Hidden Bruises

I am the walking wounded. I am a broken survivor. I am crippled irreparably.

But you cannot see my bruises. My scars are deeply hidden. I limp with secret devastation.

For years I suffered silently, ignorant that I even possessed a voice. Or that anyone would hear it. It never crossed my mind to tell. Maybe it was the innate protector in me wanting to make everything smooth, everyone happy. Maybe I was afraid of the consequences. What if they didn’t fight for me? What lesson would that cement in my soul?

I made assumptions at a very early age, that I was not important enough to cherish, that I was not worthy of love.  I accepted abuse without even questioning my abuser. I understood his message and believed his manipulations. I let this lesson permeate every area of my life, convincing me I deserved nothing better.

I heard the unspoken pronouncement and scripted a story from declarations. I was mean. I was a bad girl. I was the instigator. It was my fault.

I decided to keep certain things hidden, wounds that tore at me, scars that I was ashamed of, broken places. I felt so terribly alone. And so horribly ashamed. If I was the bad guy, then these injuries must be my fault.

It was true. My heart was neglected and responsibilities abandoned. Sexuality was exposed and I was taken advantage of. Trust was abused. Innocence was stolen and blame was shoved onto my shoulders. Burdens were heavy, messes were devastating. Betrayed, lied to, misused, and attacked.  Some screamed in my face and called me names, while others simply forgot I was there. Leaders lied to me. And pushed me to the ground. They said I was bad. They said it was me.

And I believed them.

I stayed quiet and accepted the blame. I shouldered their consequences and their quiet rage. My body was wracked with the trauma. My mind learned to disassociate from life. Some tears were swallowed and others absorbed into my pillow. My trembling hands were shoved deep into my pockets. Every bruise from their unceasing slaps was carefully covered for their protection. Every scar was tenderly hidden.

And now I stand here feeling the pain of those old wounds, seeing the effect of each violent shake.

Everyday I fight my own defenses, I struggle against my own demons.

My heart shivers with truth as I stare it in the face, as I begin to unload what isn’t mine to carry.

And I pray. I pray that His healing will continue to miraculously flow, His grace sheltering my  open spirit, His love filling each empty space. I pray that the new script I have worked so hard to finally recognize, with the reality of my true identity in Christ, will overcome the past’s lies and remind me of God’s solid grasp on my life.

I also pray that He will use me, that I will be willing, with His strength, to expose my scars and stand proud. I pray that God will increase my awareness, that I will be able to see the wounded around me and be part of God’s provision of comfort to them. I pray that He will make me a wounded healer.

Rejected

1 Samuel 8:6-9

            “But when they said, Give us a king to lead us,” this displeased Samuel; so he prayed to the Lord. And the Lord told him: “Listen to all that the people are saying to you; it is not you they have rejected, but they have rejected me as their king. As they have done from the day I brought them up out of Egypt until this day, forsaking me and serving other gods, so they are doing to you. Now listen to them; but warn them solemnly and let them know what the king who will reign over them will do.”

            Samuel was chosen by God, called out at an early age to be His servant and work in the temple. He was a faithful prophet and judge over the people of Israel. When his sons were appointed as Israel’s judges, they showed themselves to be corrupt men. The people were justified in their complaints about this new leadership. They did not turn to God to address this, but instead demanded a king in place of the system of judges God had established. Feeling greatly rejected, Samuel went to God with the people’s request. God’s words to Samuel were comforting. “This isn’t about you. They are not rejecting you. This is about their rejection of me.” They had forsaken God, continually choosing to focus their attention and adoration on everything else but Him. And then God told Samuel how to handle it: Listen to their complaints. Hear their hurts, frustrations, and desires. Warn them of where their refusal to turn to me will take them. And then….give them what they want. “Give them a king.” Vs. 22

            Often, I accept the weight of rejection as personal and deserved. I have felt great shame in my unnamed failure that seemed to have caused such painful circumstances. I have been crippled by the burden. Did Samuel blame himself for the upheaval around him and the people's refusal to follow God and His ways? Did he wonder if his mistakes, his flaws had brought him to the place where his sons were choosing to live sinfully and his countrymen were rejecting him? Did his shoulders start to hunch as depression set in? Did he feel like who he was, all he gave just wasn’t enough?

            I’ve felt Samuel’s great disappointment in being rejected and wondered where I went wrong. Why I was so deeply flawed? What did I do to deserve betrayal? Why would our friendship end so suddenly? Why would they tell lies that destroy my family? Why would they behave in such an incredibly hateful way?

             I’ve always, in one way or another, shouldered the blame. I wasn’t desirable enough. I was too selfish and wasn’t worth the trouble. I failed to live up to their expectations. I wasn’t important enough for reconciliation. Maybe my family was bad. Maybe others abandoned me because I deserved it. I am the cause. I have failed. I am the reason for these cruelties.

            The Lord spoke into Samuel’s life then with undeniable clarity. “They are not rejecting you, Samuel. You have no shame to bear in this. They are rejecting me, my ways, my laws, my love. This is about their lack of awareness in what I can do, lack of willingness to obey me no matter the cost. This is all about their relationship with me.”

            “Will they have a love that is willing to lay down life for another? Will they have a faith that will step out into a torrent of troubles to be by my side? Will they allow transformation to make them different, ready to stand in the full armor of my provision? Will they refuse temptation’s call and accept vulnerability’s cost? Will they show humility to forgive and sacrifice to love?”

            When the answers are no, when God’s urging is ignored, I am to respond  as Samuel was directed, first by listening. With an empathic attitude, I am to hear them. Without taking responsibility for their choices, I am to open myself to their words, thoughts, and unspoken messages. To understand their fears and frustrations. To release my need for acceptance. To listen to their story.

            God then tells me to warn them. I make an effort to understand their feelings and desires so I can warn them of what’s to come. With concern and love, I can express the consequences clearly visible. Lies will permanently damage the bond we cherish. The loss of connection will be grievious. The destruction of trust, devastating. I can ask that we turn to God, stepping away from our perception of injustices done and heartaches experienced, and choosing to follow His leading towards love.

            If they won’t hear me, if their decision is to go their own way, then I can do nothing but let them. I don’t carry the burden of their choices. All that I can offer is to listen and warn. Even when their complaints are justified, turning away from God is never the right answer. To recognize that they are rejecting God and not me is to free myself from the burden of shame wrongly shouldered.  We are all flawed, we all want to do it our way, but I am not responsible for anyone's choices but my own.

            Will I show the kind of love that Jesus did? Will I experience the storm walking life with God?Will I be transformed by His power, not conformed to this world? Will I run from the temptation to make it all about me and gladly take the risk of being vulnerable?

            I will choose to hear God’s clear voice and take comfort in His reassurance. I will be humbled by His forgiveness and love. I will hold out my hand to receive and outstretch my arm to offer.

Other People's Messes

“Stability means not being side swiped at every corner by someone else’s chaos.”

Session 1

When I was a child, other people’s messes were all over me. I was surrounded by chaos and sadness and struggle. Other people’s hurts and bad decisions came crashing down on me often. So, I took on the responsibility to be the one who cleaned up the mess. I spent my life energy feeling that heavy responsibility that should’ve been shoved back onto their shoulders. I was angry and resentful and frustrated.

I wonder, when their messes came falling down on you, how did you react?

A man I knew tried to push himself on me… that was definitely someone else’s mess spilling over into my life. I looked to others for help cleaning up this disaster, and they laughed. So I kicked that mess as hard as I could and watched it roll on the ground moaning in pain. Good for me right?

You cleaned up someone else’s mess when no one would help you. You then had a choice to either tell someone else and let them help get rid of the mess or to keep it to yourself. What did you do?

 I decided to keep it to myself.

How did that feel?

I cannot express how terribly alone that felt.

 To have cleaned up someone else’s bad decision, to have suffered from their mess and to have stood up and said no… but then to have walked away with that secret to carry alone. I can understand that was horribly sad for you. Did you ever tell anyone?

I chose not to tell someone else. What if they wouldn’t help me? What if they would’ve said it was partly my fault? Maybe the shame and responsibility would’ve crushed me.

But maybe they would’ve stood up and fought for you. Can you imagine how that would’ve felt?

Oh the love and importance I would’ve been filled with! I would’ve known I was cherished. I would’ve felt such pride and connection! I had choices. No matter how hopeless it felt, no matter how unfair the circumstances were, I had choices.

 And I have choices now, whether it’s a literal mess I come home to or the figurative mess made when others strike out. When other people make messes and the feeling of responsibility starts to crush me, I can recognize the truth of my past and my present. And I can let go.

No matter how much I know this truth, I don’t succeed often. I feel the loneliness of being the one who has to clean up other people’s messes start to envelop me, and it hurts, and I get angry! I am powerless to make others change, to get them to help, to show them how much it hurts me even when it’s something as simple as the kitchen sink over running. It is hopeless that they will ever take the need for cleaning up their messes seriously.

You still have a choice.

I can live with it, the pit of anxiety and frustration firmly in my gut. I can accept the mess. Or I can clean it up. But it isn’t mine!!!

I get that, but those are the choices. You are not powerless. You have choices. Which one is better?

I want to live in a clean house, so I will clean it, knowing it isn’t my responsibility. But then how can I get back at them? What can the consequences be? What’s the punishment?

 There is none. You clean it by choice for your peace of mind. You clean it because you want it clean. You clean it without picking up the weight of their burden. And you forgive them, you let it go. You love them.

But that’s not fair!! They are getting away with it. What would make them ever clean up their own mess when they know I will just do it for them, without any consequences???

Maybe, just maybe, they will pick up the weight of your love. Feel it deep down in their wounded places. And maybe they will respond.

Take My Hand

Take my hand. I will hold onto yours with strength and calm. I won't let go when trouble comes, when heartaches threaten, when tear drops fall. My head will bow to weep with you. My hand will grasp tighter, and we will walk together through it all.

I want to offer you, with the grip of my fingers, endurance, companionship, comfort, courage. Anything can be faced by two. Everything can be walked through with someone at your side. I will not abandon you when wounds need healing. I will love you with grace.

I offer you my outstretched hand, a friend who sees you and accepts you just for who you are. Without judgment, without rejection, I will listen to your open heart and love you for the beautiful creation you have always been. I won't try to carry you. Do not worry about burdening me. I can stand beside you without taking responsibility for your pain. I can journey next to you without dependence.

Our entangled fingers prove the consistent presence of our bond. With safety between us, we can travel together, blocking fear with love, soothing insecurities with honesty, crushing hesitancy with trust.

I am here, holding your hand to honor you. If you choose to let go, if you release my hand to follow your own path alone, I will smile in remembrance of my season with you. I will encourage your steps no matter how much distance they create. I will celebrate the growth we were allowed to share, and I will offer you the vision in my heart for your joy and peace. Grief may come, I will feel your absence, but mingled with my tears will be warmth residing in the palm of my hand.

HIS and HERS

HIS

He shrinks down lower in his chair

As the mindless arrows fly by

Trying to avoid their vicious sting.

Nothing prepares him for the warfare

And prevention seems impossible.

Where did the chest target come from?

A subtle attack on his humor

Or demeaning words said with a smile,

Violent kicks under the table.

His appeal is silent and desperate.

The pain in his quiet resolve shouts.

How can she miss those begging eyes?

Her lack of self love and self respect

Spur her attacks and anger forward

At the safest and closest bullseye.

She continues to pull back and fire

Differences paraded and mocked.

His pride lies lifeless at her feet.

Her unconscious arsenal continues

They soar by careless but sure

When will she open her eyes?

And see her guilt?

HERS

I might see too clearly

The reflection of eyes.

I may feel intensely

The emotions I hide.

I fear the eruptive

The sad fragility

The peril and rawness

In being “Exposed me.”

My secrets unburied

Where would my safety lie?

If my masks fall away

The cold woman must die.

My heart held in your hands

Is it safe or a risk?

Trusting you to hold me

Beating scared in your fist.

Do you deserve chances?

Has the time simply passed?

If I open my heart

Is it destined to last?

The fears that control me

Harshly blinding like sun

Will not let me love you.

I am choosing to run.

Am I Worth It?

Oh how you love me!

My prayer this morning was, “Teach me to know you better so I can worship you more.” I want to know intimately His holiness, His power and grace, His might, strength, and awesomeness. I want to know God. I want to fall on my face in humility at His greatness. I want to feel the weight of His wide, open arms.

I read Genesis 1, the incredible display of my Creator! I heard how He made us in His likeness, in His image. I felt the call, the naming of who I am in Him.

Then I opened my book and read these words…

“There is something mythic in the way a man is with a woman. Our sexuality offers a parable of amazing depth when it comes to being masculine and feminine. The man comes to offer his strength and the woman invites the man into herself, an act that requires courage and vulnerability and selflessness for both of them. Notice first that if the man will not rise to the occasion, nothing will happen, He must move, his strength must swell before he can enter her. But neither will the love consummate unless the woman opens herself in stunning vulnerability. When both are living as they were meant to live, the man enters his woman and offers her his strength. He spills himself there in her, for her, she draws him in, embraces and envelopes him. When all is over, he is spent, but ah, what a sweet death it is.” (Wild At Heart, John Eldredge)

I closed my eyes and drank in this, the most beautiful definition I have ever read of sex. But SO much more than sex! This is the picture of everything beautiful about relationship! Am I beautiful? Am I wanted? Am I worth fighting for? I have heard a resounding NO for so much of my life. And I have believed it. I have taken these lies deep into the core of who I am and allowed the echoing of such ugliness to resonate in my choices. I threw tantrums, I invited abuse, I begged for someone to prove me wrong.

And God brought me Peter.

He is wild and untamed. He is passionate and dangerous. He is strong and courageous. He is responsive and dynamic. He hears my story and wants to be my friend. I tell him of the destructive things I’ve done, my shame rises up ready to choke the love he thinks he feels for me. He uncovers  my face, bringing my hands down, and kisses my palms. He looks me in the eye and finds honor in my vulnerability. He loves me more. When I hide, he searches unceasingly. When I fight, he surrenders without thought to what he may suffer. When I crumble, he joins my devastation.

Oh how he heals me!

“I want to know you, God. Show me you.” I quietly prayed as I wiped my tears.

Jesus came to offer His strength. He willingly stood, his might solid, ready to act on my behalf. He spilled His blood so that I could have life. He poured out everything in Him so that I could receive His strength. And when I open myself in “stunning vulnerability” oh the love that is consummated between us! Oh, the life that surges through me! I am His beloved. I am desirable. I am worth fighting for.

Lunch today with our dear friend Dave was a predictable, overwhelming experience. He spoke into our hearts and exposed our wounds in the most loving and safe way possible. I was encouraged to love my children in bigger ways, challenged to intentionally allow exposure in my broken places, and offered opportunities to honor my husband more deeply. When we walked out of the restaurant he gave us his “random thought.” We must create space where our families of origin are respected and valued. I heard him and agreed that the dinners set aside to give attention to our own kids were invaluable and would be continued. My husband heard more.

His Spirit, open to God, quieted to listen. His strength swelled, his selflessness rose ready to move forward into my vulnerable heart, the core piece of me that has been wrenched while witnessing the pain I have brought my children in my decision to divorce their dad. This is the part that has defined me, encouraged me, and has held me together through countless battles for my sanity. I am honored and blessed in innumerable ways to be a mother. My husband stood up and spilled himself for my children and I. He spoke into my defenseless space and made a magnificent sacrifice so that I could spend precious time with my children. Once again, he relished the beauty of my full heart, he showed me how desirable my joy was, he proved that I am worth fighting for.

Hey Nick, Crystal, and Jordan!! Our vacation to San Francisco will just be the four of us!  

The Secret of Closure

     I found my notes today from Pastor Bill's sermon on January 12th, 2008. It was a continuation on his series, "The Secrets of a Highly Contented Life," focusing on the life of Joseph. Genesis chapter 37, where the world is facing famine and Egypt's Joseph has the only surplus to give, so Jacob sends his ten sons to get food.

     Bill talked about the load of guilt these ten brothers were carrying, had been for the past twenty years, for hating their little brother Joseph so much that they threw him in a pit, ignored his cries for help, sold him into slavery, and lied to their father about his death. "The Secret of Closure" is the idea that we have to deal with the unfinished business of our life to find contentment. "You will never be content with a guilty, nagging conscience."

     How does God bring closure? How does He provide us with this chance for peace?

     1. God brings us back to our true identity. Here's the line that reached me... "God does not name us by our failures. He names us by our potential." Our identity in Christ is one of freedom as His child, as Heir with Christ, as completely forgiven and unconditionally loved people. We walk around this Earth with our backs breaking from guilt over things we've done and things we wish we would've done, labeling ourselves with our failures, instead of allowing God's cleansing to complete us and celebrating the identity He provides.

     So the ten brothers are on their way to Egypt, which is a reminder of their guilt knowing they sent their brother there years ago. This is violently shaking the dark skeletons in their closets. They are overwhelmed with the full affect of guilt, of haunting memories, of feeling like they have passed the point of no return. They're not aware that God is starting them on a path of closure.

     2. God confronts us with the truth about ourselves. "God is confronting them...they won't admit they are guilty, so they can never find release. As long as they deny the truth, they can never experience forgiveness. God brings them face to face with the truth." We choose to minimize, to deny, to swallow, to distract, anything to avoid the truth about ourselves. Our God is merciful and compassionate as He leads us to a place where we are forced to see clearly. This is where healing starts.

     The ten brothers have to face Joseph, though they don't recognize him, they are being confronted with the truth. They know they are guilty and they are starting to face it. Instead of blaming others, justifying their actions, or avoiding this pain, they are finally accepting the truth.

     3. God shows us grace. Through Joseph's actions of giving them grain, returning their money, supplying provisions for their journey, he shows them grace and the brothers in return are afraid. "What is this that God has done to us?" They are terrified of grace in the middle of their guilt. God is doing all He can to "restore their spiritual lives, make them whole again, resurface the skeletons in their closet. Not to punish them, but to get rid of this unfinished business once and for all." What an amazing picture of God's grace! He isn't condemning their sin, punishing them with a strong hand, pressing their mistakes in their faces. No.

     It may feel like that at times. We don't want to be reminded of those things we buried as deeply as we could. We don't want to admit the messes we made. We don't want to stare in a clear mirror and see this truth...and when we do, we are not expecting grace. Grace humbles us, makes us feel ashamed of our deep sin. We deserve punishment, but we hide from it. We recieve grace and we are afraid of it.

     "The point is grace. If your heart is chained by guilt, you will never feel free or content until God balances the books, until God balances the scales of justice. You can never do it. God must pay for your sins. God must pull you back out of your guilt...The answer to all guilt is the cross, the highest expression of God's grace."

     4. God is calling us to faith. "You can never outweigh your guilt. Your good deeds can never balance the scales. Only God can do it, only the cross. The only way to receive the benefits of Jesus and His shed blood is by faith. Faith to get started, faith to keep going. God is inviting you to a deeper, yielded, mature faith today."

     Faith to trust God enough to open that closet and allow Him room to expose us so we can be free of that guilt. Faith to know He loves us no matter what, He already knows what's in our closet, and He wants us to be free of it. Faith to know that He paid the ultimate price on the cross and wants us to feel the benefits of His sacrifice.

     I sit here reading, absorbing these concepts, aching, physically aching for this kind of healing. Here it is plain and simple:

     We have hurt each other in deep and lasting ways. But we are God's children and God loves us. Our identity is secure in Christ's death on the cross. Do we recognize our worth, the treasures we are to God?

     Often we have been confronted with truth. We are devastated by the guilt and shame that rises up and screams how worthless we must be. But this is our opportunity to throw open that dark closet and cleanse our lives of the skeletons. The truth is sitting here staring us in the face everyday. God is giving us that confrontation of truth.

     God's grace...Do we have any idea that this exposing of our sin is a good thing? That God is, through His perfect grace, providing us a way of healing? We are afraid of it, ashamed of ourselves, and refuse to come out of hiding. Our hearts are chained in guilt, and will stay there until we allow God's cleansing power to have what we've been holding on to for so long.

     Faith....I am afraid we get stuck way back at the beginning of this sermon. How can we not get it? Are we stuck still trying to hide it, still fighting the exposed feeling, desparate to keep that stuff in the closet? We will never be free to be happy, content, or whole until we face the truth. How many of us still suffer with the guilt and the shame of our fallible existence, never feeling the amazing grace of God embracing us, never feeling the joy of our true identity in Christ, never being able to celebrate God in our lives, never hearing that still, small voice calling our hearts.

Truth that Sets Me Free

The truth that set me free was the sinking in of the reality that God loves me so completely. He loves me for who I am right now. He loves me in spite of my mistakes. He loves me unconditionally. He loves me, blesses me, honors me as He does Jesus. Romans 5:16-17 AND Nothing can separate me from his love and these blessings. Romans 8:35-39 Nothing can pluck me out of his hand.

John 10:28-30

It's when I got ahold of what His grace truly offers me...EVERYTHING...that grace is forgiveness for past, present, and future, that grace is loving me through every mistake, that grace is Him sitting here wanting me to grow, knowing the opportunities that are in front of me, and patiently waiting for me to let go of the things that hold me back so that I can take those steps forward. Grace is my identity. Grace is the gift He has filled ever inch of my life with. Grace is what makes me want to serve him and grace is where I find joy and comfort. Grace doesn't mean guilt, shame, manipulating, demanding repentance, or changes, it isn't condemnation and it isn't ugly. It's this beautiful acceptance of me, right where I am today with all my weaknesses. It's this love and freedom and open warmth. And in this grace, I am made capable to overcome my weaknesses, I am motivated to Love my God and I learn to trust his inherent goodness and his perfect love.

Sometimes we may not feel like He's always with us but that's where real faith comes in. It's where we make the choice to believe anyway. Like the song says...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=syKpkglSsdY

I know many disagree with me when I say that I don't feel shame anymore, or let guilt rule, because I am free in Christ and in his love for me. It's not about me working for his favor anymore. It's about me basking in the favor he has already promised is mine. That's why I serve Him and find comfort in him and have learned to trust him. It's His grace that sets me free.

Contempt

Contempt is defined as the act of despising, a lack of respect or reverence for something or someone, regarding someone as worthless and inferior, the state of being despised or dishonored.

Dan Allendar expounds on four vital ways that contempt holds power over humanity in the book, The Wounded Heart.

  First, contempt diminishes our own shame. The disgust I spew at your failure lessens the focus of my own, shielding me from the reminder that who I am is not okay. I scrounge every ounce of my energy to fling ugliness towards your mistake so that I don’t have time to gather the brokenness of my own self-mockery. My shame is shadowed by contempt’s glaring power.

Second, contempt deadens our longings. When people abuse our innate needs for things like love and significance we develop painful wounds. We grow up learning to behave contemptuously to protect us from those deep, aching needs within. If I don’t need you, then you can’t hurt me. If I don’t open my heart to those desires in me that have been mistreated and manipulated, then I won’t be reminded of those gaping wounds of past betrayals. I must work constantly “to avoid or destroy whatever increases sorrow in our unpredictable and dangerous world… Contempt is a cruel anesthetic to longing.” (pg 67)

Contempt also deceives us into thinking that we have control. If I build a lifestyle of contempt, criticizing and noticing everyone else’s imperfections, I can pretend that I am in control of myself. As I muddle through a world where so little is in my power, I can create a false semblance of control with my outpouring of disgust for others. “Contempt provides a strange antidote for the struggle of confusion, terror, and helplessness…” (pg 68)

Finally, contempt keeps us from seeing the real problem. Let me be blind to the truth of my wounds. Let my failure stay hidden. Let my fallible humanity and my fragile personhood be denied. Lest I see my deep and utter helplessness without God, my crippling shame, my painful longings, my lack of control. Contempt allows us to hide from clarity.

In a world that feels so unsafe, surrounded by practices of contempt, how do we survive?

We choose love. With every demanding knock of contempt’s desire to be welcomed in, we instead embrace love. We allow the shame to bubble up, tasting it’s bitterness in the back of our throats, and we immediately allow God to wrap our exposure in His accepting arms. We give Him room to heal those shame-filled wounds with His adoration of who we truly are.

We allow the longings to revive and breathe again, sensing the possible disappointment and the stifling fear of our neediness, and risking the vulnerability anyway. We recognize that we are made to connect, to join, to desire and in these relational necessities, sometimes we get hurt. Often we fail each other. Sometimes our mistakes wound. But the joy of an essence connecting, a core bond creating is an intimate taste of heaven itself.

We release false control, pretense of independence, and trust that God’s hand securely grasps all power. Our muscles relax, letting go of the demand to be in charge, knowing that His promises to make all things good are full of a purpose and a plan far above our understanding. We try so hard to escape pain, to avoid heartache. We reach for Spring’s resurrection wanting to never feel Winter’s death. But all seasons are necessary for growth, for new life, and in our falling back into the arms of our Creator, we find His freedom and peace.

Ultimately, our hearts receive the gift of clarity, to see the truth of our condition and of our Father’s grace. Contempt’s heavy curtain is ripped down and shredded while the truth sets us free.

It is then that we are able to step into the community of contempt that surrounds us without becoming contemptuous ourselves. We can experience other’s desperate avoidance of shame and empathize authentically with their innate need for acceptance. We can witness the ineffectual deadening of God given longings and the incredible grieving of overwhelmed hearts. We can watch their intense struggle to claim power that isn’t their own and their blinding denial to the powerlessness at their core. And we can offer our love, knowing personally how deep the hurt runs, how crippling the wounds can be, how devastating recovery can feel, and how real God’s amazing freedom is.

Facing Jenny

SETTING: A luxuriant but cozy living room filled with gorgeous family photographs framed in gold, leather, rust colored furniture and a cherry wood coffee table with matching end tables adorned with ornate lamps. A young girl of eight sits on the plush, rich brown carpet with a blank paper in her lap, crayon in her hand, coloring pictures of happy families. She wears a simple, cotton jumper and has long, straight, brown hair with bangs slightly crooked from her mother’s hand. Sitting on the edge of the couch, looking awkward and nervous, is a young woman of thirty-two. Her clothes show her affluence, name brands, nicely pressed. The woman’s nails are nicely manicured, her hair just so, and her makeup perfectly applied.

WOMAN: You know you’re safe here. Anything you say and feel will be accepted and believed. This is the place where you are loved, unconditionally and will be protected.

GIRL: (nonchalant) I don’t believe you. I don’t feel protected…or loved.

WOMAN: I’m sorry for that. (Reaches out to touch her shoulder)

GIRL: (pulls back just out of reach)

WOMAN: Ok. We can take this slow. I know you’ve been through some really awful things.

GIRL: How do you know?

WOMAN: I was there… I guess now, I’m trying to get to know you again. I want to know you. (wistfully) I used to know you really well. Do you remember?

GIRL: (looks suspiciously)

WOMAN: We used to play on the swings together, going as high as we could and scaring the adults around us. Do you remember that?

GIRL: (shrugs) I don’t know.

WOMAN: How about the times we spent reading Sesame Street books together, or listening to our record player and singing as loudly as we could?

GIRL: (little smile breaks our on her face) I remember that. (She whispers in awe) We used to play at the church, like we were giving a big show. Right?(excited to be remembering good things)

WOMAN: Yes. Yes, that’s right. (relieved and starting to relax) I loved playing with you.

GIRL: We used to walk down at the creek and play pretend games. We used to walk to school together. (getting more and more excited) Remember our blocks and our people toys? Or when we’d cut out paper dolls from Mommy’s catalogs?

WOMAN: (giggles) Yes! I remember that. How about our dolls we used to paint with our watercolors on their faces? (scoots on to the floor, loosening up)

GIRL: (laughing) Remember it got stuck on one side of our doll, Mandy’s face? And she looked all pink on one half and white on the other? I was kinda sad about that.

WOMAN: I know. Me too.

GIRL: (pause and quietly asks) Where did you go?

WOMAN: (lost in reverie) What?

GIRL: Why did you stop playing with me? Why did you go away?

WOMAN: Oh Sweetie. I’m so sorry I left you there. I guess I was scared and… and I didn’t know what to do.

GIRL: You didn’t love me anymore. You didn’t want me anymore.

WOMAN: No. No, that’s not it. I…

GIRL: It doesn’t matter. I don’t want to remember no more. Can I go now?

WOMAN: It does matter. You matter. You are so important to me and I know I left you back there when I should’ve stayed with you and fought for you. (covers her mouth, stifle a cry) I was wrong. I chose the wrong way. I chose to close my eyes and forget, and now… now I am the one hurting too.

GIRL: Do you remember when Daddy was crying in the kitchen? When he was holding me so tight and shaking so bad? Do you remember that?

WOMAN: Yes.

GIRL: Why was Daddy crying? Did I do something bad?

WOMAN: No. No. You didn’t do anything wrong.

GIRL: Are you sure?

WOMAN: Baby, moms and dads make mistakes sometimes. And that time in the kitchen, there was just a lot of hurting because of some bad decisions that couldn’t be taken back. (mutters to herself) That probably made zero sense.

GIRL: It’s ok. I was just wondering.

WOMAN: You have a right to ask and to know. They should’ve told you more.

GIRL: I guess I just wasn’t important. I mean, for them to talk to. I always wondered what was going on and stuff, but I didn’t know what to do. Most of the time I just went in my room.

WOMAN: You were and are important, Love. It was their mistake, not yours. They didn’t know how to talk with you or that you needed to hear their words. Their own pain was so overwhelming.

GIRL: (shrugs)

WOMAN: Do you remember when your sisters left? When they ran away from home?

GIRL: Yea. Kinda.

WOMAN: Do you remember what it felt like?

GIRL: Momma and Daddy were real sad and quiet. I didn’t know if they were mad at me too or if I did something wrong again. My sister told me not to tell when she had her boyfriend over. I hated him. She said would run away again… I tried not to tell. I did. (starts to cry)

WOMAN: Honey, (reaches out to hold her) You did the right thing by telling. You must’ve felt really scared.

GIRL: I did feel scared and my stomach hurt real bad. I didn’t know what I did wrong, but I knew I did something. Everyone was mad and crying and I just sat there on the couch wishing I could shut myself in my room. I didn’t like sitting there with everybody all mad.

WOMAN: It would’ve been nice for someone to hold you, tell you how brave you were for telling, and let you know it was gonna be ok.

GIRL: It wasn’t ok. It was lonely and sad in my house.

WOMAN: (remembering) And sometimes it was really noisy too huh?

GIRL: Noisy?

WOMAN: It’s just… I guess I’m remembering too. Our house was quite chaotic.

GIRL: What does that mean?

WOMAN: Noisy, not peaceful.

GIRL: Well, sometimes it was noisy and Momma wasn’t super neat like Aunt Cheryl, but I was glad. She let me play with my toys in the living room and everything!

WOMAN: Mom did a good job of loving you. She tried really hard to show you how important you were. But I know (lifts her chin to look her in the eye) that sometimes you didn’t feel important.

GIRL: Am I important (pauses) to you?

WOMAN: Yes. Absolutely. I want to take care of you now. I know I messed up and didn’t protect you like I should’ve, but I want to protect you now. I want to help you to find your dreams, to laugh freely, and to know it’s safe to cry too.

GIRL: You want a lot.

WOMAN: (laughs) Yes, I do. And it’s about time you and I get it! We deserve to be loved, Little One. We are important, if nothing else than to each other.

GIRL: Hey! Let’s go play outside, k? Let’s play pretend and we can be singers together and have fancy costumes and a big show to do and…

WOMAN: (closes her eyes and sighs deeply. Then leans over and picks up a thick photo album. Flipping through the pages of her childhood pictures, she sees baby smiles, toddler delights, and finally the young girl with the crooked bangs and innocent eyes. She smiles, finally at peace with her little girl self.)

Our Vows 4~14~12

Jenny, I promise this day to love you for the rest of my life. I have been given very specific instructions on this, and you need to know what those are so you can count on them every morning when you awake,every moment of the day. I am instructed to love you as Christ loved the church and gave Himself up for her. So I promise to submit my life to you. I am to love you as I love my own body. I am also instructed to consider who you are in my love for you. I am to know you, to understand what you need, to apprehend your very nature for the sole purpose of loving you. I believe that God has given me the nature to do this. And so I will.

I will seek out your heart. I will provide everything I am able for you to live in your beauty. I will listen to your fears and respond with protection. I will be your friend and enjoy an intimacy that could only be designed by God. And I will love your body with a passion that grows deeper as the years pass. I will love you for as long as we both shall live.



Today, Peter, I take you to be my husband. I promise to grow with you everyday of our journey, to walk with you through each challenge, and to cherish the chance to know the complexities of you.

I promise to love you as the man God made you to be, trusting you, choosing you, showing you by my actions, words, and the adoration in my eyes how essential you are to my heart.

I promise to honor the father you are, recognizing the beauty and importance of your relationship with your children, and supporting and loving them as my own.

I promise to share the beauty of the present moment with you, being open and honest in everything, sharing laughter and tears, joys and heartaches, ever grateful to have you by my side.

I promise to take the healing power that God pours on me everyday, to shower that beautiful grace on you, to experience the deepest intimacy with you in prayer, in worship, in everyday moments, and in loving you with all that I am.

I promise to give you all of me: my vulnerability, my strength, my handsiness, my friendship, the broken pieces of me and the healed, to faithfully love you and you alone for the rest of my life.

Beautiful

This picture brings me joy, peaceful thoughts, waves of gratitude. I have dear friends who have spent countless hours working to create a place of beauty to celebrate our wedding day. Friends who love me enough to dedicate resources and precious time working on their property. I look at their incredible generosity and the exquisite backdrop for our ceremony, and I am simply overwhelmed.

I have traveled over some treacherous paths. I’ve been swallowed up in hopelessness and weariness. When I think of some of the scenes from my past: places where joy was expected, beauty was deserved, peace was worked towards… but places where betrayals, abandonments, and shame stamped out every potential bloom, my heart can’t believe where I stand today. The gloriousness God has surrounded me with! The
view He has provided in front of me!

In a way, the darkness seems even blacker, accentuated by the light of this moment. The loneliness pierces me deeper, where love has opened starving places in me and filled that hunger. When I stare at the awesomeness of this masterpiece, composed for my wedding day, the ugliness of my past stands up. I stare at it, unable to stop shaking my head, completely in awe of where I was, and where I am now.

Last Tuesday, March 27th, I stepped off a curb wrong and rolled my ankle bad enough to create quite a severe break. I’ve spent a week nursing it in bed, being nursed by my fiance and my kids. And a lot of the time crying over ease lost, difficulties created, and disappointments made. Tomorrow, April 3rd, I will head into surgery, letting the doctor put a plate and some screws in my ankle, and spend a few days sleeping off the anesthetic and drugs. Anxiety causes more tears than the pain does. I’m sure there will be more.

And yet, I sit here after four hours at the doctor’s office, making decisions, and prepping for surgery. I sit here exhausted and afraid. Then my eyes wander over to this snapshot sent to me yesterday. One of twenty something sent to me to show where a gorgeous planter was placed, and how the lights on the barn look at night, the little swing hanging from the giant oak, the red tulips in bloom circling it’s base, the grass lush and green inviting my bare toes. And I am filled beyond reason with peace and gratitude and a joy I cannot express.

No denying this broken ankle is a pain in the ass. But it’s a tiny bump on a well-worn road. I am absolutely thrilled to hear the tender prayers of people who love me, feel the gentle touch of their support, grasp the beautiful words sent to encourage, and thrive in circumstances out of my control, knowing that God brought me here. I once felt so alone, so weak, so unwanted. I’ll take the broken ankle and the surgery. And I’ll hobble over on my crutches, sit gingerly in my ivory gown on this little swing, and praise God for the union with the man I love, a man who utterly adores me, and for the strength of friends who provided such a sacred space.

Two Healthy Breasts

With two shaking fists, I clutched the thin gown to my chest, covering the suspect lump my doctor had discovered the week before. I was advised to watch it, get to know it, and wait for a couple of months to see if there were any changes. But every night as I lay in bed with my right arm above my head, my left hand probing the solid mass of tissue, my heart would start to race with the panic of what ifs and my stomach would churn with increasing fear.

Life was so good right now. I had met the man of my dreams and was planning a spring wedding! He was intently loving me and opening my heart to new levels of giving and receiving. I was happy! Was life too good?

I was also turning 40 soon and isn’t that the time where these things begin to work their way into your life? The lump found at 32 didn’t seem so frightening. It seemed a little absurd. But I was almost 40 now. This lump was simply terrifying.

I asked my friend Diana what I should do - pursue peace of mind or wait it out like I was told. My fiancé, Peter agreed with her, peace of mind came first, and I made my mammogram appointment. Sitting in the boxy closet they had classified as a dressing room, I watched women walk by me, some grasping the same tied-in-the-front gowns, some with their clipboards and scrubs, some with ease and confidence possibly facing the routine screenings they had been through before, some with a false smile pasted on their nervous faces. I was constantly on the verge of letting my insistent tears spill over, swallowing them back only to feel them rise and fill again.

Linda stopped in front of the accordion door and directed me to make my way to the third room on the right. Maybe it was good that she was somewhat unfeeling. If she would have showed me understanding, if her hand would’ve touched my shoulder in some sort of offering of comfort, or her words would’ve been compassionate towards my obvious nervousness, I probably would’ve ended up in a puddle at her feet.

The process was a little embarrassing, her hands guiding my breasts to the correct position, feeling the twelve pounds of pressure pushing me down onto the tray. But it didn’t hurt and I was grateful for that since this would be an annual event from now on. The emotional task of keeping speculation at bay was enough.

There were no reassuring words as the pictures were snapped. Just a little prodding, a lot of skin, and a fair amount of breeze causing chills. Or maybe they were emotional goose bumps ruffling my demeanor with the reality of where I was and what I was doing.

Next, she ushered me into the hall, my purse and sweater held tight to my chest, where she then handed me off to a sweet looking, blond woman who told me she would be performing my ultrasound. “So they saw enough to warrant an ultrasound?” I asked. “I mean they saw something?”

“Actually, your mammogram showed nothing unusual.” She told me, easing my growing fears. “We’re just making sure what you felt was nothing. Your tests are good so far.”

I laid on the draped table feeling the warm gel spreading over my skin, the wand moving, pressing to get just the right picture.

“What did it feel like to you?” the blond technician asked me. It felt like terror. It felt like impending disaster, wild imaginations of the worst scenario, happiness quickly disappearing, life too good to be true.

“It didn’t feel like a hard marble, like before.” I told her instead, struggling to find the words. “It felt odd, larger, muscley?”

She continued her search. Looking over at the screen, I saw waves of white and gray. Reminiscent of pregnancy ultrasounds I had watched years ago with feelings of utter joy, I thought about just how different this was. She was perusing my right breast with concentration and determination, trying to dispel dreadings of unknowns with beautiful facts of health.

“Here we go.” She said and my stomach dropped even farther. She had found it. At least she could tell me what it is and the unknown factor could be eliminated. It took a few minutes for the words to come. “This is a fatty tumor. Perfectly normal, nothing to worry about.” Her hands continued working, recording proof, and my eyes closed in exhaustion and relief.

After getting dressed hurriedly, I briskly walked to the waiting room where my nervous, supportive fiancé was anticipating news. “It’s good. I’m fine.” I told him even before he wrapped me in his arms, not willing to stretch out this moment for dramatic effect. We both cried tears of gratitude, holding each other close. My two shaking fists slowly unclenched, nothing between us but two healthy breasts.

Indescribable

Indescribable
the Reality of utter Release,
Crashing definitions,
Consuming one we adore.
his Spirit now Silent,
Soft sound of deflating lungs,
Seizes hearts, Swells grief,
Shifts worlds, thickens Space.
one last Breath, a thin Breeze,
Brokenness envelops all.
heaven Approaches,
Altering our existence,
forcing Acceptance,
demanding Goodbye,
Gone, Gone, Gone.
the Dream of life Dissolved
by Death.
Undeniable Urgency to touch him,
needs raw and Exposed.
Empathic tears Flood.
our Hero becomes Mystery.
Untouched, Unseen spirit.
this Tender departure,
a Permanent separation,
where Fear and Faith greet
with a kiss of Finality.

One Restless Night

The soft and constant moaning between each breath was coming deep from his chest and throat. He continually kicked at his sheets with determination, refusing the weight of the light cotton. He couldn’t hold on to a peaceful sleep for any significant amount of time. Comfort seemed out of his grasp. My eyes were gritty and aching for sleep, but they refused to look away from his shadowed form. I eagerly watched each rise and fall of his chest, overwhelmed by my helplessness to still the battle his restless spirit was engaging in these, his final days.

We brought him home from the hospital not only because he demanded it to every nurse and doctor who walked into his room, but also because we wanted to honor him, to love on him, and to pour the kind of compassion we had witnessed his heart offering to so many others throughout our lives. We were grateful for this precious time to have him home and under our watchful care.

I knew that every minute in my parents’ double wide mobile home was fragile and quickly dissipating. The cancer was claiming him. In the last day or so it had stolen his voice. Cancer was a cruel thief that had stolen more and more of his understanding in the past few weeks. He had suffered both physically and emotionally the past year as cancer slowly robbed him of strength and vitality.

However, cancer had no power to destroy his beauty to me, no authority to demand of his humanity. He was still the daddy I adored. I could still smell coffee when near him, still feel the bristle on his cheeks that I kissed. His hands were still the largest I’d ever seen, weathered and strong. His eyes were still the ones who had looked at me with pride and adoration. He would always be mine.

Rising from the couch, I walked the few steps to his hospital bed, and gently placed my hand on his forehead. His skin was smooth and soft. I pulled the sheet back over him carefully, and he immediately began pushing it down again with his feet.

“Okay, Dad.” I told him with a tired smile. “I get it. No sheets.”

I picked up the large, black leather Bible laying on the tray next to
his water and medications, its

thin pages lovingly marked from years of loyal study, and I sat back into the rolling desk chair we kept by his side. During the day, we took turns sitting here holding his hand, or standing over his bedside brushing our fingers over his head. Just yesterday, I had made the effort to surrender, to offer him the comfort of release by whispering in his ear, “It’s okay, Daddy. It’s okay to let go. We’ll take care of Mom, of each other. It’s okay.”

What felt to me to be the exact opposite of okay was his lack of physical peace. My father, above anyone I knew, was a man of great faith, pronouncing to the hospice nurse just the week before how ready and secure he felt for the journey ahead. But this process of his body shutting down a little bit at a time was painful and I couldn’t help but wonder if fear was depleting his security as well.

I opened my father’s Bible easily to the book of John, my favorite gospel, and began to read aloud to him. He had drawn such joy and pleasure from knowing God through His written words. He had dedicated most of his life to first understanding and second teaching from this book he held in the highest esteem.

I wanted miracles there in the dimly lit living room. I desired an instant holiness to sweep in and surround his weary body, to cover his troubled spirit with reassurance. I needed one of those moments where in stories the person nearing death receives a dose of clarity and calm. I wanted signs and wonders that God was near and ready to wrap my father’s spirit in the safe haven of His own. I desired proof of supernatural power providing solace through the inspired passage of scripture I was reading out loud.

Instead, his moaning continued, his restless legs never slowing, and sleep eluded him. I read a few chapters, smiling at the verses displaying Jesus’ sense of humor. “Funny Jesus, Dad! This is one of those places!” I laughed to myself remembering the recent sermon about Jesus’ humanity and the line of sarcasm I had just read.

My eyes closed slowly, resolved to the fact that I would not be sharing “Funny Jesus” moments with this man who had led me as a child into Jesus’ arms. I would not be sharing any more phone conversations about upcoming Sunday School lessons or tender debates about differing beliefs. I wouldn’t see him stand behind a pulpit again, proclaiming the glory and magnificence of his God, weeping over the love and devotion of a Savior he felt so unworthy of.

There would be no more tenor “rolled away”s sung in celebration in the chorus of “At the Cross”, no more hymns harmonized by his side on Sunday mornings. I would never again hear his powerful voice lifted in prayer, his genuine petitions, his humble offerings of adoration that always began with the words, “Our Most Kind, Gracious, Loving Heavenly Father…”

I closed his Bible, tired of fighting both sleep and sadness, and leaned over to kiss his cheek before climbing back under the sheet that actually comforted me. The warmth of his skin under my lips, the few precious seconds our faces were so close together felt sacred. I was the little girl he had held in his arms, and the woman who he had helped to raise. I loved his presence in my life, his inspiration and unconditional love.

My sleep was forced into short intervals, fitful and light enough to hear every noise. I wanted to be awake as he needed me. We took turns so that one of us would always be with him. I was so afraid that the moment I let myself truly drift off would be the time he took his last breath. All of us wrestled with this unspoken fear when it was our shoulders the responsibility rested on. What if we lost him in the middle of the night? What if we woke up to see he was alone when he died?

It was irrational, the demand for such control over this. But it was real nonetheless. So I closed my eyes and listened to his breathing, slightly labored and raspy. I stood up every few minutes and pulled the hated sheet back over his exposed legs. I moistened his lips with the pink sponge sucker and rubbed his tired muscles. I let songs fill up my head and pour quietly into the room, songs he loved like, “He Touched Me” and “In The Garden.” I heard the meanings delivered to my ears with newness and depth, because I was losing him, because he was reaching the end of this life. And when the sun began to fill the space with pink, warm light, my mother’s presence slipped next to my father’s. I breathed a sigh of relief and allowed my heart full of trust and despair to slip into the escape of sleep, just for a little while.

Sturdy Mother or Broken Daughter

I didn’t know how to be the protective mom I was used to being and the grieving daughter I had never been before. How did these two core personas intermix? Where did responsibility to shelter and love my children above myself fit into the breakdown of fear and heartache when losing my father? What could I offer them when this tremendous loss was depleting my desire to breathe?

The three of them had walked into his hospital room as unprepared as I. What was racing through their minds as they came face to face with the blatant truth that their grandfather would soon die? I had not debriefed them for this moment. My mother had not informed me that it was here. We had walked unknowingly into the solid wall of reality, his sunken eyes, his empty expression, his hollow cheeks.

I don’t remember taking them into my arms. Maybe I did. I remember needing to sit down, needing to look away to hide the flow of my tears. I remember my mother’s arms wrapping around me, her comforting voice lilting in my ear as she let me sob into her chest. I remember feeling 100% like a little girl who was terrified of this dark and strange path in front of me.

My sisters’ presence confirmed the identity of three doting daughters in the midst of witnessing our daddy’s departure from this life. I felt a complex amnesia of the mother I was made to be as these child emotions took control of my heart.

Somehow I know that these children of mine that brought out the most raw and intense feelings of my soul, could be a catalyst for the undoing of all the strongholds I had worked so hard to erect. Being “mom” meant that I could shove my feelings aside and take care of them. At least that’s what it used to mean, that’s what I grew up witnessing. Here in this place where I was losing my daddy, I wondered if I could keep it all together. Or if the arms of my sons and daughter would shatter the barrier around my vulnerable defenses.

It’s strange to me, how little of the details I remember about where my kids were, of what they were doing during this time. I can somewhat excuse myself because I know the fragile state I was in. But it breaks my heart that I wasn’t more attuned to their needs.

I want to go back and notice they are losing their Papa. I want to give them space to feel their own sadness and express their own fear and grief. I want to hold them and tell them it will be alright, that I am hurting with them, that we will walk this together. I want to love them! Oh! I want to love them!

I wasn’t big enough to be both daughter and mother. No, I wasn’t brave enough! I didn’t realize that letting them see my brokenness was part of loving them. That they needed to see the freedom of my grief so that they could experience their own! I didn’t walk them through it. I hid from them and so taught them that the depths of grief that require release, groaning poured out like water, is unsafe and unwanted.

Each one said goodbye. Where was I when they bent over and kissed him? I watched them walk out the door, hugging each child I adored more than anything on earth, and then letting them go. I hoped that their father would be enough. I wonder if they talked or if they cried.

I know that it both hurt me and relieved me to see them head home. I thought it would be too much for them to be there when he died. I thought that it would be too much for me. I called their Aunt and asked her to go to the house when they arrived, to tell them that their Papa had left us just a few hours after they drove away, to offer her arms to them. She held them while they cried. She loved them. She took my place.

The day of the funeral came. I made rounds greeting, hugging, welcoming people to the service. Where were my children? I sat on the front pew with my sisters, mother, and aunt, while they sat three rows back with their dad… so far apart. We were always so far apart. Whether by miles, by rows, or just by the busyness provided to me by practicalities, we were always just far enough to be unable to reach each other. These are my children. And I wasn’t there for them. I was far apart.

When we finally got home, I went back to work. They went back to school. I cried when I was alone in my car. I ended up taking time off work and making several trips to be with my mom as she and I got used to this world without daddy in it. My children continued to go to school, do homework, and care for themselves. Their dad stepped up and took care of dinners and rides to school.

When did we say the words how much we missed him? When did we come together and weep over the loss of so great a man in our lives? When did we simply hold each other and mourn?
And I wonder now… is it too late? To bridge the distance, to crush every bit of unnecessary protection, and come together? Is it too late for it to be my arms to hold you, my voice to love you, my heart to weep with yours? I still don’t know how to be the protective mom and the daughter who lost the daddy she adored. But I want to be more for you and for me, for love.

My Daddy

The past few months, I have been surrounded by love and acceptance. I have been embraced and adored. Loneliness has been swallowed up in finally being known and understood. But the power of such emotions has opened a well of grief inside me for all the losses of my past. At the forefront of my mind has been the grief from losing my father three years ago and all of the torrential feelings that my world has been changed beyond recognition. I want to post some of that journey...

My Grief

(written March 2009)
We knew months in advance that it was creeping towards us, but still, the hollowness of his eyes and the gauntness of his face overwhelmed me with the reality of how soon. I felt swallowed in the intense grief that I was losing my dad. He was the first man I ever loved, the first man I relished attention and adoration from, the man no other could compare to. He was the daddy who brought me complete security and acceptance for who I was and who, no matter what my mistakes were, loved me with a deep, unconditional love. It was December 27th, 2008, and it was nearing time to say good bye.

My mother held me close as I sobbed quietly. Her soft hand stroked my hair as her own tears fell. My husband and children stood around the hospital bed trying to take it all in themselves and I felt the weight of needing to be strong for them too, needing to be sturdy mom instead of broken daughter. I just couldn’t get past his beautiful face fading right in front of me. His incredible smile diminishing, his mind crippled by the cancer’s theft of the nutrition he needed. His eyes seemed to search for sense in where he was and who he was with, Momma’s face being the only constant source of comfort and recognition. I couldn’t bear to look at him without tears forming and falling down my face.

A few months before, I had been praying about this impending grief, sharing with God the fear that was inside me at the complete newness of the experience. He laid on my heart the story of Mary and Martha, and their brother Lazarus, who laid buried in a tomb for three days before Jesus arrived. The Bible says that “Jesus wept” as he stood at the grave of his dear friend. I had heard sermons pronouncing His tears to be sadness from his disappointment in Mary and Martha’s lack of faith. But in this quiet moment alone with God, He communicated to my heart that it was so much more than that.

Jesus wept for the loss these precious women were experiencing. His compassion was great and He felt their grief fully. He loved them and ached for their broken hearts. He sympathized and cried right along with them.

Last night, our assistant pastor told a story during his sermon of his wife’s failed back surgery and the long term pain she had went through as a result. He shared an intimate conversation they had had sitting on the edge of their bed.

“Are you praying?” She had asked in the middle of her hopelessness.

“Yes,” He told her, willing to firmly assure her need.

“Why isn’t God doing anything then?” Oh, the question everyone of us will beg an answer for sometime in our lives! Where is He? Why isn’t He doing something to help me? This is too much for me to handle! Right? Haven’t we all fell into that question?
“He is doing something Randee.” Pastor Jones started. “I believe He’s sitting right here on the bed with us, crying tears right along with ours.”

We face so much heartache and questionable, blank futures in this existence. We hit times where we wonder if the joy is worth the pain. We find losses too great to bear and troubles that completely overwhelm the small amount of strength we carry. And we wonder where God is. Jesus told me, in that moment of prayer, that He was right there, crying tears that mingled with my own. I knew that He was standing beside me in my night of mourning, feeling my pain, and being greatly affected because of His great love for me.

As I walked through the hospital corridors, heading back up to my father’s room after dinner, I shared the Mary and Martha moment I had with God with my mom and my eldest sister, Tina. We all three stood silently in the elevator with the mixed comfort and pain from the words spoken out loud, the admission that we would soon be facing our own loss.

My Persistent Accuser

Jesus,
I need your embrace. To heal this persistent accuser, I need your comforting presence. I need your encompassing power to infuse the space I’m in. For years now this voice has crippled my ability to stand, to jump with excitement, to laugh in abandon. It screams at me and I take it in, adopting responsibility. Shame coils in my gut and disgust crawls along my skin. I toss in bed at night, writhing with the severity of physical revulsion, battling the guilt stamped on my forehead.

“You didn’t do enough. You should’ve given more. You have failed to protect, and failed to restore. You are unwilling to give what they need because you are selfish, flawed, and worthless. You are not enough! Do more! Do! Do! Do!”


How long will these attacks ravish my spirit? Since I was a little girl, I have fought stomach aches, nightmares, and sleepless nights from this insistence to do more. How much longer will this message have control over me? How long will it demand audience? Will I continue to attend every time the lights go down?

Jesus, I am trembling here with my helplessness. You are already present with my thirty nine year old story. You have walked it with me. I want to surrender to your loving embrace and give to you control. Hold me here in this broken place. I’m exposing what you already have witnessed, admitting what you have already graced. Wrap me in your strength. Calm the anxiety racing through me.

I am yours. You have claimed me as your own. My identity rests securely in your love. Who I am is precious enough that you would give your life. I am adored and pursued by you. I am whole, in the middle of this infinitely tattered world, in my deeply torn story. I am accepted, beloved, forgiven, and free.

The idea of doing enough means that I am somewhat in control. That I have the power to make things better or worse. That I hold influence, that I made the difference, that I am needed and important.

Though it’s true that my choices hold influence, I do not have the power to make or break a life, my own or another’s. I am a product of the Fall, wanting to be in control, wanting to declare myself to be powerful. Truth is, I’ve done what I could with what I was given. And you know I’ve hurt others and myself along the way.

It is not the final word. Thankfully, I am not in control. This is part of letting go and falling back into your arms. Knowing that you will make all things good in your time. That you will take my mistakes, my regrets, my deficiencies, and make them work towards the growth and good of us all.

Today, I can raise my head knowing that who I am is enough. I don’t have to earn status by my efforts. I am enough, accepted, beloved. I can relinquish the inauthentic control I wrestle with, and watch the guilt for not doing or being enough slip away. I can feel the solidity of being important enough to you that you would create, free, pursue, and heal me, preparing my heart to be united with yours. And I can trust that you will keep your promise, taking my failures and showing your grace through them all.


Hold me close in this truth and let it permeate every fear. Lord, soak me in your adoration. Show me it is who I am: your creation, your child, your daughter, that is gloriously enough. Wash away the lies that destroy and teach me again that it isn’t what I’ve done, what I’m doing, or what I will do. It is who I am, the core of me belonging to you, inhabited by your Spirit, justified by your love.

I am enough. You are Protector, Restorer, Deliverer. You are all they need. All I need. I am authentic, healed, worthwhile. I am enough right here, right now. I am free to be! Be! Be! Be!