The Broken, The Harvest, and Freedom Follows

We are all broken...somewhere.  A fracture here; a crack there...no one can pass through life without a wound.  Some wounds are of our own making. Others are presented to us as if they are our fault, but they aren't, they are merely packaged that way.  Then we find that, at some point, our bodies can no longer withstand the weight that we were never meant to carry.  We then crumble beneath the burden.  Scattered, broken, pieces.

One day at church we were having communion and our pastor was talking about how Jesus was broken for us.  That he shed this blood offering for our sin.  It was as if God came right into my ear and whispered, "I was broken for your brokenness, not just your sin.  I mourn this with you…oh, beloved your pain pain's me, I'm broken with you.  I'm so sorry for this, but I won't have you be broken by yourself.  So here I am, laying across the floor with you."  I thought to myself, maybe when I pick up these pieces, my pieces and Jesus' pieces, I could put them together so that my whole self fits right.  So that my pieces and His pieces become our pieces.  So that this communion that everyone talks about, but only partly understands, could be real.  Jesus doesn't just want to be my friend, He wants to be stitched in with me.  He wants to share this vessel of my body.  He's pleading with me to include His pieces as I try to harvest myself.

So I sat, wishing that I could leave certain pieces of me on the ground to decompose into the earth and be gone.  This was my battle…Jesus put that piece in my hand, that piece that I never accepted and longed to be free from.  I threw it as hard and as far as I could, only to see it reappear right back at my feet.  He told me that He could transform it, and I honestly never trusted that.  I honestly fought with the idea that maybe I didn't want it transformed…I wanted it gone.  Unfortunately my story is written in permanent ink, and I don't have the liberty to erase chapters.  So what other choice did I have? I stomped my feet yelling in God's face, "I DON'T WANT IT!!!!  GET RID OF IT!!!!  MAKE IT GO AWAY!!!"  I felt Him gently caressing my cheek as He cried with me, saying, "Oh, if I could…but that is not my way.  There's something I have for you here.  I'm sorry for this thorn, but this will be something some-day.  I know you don't want to, but trust this...trust Me."   I saw Him pick that piece back up, along with one of His own, and He pressed them together, molding them into another piece that would fit into the hole that I struggled to protect.  His giant hand rested on my shoulder to calm my anxious trembling.  He placed it in the center of my back.  The place I could not see nor reach, the perfect place for a hole that I didn't want to acknowledge.  But He could reach it.

Freedom truly does follow.  The moment I accept all of myself, the burden lightens and the tightness in my chest, that I've come to see as normal, has disappeared.  The freedom comes from that acceptance...from my willingness to allow God to mold me into something new.  It is still there, that piece.  Although, it no longer haunts me, it no longer shames me...it no longer threatens my identity.  "I" am not identified by what has happened to me...my identity is revealed in what I do with what has been handed, forced, or presented to me.  How strange and wonderful it is to feel weightlessness in my heart.  To no longer feel angry, and only a lingering sadness for what could have been...because I would be lying if I said otherwise.  But this, this feeling I would choose any day.  This is the way it seems...to be broken, to harvest, and to accept my freedom.

The Folly In Human Interpretation

What we know of God and how we truly feel about God are two completely different things.  What we know is what we are told and what be believe is what we experience...at least what we experience of the world and those around us.  How do we reconcile this?  How do we change what's ingrained in our self-protection?

We find ourselves saying things like, "God is my protector."  Then we're exhausted by trying to brace ourselves for the impact of the inevitable events that we know will happen.  Why?  We don't believe He's interested?  Maybe self-protection had always been the status quo.  Maybe God was looking in the opposite direction when that stone was thrown.  Or maybe God told someone to build you a shelter, but they didn't.

We say, "God loves me despite my sin."  Yet we struggle to meet this expectation...that truly only comes from ourselves.  We try to earn the jewels in our crown that we're hoping to receive at the end of this test that we are desperate to pass.  Maybe He'll change His mind about us if we don't hold ourselves responsible.  Or maybe He'll take us when we fail to do these things...because He never expected us to do them in the first place.

We declare, "My God is a personal, intimate God."  However, we don't invite Him into the dark places.  We foolishly believe that these painful stains can be pretended away.  That He won't notice that part being left out.  When our skeletons arise from the murky waters, we plunge them back beneath the colorless surface...hoping to drown the truth of our sadness.  Maybe He knows these dark places, and He's just waiting for us to let him remove the sting.

We are resilient children in spite of the circumstance.  For we toil with these misinterpretations of God, yet we are still looking for the hand of a father to walk us through messy trails.  And He always takes your hand, you know.  In fact, He's been waiting for you to tangle your fingers in with His.

Don't be mistaken though.  God doesn't just want to hold your hand and walk beside you; He wants to walk within you.  He wants to feel what you feel...even if its anger, even if its pain, even if you don't want to feel.  You see, we were never expected to do this on our own.  Although, inviting God and people in is scary...its scarier to be a lonely child.  Its scarier to reach out hoping to brush your fingertips against another, and only finding emptiness.  And there never really is emptiness; you just have to take another step.

So how do we reconcile these extremes?  I don't know...it's different for everyone.  Although, I do know that you first have to recognize the conflict in the paradigm.  What do you "know", how do you "feel", and where did it go wrong?  The rest is up to you.  Just remember, the world and God are two different things.

The Burning

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uf8Fwiy0Bkc&list=PLjp0AEEJ0-fGKG_3skl0e1FQlJfnx-TJz

I heard this song tonight, and it inspired me.  Ever so gently it seeped into my mind and the crevices of my heart.  The rhythm rippled just under my skin leaving me with a sense of calm, a sense of peace.  Great change is often preluded by desolation.  For the greatest of changes are motivated by knowledge through experience, but the plot for it to occur must be leveled to build anew.  The fire burns away the faded and tattered surfaces to reveal the beauty beneath.  In the fire your weaknesses are brought to light…in the fire you come to terms with the necessity to release those weaknesses into the kindling, so strength can emerge.  Or even better, wisdom.

We will all walk through the fire and pray for the preservation of our souls.  We will pray for our souls to blossom in what is left.  Did you know there are certain plants that require fire and ash to sustain life and proliferate.  The intense heat allows the husk of the seeds to break open, so new life can rise from the seemingly unyielding ground.

We wander through the flames that lick at our sensitive skin, we'll come face to face with our fears as well.  We'll want to turn and run.  Have you ever had a burn?  Even when the actual heat source is removed, your skin continues to burn.  The pain intensifies before it gets better.  And it does get better.  So stay, despite the voice deep down screaming for you to flee.

My husband and I met with some friends, years ago, and one of the things we discussed were the doors that God sets within our paths.  These doors introduce us to more and more intimate parts of Him and reveal the love He has always had for us.  But we have allowed these pathways to get cluttered…or life has taken liberties in cluttering them for us…or both.  I remember we prayed for God to help us to sift through the clutter and clear it out of the way, so we could walk through these doorways.  I didn't know that some of the clutter would burn me…but it has, and I asked for it.  I continue to clear the litter and meet God at the door where He offers to clean my wounds and heal these new surfaces that are fully visible.  This isn't an easy journey, although it is a necessary one…an intentional one.

I don't know if you even believe in God, or even desire these meetings at the doorways, but your clutter will still be there either way.  At some point you won't be able to ignore it anymore.  It has a way of interfering with your "plans," amongst other things.  Remember there is purpose in the fire, it will burn away torment and the  pain will fade into a tingle.  You'll be left with freedom and open passage.

So, are you willing?

Truth In Fiction

We all talk story, right?  We talk openly about what we want to be seen, or understand for that matter, and we disguise what we're desperate to say, but don't quite grasp.  I love to read fiction…I find it relatable, even in its most far fetched worlds.  There are emotions spoken that one doesn't readily admit, they are raw and acceptable in the forests of fancy.

"Fiction reveals truth that reality obscures." -- Jessamyn West

Have you ever looked at a word search wracking your brain because you can't possibly find the elusive words that some stranger hid in a maze of letters?  So you flip the puzzle upside-down and the words miraculously appear.  You manipulate what is acceptable or "normal" to find the answers.

Sometimes I find my answers in fiction.  I find the emotion that I couldn't quite put my finger on, the thought articulated in such a way that I could say to myself, "that's it!"  Once I find these answers, these elucidations, I feel like I can come to terms with them and release them to the breeze that will carry them away.  The thing is, I have to take what I've discovered and do something with it.  I can't linger in the fantasy and live vicariously through the "braver than I'll ever be" heroine.

So sometimes we use fiction to explain reality.  Reality can be riddled with pressures, stress, activity, and distractions.  It can be difficult to thumb through it while we are in it.  We have to turn the puzzle upside-down to identify what reality has inevitably obscured.  The words are there, plain as day.  So we read them, accept them, and move on.  Because we are no longer staring blindly at a cage of letters that we are hoping will bring meaning to what seems to be jumbled.  We can now understand why we kept working on the puzzle in the first place.

“Fiction is like a spider's web, attached ever so lightly perhaps, 
but still attached to life at all four corners.” 
-- Virginia Woolf

Brick By Brick

For days now I have felt this yearning…this longing to write something.  Something of consequence, something that would release this aching that has developed in the center of my chest…in the only physical manifestation of my soul…my heart.  Sometimes I so badly want to spill, purge, completely empty myself in the hopes that I can be free.  These things that wade in the pool of my mind are things that many people struggle with.  Things that, if spoken, not only free us of our bonds, but they liberate us from a very safe, very comforting wall that we have carefully built around ourselves.  This wall has been meticulously put together.  Each brick represents a moment, a person, a word, an experience that leads us to the border of our security and implores us to place it in-between the world and ourselves.  Each brick had a purpose in the beginning, and the wall that these bricks formed turned their purpose from protection to isolation.

More and more each day I see walls.  Not necessarily my own, although they are ever present, but walls of those passing me on the street, handing back my change at the register, those avoiding my look at school, and those sitting on the curb hoping that someone would look at them without paying too much attention.

Shouldn't vulnerability be valued?  Shouldn't honesty be acceptable?  How much do we miss out on due to our inability to be exposed in any way?  What blessings do we let slip past us?  What beauty can't we see?  Who have we ignored that has the ability to change our wall into a bridge?

People want honesty, but they recoil when presented with it.  Honesty and truth are at the root of vulnerability.  Our spirit craves truth, but sometimes truth can sting…but it can sooth as well.  In fact, it will do both.

When we are wounded and our skin is red and raw it is sensitive to the elements, and even a gentle touch can send an uncomfortable jolt through our bodies.  The pain doesn't mean the end, it means healing is not only coming, but is beginning as well.

We could break down our walls in one fail swoop, but are we ready for that?  Is the world ready?  Or we could bring down our wall one brick at a time.  With as much gentleness and precision that we used to put them there in the first place.  Each brick was put up with intention and should be removed with as much intention…they do, in fact, represent our wounds.  The places beneath them will be tender, so we have to reassure the delicate places that are being exposed that a new layer of skin will smooth over its surface.  This new skin may be sensitive in the beginning, but will become tough in time.  The reminder of the injury may always be there…appearing lighter and raised.  But it won't be a ghost for  us to be haunted by.  It will be proof of our resilience, our lesson learned, and an evidence of the compassion we will forever carry to those who need it.  To those who wish to bring their own wall down, but don't believe they could survive the undertaking.

Maybe you like the fortress you have built.  Maybe you can still see the world over the edge of your tallest wall while standing on your tippy toes.  That desperate view offers you at least a little comfort.  Just know that without removing your bricks, your wall will grow taller.  There will always be injury along our paths.  No one guaranteed life would be safe or free of danger.  So, still, your wall will grow taller and wrap itself around you…barring you on all sides.  Oh, then you will be totally safe.  No one will hurt you, no one will see you, and you won't be presented with those pesky pitfalls because you will no longer be walking along a path of life.  No, you won't run into trouble…because you'll no longer move, for your wall will block every avenue.

Just consider one of your bricks.  Pick a little one, maybe one that can make a small opening when removed.  An opening big enough to see the world beyond.  When you peer through your little window, consider the beauty that comes from the ashes of those around you…consider the ashes of the little brick crumbling beneath your trembling fingers.  What will they become?  Because they are now pliant and able to be transformed into something exquisite.

(I wrote this as a guest blog on Nakia Lashaul's blog at http://nakialaushaul.blogspot.com )

Inciting Incident

Recently my husband and I found ourselves sitting in church, enjoying the gentle tug that the worship has had on our souls the past few times we've been.  They were playing my favorite song and the soft lilt of the singer's voice soothed the aches found within the folds of my heart...the places I've hidden so I can bring them out and use them as excuses at my own inclination.  Our pastor interrupted the song...he felt that God was leading him to give us the opportunity to open ourselves and allow God to reach in and take something we needed to let go of.  My first thought; I'm fine, nothing to let go of here...  Then God, quite vividly, showed me something very specific and revealing.  Something that I hid so well that I almost didn't realize it was there, or just never recognized its origin.

My vision:  We had just returned home from Dakota's funeral in Houston.  We decided to go to church, despite our fragility.  I remembered standing in the congregation and listening to worship, but completely incapable of participating.  Not just because I was distraught, but I had no praise in me for the moment.  Breath was slowly escaping me and I was struggling with filling my lungs.  I spent most of the service with my face buried within the safety of the space between my husbands neck and shoulder.  I heard the words in the songs and the sermon of God's love, power, and joy...but I couldn't reconcile what I was hearing with what I was feeling.  Something very small and huge happened in those moments.  Bitterness was planted.  It was like a sharpie that left a tiny dot on a white t-shirt.  It started so small, but grew into a very discernible stain.  I wasn't so much angry at God as much as the world.  I was disillusioned; reality robbed my family of an innocence I hoped would linger a bit longer.

God showed me the day bitterness found a home in my heart.  He showed me how easily I welcomed it.  I guess it's easier to slip into a hole than it is to build a bridge over it.  God whispered, "That's what I want to take from you.  Will you give it to me?"  With a ragged breath I allowed God to pull it from the very air I was exhaling.  If I'm going to be totally transparent, I had been feeling the bitterness grow... I talked to Josh about how I needed to do something, that I needed to change the ways I was seeing, hearing, and remembering.  I just couldn't let go of the bitterness though.  I would say that it had its claws in me, but I think it was the other way around.  I had my own fingers rooted in bitterness.  It's kind of like when someone finds comfort in their sadness or in their anger, and letting it go becomes entirely too foreign.

Some would say, "Don't lose faith."  I haven't.  Others would say, "God gives the strongest the most."  I say that's a lie... God isn't cruel.  And there are some who say, "It'll be ok."  And I say...no it won't.  The thing is, that's ok...that it's not ok.  It's where I am, and it's where my family is.  This is a place of honesty and truth, and it's a place to start.

So, I will let go of this bitterness that I have entrapped in my fingers.  Although the remnants may take time to clean out from beneath my fingernails.

I do feel I must add though:  Faith and hope are not lost.  God doesn't give the strongest the biggest hurdles...He just doesn't work that way, so please don't say that.  And finally, IT may never be ok...but some day, we will be.

Madness In Measure

“All living things contain a measure of madness that moves them in strange, sometimes inexplicable ways. This madness can be saving; it is part and parcel of the ability to adapt. Without it, no species would survive.” 
― Yann Martel, Life of Pi

We all have a madness inside us.  It hides sometimes, however it always finds it's way to the surface.  This is the part of us that we are embarrassed of, but it's also the part that is the most "us".  You see it when you forget to check yourself when others are around.  You hear it when you're laughing so hard that you snort and wheeze.  When you laugh at your own joke, and you're all alone in your giggles, because nobody else gets it.  You feel it when the emotion that catches in your throat is too strong and you run down the street searching for solitude and scream to the heavens, because there is no one else to blame.  

I sometimes run from my madness, but it is always there...following me like a shadow that chases its maker.  

I once heard a pastor say, "you can't run away from yourself...where ever you go, there you are."  Because, in all actuality, "ourselves" our "madness" is the part of us that is the rawest and the most honest.  This part does help us adapt, because it is real and it is the truest "us" that is willing to accept who we are and what we must do to survive.  Isn't it funny that this is the very part that we apologize for the most?  We have to apologize for it though, right?  Because we can't completely control it.  No matter how hard we try to disguise it, or pretend it away, we cannot deny it.  

My madness humbles me and reminds me where I came from.  This is why I secretly cherish it...why I'll forever turn red-faced by its inevitable appearance, but never be able to let it go.  It is my "real" and what people really see on the surface is just its shabby dressings.  Because my madness gives me permission to guffaw at what is truly funny and tear at those shabby dressings that you all see, when I truly despair.  It is also the part that allows me to survive the unimaginable.  Only those who have met this point understand the madness that is required to do so...survive.  Yet, we have all been there...or will one day, and it is this madness, within measure, that will give us the permission necessary to unearth ourselves from the pit we're found buried in.  

Here you find the tears that transform into laughter; the sadness that finds joy in the ashes.  The torn relationships that reconcile amidst loss, because it no longer makes sense.

Oh if we could all embrace just a bit of our madness ;)