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…

The Fear of Being Seen

When I was 10 years old, my dad went to Ecuador with his Army Reserves Unit. I don’t remember much about the trip except that I got to ride on the riding lawn mower with the man who cut our grass and that dad brought me a ring from Ecuador that I still sometimes wear.

On Sunday morning, Dad referenced this trip in his sermon. He said that he was so anxious about leaving the family behind that he couldn’t even tell us bye. He said that he left in the middle of the night while we were sleeping so that we wouldn’t see him cry. The true irony of that last statement is that my dad now cries at the drop of a hat!

I don’t know why my dad didn’t want us to see him cry back then. I don’t know if it’s because he’s a man and men aren’t supposed to cry or if there was some other reason that compelled him to leave in the middle of the night. But I do know this: he was full of anxiety as he left for his trip. He was full of sadness for having to say goodbye—wondering if that goodbye would be his last. He was full of grief for the time that he would be away and the events in our lives that he would miss.

Anxiety. Sadness. Grief. Worry. Concern. Doubt. Hurt. Regret. Anger. Sadness. These are emotions that we all feel—some of us more than others—yet they’re emotions that we often don’t want others to see—especially in the church. Why is this? Why do we feel that we must hide so much?

I’ve recently talked with individuals—Christian individuals with a genuine desire to love and serve God—who are:

• struggling with the aftershock of abortion;
• attempting to overcome the addiction of pornography;
• dealing with the repercussions of an affair;
• grieving from being fired from a job for misconduct;
• embarrassed about admitting that she’s an ordained Baptist minister not because she’s embarrassed by her faith but because she’s embarrassed by the reputation that Christians have of being closed minded and judgmental and because she doesn’t want her non-Christian friends to build a wall of protection around their souls;
• healing from being raped; trying to survive in an abusive relationship;
• trying to pretend she’s okay after her dad died;
• trying to figure out how to apply for bankruptcy;
• trying to figure out where to go next after he senses a change in call;
• wondering about the existence and reality of hell;
• wrestling through thoughts of a loving God sending Jews from the Holocaust to hell;
• figuring out how to end a ministry well;
• coming to terms with really harsh, negative thoughts and feelings in a friendship;
• feeling completely alone in this world;
• questioning the meaning of life;
• feeling overwhelmed by the enormity of her job and so afraid of not being a good leader that she has migraines and ulcers and constantly lives in fear;
• realizing that she hates religion and simply wants a relationship with God—who is proclaimed as love but portrayed as a picture completely different;
• wondering how he’s supposed to live a life of faith in the world when his church friends judge him for spending time with friends who don’t live the life approved by the church;
• trying to find the courage to finally say that they do not feel called to teach youth Sunday School or VBS even though there’s no one else in the church to do it;
• trying to find the words to speak her truth to her family when she fears that her family will disown her for not holding “traditional American values”;
• afraid to admit that she voted for Obama and that she doesn’t think it’s his fault that our country is struggling;
• battling sickness and disease;
• wanting to hash out a healthy view of sexuality and sexual ethics but having no one to talk to;
• fighting depression;

All while pretending that everything is okay. All while holding it together and only letting it out late at night (if at all) so that no one sees them cry—so that no one knows their pain…

I’m crying as I write this today. I’m crying behind a closed door because I don’t want my coworkers to see. My boss came in earlier. I was wiping a tear from my eye and was embarrassed that she had caught me in the act. But why? Why was I embarrassed? Why is it bad that I hurt for the hurts of this world? Why is it bad that I feel my heart breaking with what also breaks the heart of God?

In the front of WMU’s Associational Leadership Tool, we read:

Luke recorded the mission that Jesus identified as his mission: “The Spirit of the Lord is on me, because he has anointed me to preach good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim freedom for the prisoners and recovery of sight for the blind, to release the oppressed, to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor” (Juke 4:18-19).

Jesus proclaimed the Kingdom of God and gave witness to the redemptive acts of God. He taught his disciples to do likewise, and they saw him practice this as he went from place to place. They saw Jesus teach the people, forgive their sins, and heal their diseases and sicknesses.

I don’t know about you. But to me, today, freedom for the prisoners is freedom from the fear of being seen.

On Monday I wrote that Jesus saw them. And Jesus loved them. So I’m thinking that maybe we should do the same. I’m thinking that maybe we should start living lives that give people the space to be seen. I’m thinking that maybe we should live lives that allow speaking truth—however scary and ugly it is—to be the vehicle by which the oppressed (and isn’t that all of us) are released. And I’m thinking that maybe we should spend more time giving witness to the redemptive acts of God rather than the damning acts of humankind.

My dad told me last night that we Deatons don’t say goodbye very easily—that we hold on tightly to people and don’t quickly let go. He’s right. We do hold on. And goodbyes are difficult. Which I suppose is why he didn’t tell me bye when I called last night. Instead he said I love you. He left for a mission trip to Armenia this morning. But this time he left wearing his emotions on his sleeve. This time he left being seen…

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.