The purchase was a Target impulse buy, but I’m glad I bought it because there are some good songs on the CD. One of them is called “Dark Side.” The lyrics are:

There's a place that I know
It's not pretty there and few have ever gone
If I show it to you now
Will it make you run away
Or will you stay
Even if it hurts
Even if I try to push you out
Will you return?
And remind me who I really am
Please remind me who I really am

Everybody's got a dark side
Do you love me?
Can you love mine?
Nobody's a picture perfect
But we're worth it
You know that we're worth it
Will you love me?
Even with my dark side?

Like a diamond
From black dust
It's hard to know
It can become
A few give up
So don't give up on me
Please remind me who I really am

Everybody's got a dark side
Do you love me?
Can you love mine?
Nobody's a picture perfect
But we're worth it
You know that we're worth it
Will you love me?
Even with my dark side?

Don't run away
Don't run away
Just tell me that you will stay
Promise me you will stay
Don't run away
Don't run away
Just promise me you will stay
Promise me you will stay

Will you love me?
Everybody's got a dark side
Do you love me?
Can you love mine?
Nobody's a picture perfect
But we're worth it
You know that we're worth it
Will you love me?
Even with my dark side?

I just got back from Christmas Packet Day. On the first Monday of every December, a group of us gather at a local church to finalize the packets. Packets are delivered from churches and associations from across the state, but they must be checked and stuffed with a Christmas card and scripture booklet before they are delivered. As I worked today, surrounded by both civilians and inmates, I couldn’t help but think of Kelly’s song—of Hallmark movies and loneliness—of the dark side that each of us has. And I couldn’t help but be grateful that scripture tells us that, “There is neither Jew nor Gentile, neither slave nor free, nor is there male and female, for [we] are all one in Christ Jesus.”

I don’t know about you, but I’m thankful that everybody’s got a dark side—that none is better than another—that we are all connected with a common thread of humanity—and that we can live with the hope that, somehow, in the end, maybe not as easily as a Hallmark movie, Light will consume darkness and Love will prevail.

God…thanks for not giving up on us and for giving us a chance to pass on your steady love. Amen.

A Little Piece of My Truth

Me, 9pm last night, Sabbath night, throwing down the book I was reading for work, sobbing, and restlessly lying (actually wrestling or squirming) on my couch:

I’m having a really bad night :-(. My thoughts are really negative and all I hear is God screaming damnation and punishment on me and it’s loud and I need it to stop but it will not stop :-(. All I keep thinking is that I don’t want to be dramatic and demanding and insecure and clingy. I don’t want to live in the fear that I’m not good enough or that people will get tired of me and leave. I don’t want to feel like I’m too much. But my thoughts are so bad and I feel so worthless and ugly and wrong and inadequate. I feel like my faith is not strong enough. I just want to love people and love God and enjoy life and go to the state fair. I don’t know why things aren’t always easy for me. Why I can’t be as bubbly as the author I’m reading now. Why things don’t work out easily in my life. I don’t know why I feel lonely like I do. I don’t know why I sometimes get anxious in public places and convince myself that I’m going to die when I’m alone or that everyone in my family is going to die or why my skin always itches or why I cannot read well with my eyes. I don’t know those things and I don’t like them. And I don’t know why anyone else would like them either. But I do know that I want to buy that piece of art that I saw in Orlando and put it in my apartment because it’s how I feel when I’m alone. Like something is missing from deep within my heart. And. I know that my eyes are all puffy and I have no cucumbers to put on them like at a spa.

A little while later, after the image of a loving God and gentle Jesus returned—this happening only after I was able to calm my body, breathe, and cry, out loud, “I need you, God. I need you. I need you.”—I returned to my book and began to read again. I read about being full of God’s power—about God giving us the strength to do whatever God has called us to—about not being ashamed of telling the story of what Christ has done in our lives (my wording, there)—about being set free and not living in fear.

As I read, the reality of the vastness of God settled upon me and I couldn’t help but smile a simple smile as I realized that God was allowing me to hear the words in a way completely different than I imagine the author to have penned them. I’m not afraid of the gospel of Jesus Christ. I’m not afraid to share my faith…but I am often afraid to share the depth of my story because it is full of doubts and questions and struggles and realities that sometimes are perceived as faith not strong enough, belief not deep enough, prayer not good enough, thought not simple or clear enough, action not holy enough, words not righteous enough, emotions not stable enough, or joy not bubbly enough to truly be the faith of a Christian believer.

Oh. But I am a believer.

I am a believer in the Trinity God—Father, Son, and Holy Spirit—Creator, Redeemer, Sustainer—God bigger than anything the human mind can begin to comprehend—God who longs for the redemption of this world and who works alongside us in this Christ-story that makes redemption possible. I believe in a God whose love is deep enough and wide enough and patient enough and steady enough to endure the darkest night of the soul. I believe in a God who hears questions, cries with doubts, hurts with sorrows, sticks with us in uncertainty, grieves with loss and consequence, laughs at quirks, feels anger for injustice, honors life’s journey, delights in full life, enjoys worship, lives in community, loves and sees the good and possibility in all people, and longs for peace.

Yes. I am a believer. Yet I have friends and family members who are not.

I am a believer. But sometimes I still hate myself (even though I know that God doesn’t feel the same.)

I am a believer. Yet I don’t understand how God can allow genocide and starvation and senseless beatings and hateful oppression.

I am a believer. But I read secular books and listen to secular music and honor the values and traditions
of other cultures and denominations.

I am a believer. And I am pro-dignity-of-all-human-life and I believe in an evolution of change.

I am a believer. Yet sometimes I think only in curse words.

I am believer. But I am open. And seeking. And searching. And doubting. And trying. And struggling. And suffering comes from trying to juggle a fear of rejection and human damnation with the courage to speak the reality of who I believe God to be (love) and who God has created me to be (myself).

Yes. I am a believer. Yet I sometimes have horrible nights. And that’s the truth…of which I’m learning to no longer be afraid.

Sometimes

They're nothing like they used to be, but sometimes I still have bad nights.

Sometimes I feel so sad that it seems as if my heart is literally going to break and that I am going to be left alone to suffer in my shortcomings for the rest of my life.

Sometimes--especially after a long, frustrating, hard, and taxing day--I can only hear words of failure, of heavily getting life wrong, of being a disappointment to everyone and everything because there is never enough time to complete my work and never enough time to spend with those I love.

Sometimes grief consumes me and pours down my face.
Sometimes hurt surrounds me and gets stuck in my chest.
Sometimes insecurity deafens me and spews from my mouth.
Sometimes exhaustion paralyzes me and weighs down my bones.

I suppose you've figured out that
Sometimes is tonight.

'Cause sometimes all I can do is be quietly grateful that God created rest and go to bed early and tell my mind to stop and imagine my thoughts drifting and allow myself to sleep.

A Bad Time

While talking about Holy Week, I made the statement that Jesus had a really bad week. Think about it. His week started out with a celebration but ended in betrayal, physical agony, and death. It was a week of extreme highs and extreme lows and it involved crying out in prayer so fervent that sweat turned to blood. I can't think of a week much worse than that! But I can think of times that have been dark. And I can relate to betrayal, agony, and death--maybe not death of my body but death of relationships and hopes and dreams. And I can feel extreme highs and lows. And I can remember crying out so hard that I felt as if blood would leak from my pores. Yet just as Jesus experienced the resurrection--because Jesus experienced the resurrection--so, too, have I experienced movements from dark to light...and during this Holy Week, I want to share parts of my darkest story with you now (and ask forgiveness for its length and for details that you may have already read). This was written in 2009 as part of a final paper for divinity school, yet, somehow, I feel like I'm still writing it today...

…While I was in Divinity School, I talked to Dr. Timothy Brock a lot about my journey. After taking seven and a half classes with him and writing a lot in each of those classes, I shared quite a bit with him and walked away either aggravated, challenged, or encouraged by his words. After taking Life Span Development and being introduced to how the Myers Briggs Personality Inventory intersects with spirituality, I began talking with Dr. Brock about the MBTI and decided to become a certified administrator. After my dear friend and mentor, Kay Simpson, died, and I found myself struggling to keep going, I received grace from Dr. Brock who supported me in going to therapy and affirmed the work that I was doing as I wandered through my dark night of the soul. After forcing myself to attend class on a day when I wanted nothing more than to sleep, I heard Dr. Brock say, “I believe that before we were born, God pulled each of us to God’s chest and gently whispered into our ears who we were supposed to be. Life on earth, then, is our quest to live into the fullness of who we were created to be. The world tries to make us into its image—oftentimes thinking that it is doing us a favor. But we must seek to live into the uniqueness of our self, just as Jesus lived into the uniqueness of his self.” When he finished talking, tears were already pouring down my face. I finally got it: I am a unique and wonderful self. And God loves me for me…

After I resigned from my position as youth minister at a local church, I did not attend one church regularly…I sometimes attended the church where Kay was on staff, and when she moved to another church, I followed her there.

The new church had had a contemporary early service for quite some time but had always struggled to find musicians for the service. When Kay arrived, she decided to rotate praise bands each week, and she asked my band and me to play on the second Sunday of each month. We agreed. My band consisted of my college suitemate, a friend who I met through camp, and a friend who was the daughter of a teacher at school. We were all teachers and we all loved making music, so we met at my house each week to practice, and we played at Kay’s church each month. Our practices consisted of a lot of talking and school debriefing, but they were the highlight of my week for well over two years. After Kay died, the band died, too. I am still not exactly sure what happened, but we never recovered.

November 11, 2006, was the second Sunday of November. As usual, the band and I met at the church at 7:30am to set up our equipment and do a sound check. What was not usual was the way that Kay walked into the sanctuary to greet us. Kay had left a message on my voice mail on Friday and told me that she was not feeling well. As soon as I saw her on Sunday, I knew that she still was not feeling well. Even so, she came in to work to print the bulletin and make sure we were okay. We asked her to sit down and listen to our songs for the day, so she did. She closed her eyes, opened her hands in a receiving posture, and looked so very content listening to us play. When we finished, she told us she was going to go home and rest. We asked if she wanted one of us to go home with her because she looked so bad. She told us she was fine and slowly walked out of the sanctuary. Kay died later that night.

Alone in her apartment, having been sick for a long time, the flu from which she was suffering caused her enlarged heart to go into cardiac arrest. I went to a music education conference immediately following church that day. I returned home on Tuesday in time to go to my night class. After my night class, I called one of my friends to check in. With panic in her voice, she said, “We don’t know where Kay is.” One hour later, we were at Kay’s apartment watching the rescue squad roll away Kay’s body. The next day, we were planning her funeral. The next we were at her apartment cleaning it out. The next day was the same. Saturday was her funeral. My band and I played at the funeral. Eight months later, I returned to Kay’s apartment to finish cleaning it out.

Kay’s death occurred during my eighth year of teaching and my fourth year of divinity school. I had continued taking night classes until that year, but that year was the last year that I would be able to do so because all of the core classes had cycled through. I was at an impasse: either quit teaching and continue taking classes or continue teaching and quit taking classes. Every bit of logic in me said that I should continue teaching. My job was steady and secure. I had benefits and was able to contribute to a retirement plan. I knew that I was working on a diverse mission field, and I had finally fallen into a groove with my planning and lessons.

Yet I was miserable. I had been miserable for a long time. I had immersed myself in church, retreats, the band, work, classes, friends, and family, and I had learned to pretend really well. Deep down, though, I hated myself. I hated who I had been, who I was, and who I was becoming. I was full of so much shame for being me that when Kay died—Kay, who knew the details of my life and still loved me—Kay, who was a safe place of unconditional love and encouragement—Kay, who, like Dr. Brock, believed that I was a unique and gifted self, created in God’s image—Kay, who died alone even though she was loved by so many—Kay, who I had taken for granted—I could not hide the shame anymore.

In January 2007, I went to talk to the campus minister, Faithe Beam. She recommended a professional counseling center in Raleigh, but I was too afraid to contact the center. I had always heard that Christians should not need counseling if their relationship with God was right, and I did not have the courage to deal with the perceived stigma of going to therapy. I struggled through two more months, progressively falling into a deeper and darker depression, but at the beginning of March I gave up the fight and contacted Triangle Pastoral Counseling Center in Raleigh, NC. Shortly after I entered my contact information, I received a phone call from Jenny, and I began sessions with her later that week. What she did not know was that I was planning to request her if given the opportunity. I never had to make the request, though, because Jenny called me first.

After an intense period of struggle and discernment, I decided to resign from my teaching job so that I could attend divinity school full-time. Once I made the decision, part of the anxiety that had gripped me went away and I knew that I had chosen the right path. I did not know where the money for my bills would come from, if my savings account would be depleted, where I would find health insurance, or how I was going to buy gifts. But I knew that I had the support of my parents, my brother, my sister, my aunt, and my friends, and, somehow, I knew that that would be enough…

Learning to function in a new ministry capacity while doing the draining emotional work of individual therapy, Family Systems, and Counseling in the Christian Congregation left me exhausted. The entire semester was one of journaling, reflecting, engaging the good and bad of my family system, and facing my demons. I learned what it meant to be a non-anxious presence and I realized that I wanted to be a non-anxious presence more than anything else. I realized, too, that my attraction toward certain people and events came from their being non-anxious. I learned to identify the root of my shame, fears, desires to please, desires to be perfect, and unwillingness to show grace to myself. Once I identified the root causes, I was able to begin re-writing my story and believe—truly believe—that I am a person of worth and value simply because I am created in God’s image. Kay had tried to tell me. Dr. Brock had tried to tell me. Faithe told me. Jenny told me each week in therapy. But until I got it for myself, God and I were not able truly to transform my life.

I went to Camp Mundo Vista as the staff worship leader in the Summer of 2007. I stayed during the weeks to help out as much as I could, but I needed to return home for therapy and family events each week. The summer was good. I made some very dear friends. However, I was still at a point of intense struggle and even at camp, the place where I feel God’s presence the most in this world, I could not leave the struggles behind. Grief consumed me. Letting go of Kay, my job, my band, and friendships overwhelmed me, and the uncertainty of being a full-time student nagged at the part of me that likes to be certain.

I went back to Mundo Vista as the camp worship leader in the Summer of 2008. I administered and interpreted the MBTI for the staff, coordinated both staff and camper worship services, worked in the office and served as camp gopher, and provided a safe, non-anxious presence for anyone who needed to talk. Just one year before, my anxiety level had been so high that I could not listen to anyone talk without filtering the conversation through my experiences and internalizing my inability to help the situation so much that I literally wanted to cut the hurt out of me. In just one year, so much healing had occurred in my life that I could feel the difference as I walked around the camp. A large portion of that healing had come through the work that I had done in my classes the semester before. Yes, I was exhausted when the semester ended and camp began, but the exhaustion was so worth the effort that I would do it all again. And it was only temporary. I lived away from everyone else over the summer—in a room of peace, silence, and seclusion, and for the first time in my life I was able to go to sleep at night without noise distracting me or fears weighing me down…and I was able to rest.

…I entered divinity school knowing that God loved me and that I had been called, yet I did not love myself enough to believe in myself or my call. I pretended. I wrote and spoke eloquently. I went through the motions of ministry. I loved others deeply and spurred them along in their faith. I appeared to have everything together. Yet I did not.

As my classes pointed out the unconditional love of Jesus Christ, though—as they taught me about God’s design for humanity to live into its fullness, God’s heart for social justice and redemption of this world, the beautiful story that I have the privilege of being part of, the men and women of faith who have gone before me, the greatness of creator God who is big enough to handle all of my doubts and questions, the community of love that exists within Triune God, and the depth of scripture that testifies of God’s faithfulness to God’s people—and as I accepted the love of professors, friends, family members, and a therapist who embodied the love of Christ, I slowly began to break down the wall of shame that I had hidden behind and embrace the person that I truly am: a child of God, redeemed, resurrected, and set free to love and serve in grace.

The Deanna Plant

Over fifteen years ago, through the Meredith Christian Association, I met a girl named Mandy. Little did I know that she would become one of the most influential people in my life. Mandy and I began our friendship as theology buddies and have continued our deep discussions on God, life, and love over the years. Mandy is a pastor now, and her sermons and writings always inspire and challenge me. On Monday, she sent me Sunday’s sermon and then waited for me to read. Last night, she said, “You really need to read my sermon, friend,” so I finally put everything on hold and did. When I got to the following excerpt, I knew why she was anxious for me to read. I. Love. This. Story! And I am so humbled and grateful to be a part:

The physicality of birth and death (being born again and dying and resurrection) are messy. It is so very bodily to be born and to die. So it is that Jesus paints for us – in this utterly incarnational way - the picture of what and who he truly is and in doing so beckons us to ponder who it is we really are too. Are we some version of zombie-beings like the story of Ezekiel and the Valley of Dry Bones conjures up? People who walk through life without truly living? Do we sleep-walk through our days? Are we so full of shame that we can’t claim life like Judas? Are we hopeless and stuck forever exactly as we are like the Tuck family in Tuck Everlasting? Or are we continually growing more closely into the wholeness and fullness of ourselves? It is a journey of being refined, renewed and resurrected. Indeed, we continue to live out a process of dying and being resurrected – that is what it means to believe in Jesus.

Indeed, it is in all those deaths that happen throughout our life that we are truly transformed. When Nicodemus struggled with how to be born a second time, he was struggling with dying to one life and being resurrected into another. When we walk through the waters of baptism we act out this idea symbolically surrendering ourselves to death and being raised into a new life. We know these moments from our own lives – when we feel utterly broken and lost, when we let go, and when by God’s grace we find ourselves renewed, resurrected, and awakened to new possibilities, new chances, and new life.

Several years ago, my dear friend, Deanna, trusted me to walk with her into her darkest days – into her tomb, if you will. A sudden death and changing relationships left her in ruins and a flood of the hate-filled scripts of her life engulfed her and she found herself surrounded by grief, sadness and despair. We spent hours talking. She faithfully met with a counselor and she faithfully put one foot in front of the other even though she couldn’t fully see the way for all those grave clothes.

During this same time, we had a minor tragedy at our house. There was a houseplant sitting on a low shelf and one day an imaginative little boy decided to challenge it to a sword fight using a ruler as his mighty sword. I walked into the room just in time to see a chunk of the plant fly off and onto the floor. I gasped and ran over saying, “What have you done? How careless! How thoughtless! And such an innocent victim…” and a lecture about how mommy treasures her plants and they aren’t to be wacked ensued. It sounds silly but I grieved over that plant’s severed nub.

Nonetheless, I put the nub in a cup of water and watched and hoped that it might root. After awhile, it did! So I fixed a pot of soil and gently planted that nub. I found it a spot in the sunlight and went to work watering it, pulling off a leaf when it had dried up or turned yellow, and turning it periodically so it would grow tall and straight towards the sunlight. And it grew, and grew, and grew.

Somewhere along the way, I started calling that plant my, “Deanna Plant,” for somehow their journeys were parallel. With care, nurture, pruning, continual turning toward the light, she flourished too. If we look, we can see that resurrection is happening all around us.

You see, by saying he is the resurrection and life, Jesus isn’t saying there won’t be death, endings, sorrow, and grief. He isn’t saying that if we can just hold on that one of these days, in the sweet by and by, it will all be better. Jesus is saying that abundant life is ours for the claiming here and now if we can only dare to claim him. He is shouting to us in our darkest places, the tombs of our lives where we feel most alone, lost, and dead to come out! Come out and live!...

…We are a resurrection people. For we, like Mary and Martha, confess our belief in Jesus. Jesus is the resurrection and life. “Come out of your tomb and live,” he calls. Do we dare risk resurrection? Do we dare to live our lives abundantly? May it be so. Amen.
Yes. May it be so, friends. May it be so…

[And by the way...this picture IS the Deanna Plant :-). I met the plant the last time I visited Mandy’s house, and then she sent me the picture this morning :-).]