a daughter

A few weeks ago, I read a quote from Friedrich Nietzsche that I disagreed with:
"All truly great thoughts are conceived while walking."


The moment I read it, I wondered if the man had ever showered. That's where I do some of my best and clearest thinking. I was reminded of this mental transaction as I thought, and cried, in the shower today.


Lately I've been experiencing some deep inner conflict. In some ways it is very familiar, and in others, just plain strange. I don't know how best to deal with it, except by experiencing it--none of the methods I had used for much of my life have managed to eliminate these particular pangs, so I'm trying a different tactic: letting go. This means something different to me now. I grew up being told that 'letting go' means forgetting and never thinking about that thing, that feeling, that hurt ever again. The reason that has never worked for me is that it's incomplete.


My tearful thoughts this morning had to do with steps forward; with positive changes in my life. This deep inner conflict has coincided with the confirmation of a new job, a new direction, a dream coming true, to a certain extent. As a kid (and by that I mean at any point in my life before having to start helping my own kids with conflict, I think), I began to see good change as something to be wary of. With good change came discord, conflict, internal or physical pain unrelated to anything really happening to me. Sometimes it was small, and sometimes it was big, but in the end, what I learned was that good stuff comes at a price, and it was up to me to determine whether the unknown price was going to be worth it. It was like agreeing to sign a contract without first knowing the terms.


This morning I recognized what I had thought of as some kind of balance to be, in actuality, something trying to keep me from finding comfort. In Mere Christianity, C.S. Lewis says, "In religion, as in war and everything else, comfort is the one thing you cannot get by looking for it. If you look for truth, you may find comfort in the end: if you look for comfort you will not get either comfort or truth--only soft soap and wishful thinking to being with and, in the end, despair." (HarperOne, p.41) Turns out, this explains more of my inner turmoil than the turmoil ever can itself. I was looking for comfort (goodness, happiness, joy) in what I was doing, rather than in the doing itself. As a result, I was putting my trust in the wrong place.


A few weeks ago, I also had a conversation with my son about plans. We had stopped at Habitat for Humanity's local ReStore, and on the way home, I told him when I was his age, I had wanted to work for Habitat, or MakeAWish, or the Peace Corps. Unfortunately, I didn't know who to talk to to find out about these options as career choices. I only knew them as places to volunteer temporarily, whether regularly or intermittently. Years later, taking my management courses, I told my brother and my husband that I really felt like non-profit work was a far better fit for me than anything else. And now, as I look forward to beginning a job at our church, I find myself facing the same inner demons I tried to fight off at those times.


Eerily the same.


When I realized it this morning, I also realized the difference now in my life. Until recently, I have worked hard at living my life for me. Growing up, I was told I could grow up to be whatever I wanted to be; I could do whatever I set out to do. That I had potential in any direction I chose. But then I found roadblocks to every dream I ever wanted to make come true. I was being selfish, making my destiny, my purpose, my own instead of part of something bigger. That's why I lost the fight. Every time. I was trying to do it all myself, the way I had been taught.


This time, I'm reacting to a question that came from outside of me. I said yes to a question, a request, a call, that I didn't hear as much as I felt. I was drawn to the place I'm going, without knowing the whys and hows of my reason for being there. I'm going to a job for which I was chosen, rather than one that I would have chosen myself. About the new chapter I am curious and excited and joyful. And yet I have this pain that keeps pushing out in weird directions, making me question even my sanity at times. The difference? I'm not going to fight this demon alone. I've identified the need for others to be there, in my heart. I've started the process (difficult, uncomfortable and unfamiliar though it is) of letting them in, of cracking open the shell I've created around my heart.


I was never meant to be whatever I wanted to be when I grew up. I was meant to be what God wanted me to be. And that's what I'm working on.

more than many

Normally, flying over the world from one city to another at 33,000 feet, I look out the window and see just the tops of clouds. It was surprising today to look out and see roads and trees, houses and fields.
I began to talk to God.
This is what I imagined you see, Lord, when you look at us from Heaven. Just the vague yet beautiful expanse of world below. And that there was so much in that vision that was very far away.
And that's precisely why I thought I could hide--from you, as well as your love, your wrath, your comfort, your fury.
I had this idea that you only zoomed in on those who needed you. Distress and disorder calls, in my mind, flashed like beacons, and you would swoop down to rescue or reprimand. Avoiding being part of those signals, except in dire emergency, was my goal. Despite the addage, I believed that no attention was better than any attention at all.
Slowly, gently, over a very long time and a very long road, you have shown me just hoe wrong I was. About all of it.
I cannot--nor do I want to--hide from you. You see me where I am--in the eyes of each and every person I meet, I can find you. At times, I fall short, and see the hurt softened by mercy in your eyes at words or deeds better left unsaid, undone, considered, delayed. Other times, in my own pain, I find your compassion, your love, your hope for me in the eyes of another.
Where I most fell short was in daring to look into those eyes deep enough to see your heart within. You already know the reason: I dared not open my own.
Dear Lord, I thank you for holding my heart. For knowing each hair on my head. For encouraging me, ever so gently, ever so firmly, to be unafraid. For telling me, again and again, how much I mean to you; that I not only have space and substance, but I have value. (Luke 12:7) Even--and especially--when I was (and am) resistant.
It has taken me time to accept these truths, and just a bit more to embrace them. But the point is, today I am acutely aware that you are not a being that is separate and apart from me. You are my God, and you are with me always.
And I love you.

lighten the load

The gist of my thought for the day:
Often, I have heard people saying that they have 'more baggage' than others. In my view, God gives us what we are intended to handle. He knows, after all, just what He is giving. Whether a change purse or a steamer trunk from another's outside perspective, the weight and density, ultimately, are roughly equivalent because they are personal.




From my reflection today:

The feeding of the five thousand shows the remarkable generosity of God and his great kindness towards us. When God gives, he gives abundantly. He gives more than we need for ourselves so that we may have something to share with others, especially those who lack what they need. God takes the little we have and multiplies is for the good of others. Do you trust in God's provision for you and do you share freely with others, especially those who are in need? (Laudate app for Android, 5/2/14)

My thought as I read:
Would He not also give abundantly of our troubles (our 'blessings in disguise'), so we might share them with others? In this sharing, we help each other: a burden is lightened, and a feeling of being alone is alleviated.






I'm not saying that past hurts, pains, questions or brokenness mean little. Quite the contrary! What I'm saying is that everyone has them. Ev-er-y-one. All of us. We all have baggage, and some of it is visible, and some of it is not. For some, dropping pieces of it here and there is easy--or looks it--and others can't seem to lose it no matter how hard they try.

Each of us has brokenness; each of us as human beings. And no one’s brokenness is more important, bigger, or harder than anyone else’s. Nor is it any less. It’s just simply their own. To think that someone has more reason to be broken than any other is to diminish the other--and one’s own. No one -- anywhere or anytime -- has the ability to judge or rate anyone else’s brokenness, pain, sorrow, woundedness.

Rather, our purpose as family -- God’s family -- is to share in that need that our brothers and sisters have; acknowledging its existence, having a willingness to help bear it, admitting that we, too, need support. None is more broken than another, and no one is too old or too young to be broken or wounded.


Dietrich Bonhoeffer writes:

God loves man. God loves the world. It is not an ideal man that he loves, but man as he is; not an ideal world, but the real world. ... God becomes man, real man. While we are trying to grow out beyond our manhood, to leave the man behind us, God becomes man and we have to recognize that God wishes us men, too, to be real men. ... God makes no distinction at all in his love for the real man. He does not permit us to classify men and the world according to our own standards and to set ourselves up as judges over them. He leads us by himself becoming a real man and a companion of sinners and thereby compelling us to become the judges of God. ... God sides with the real man and with the real world against all their accusers. (Ethics, p. 52-56, edited by Aileen Taylor)

My thought:
God became us, with everything that we are, feel, hope. Maximizing one's own baggage is to lessen the strength and weight of His cross--His ultimate baggage. In the cross, He carried all of our baggage, didn't He? Although my hurts may not have been my fault, how I handle, carry, react, behave may have caused my sin to be added to that weight. If I were to say, "I have more baggage than you," would I be implying that the weight I carry is comparable to, or even more than, the weight of the world; the weight of the cross that saved us? I'm learning to be grateful for what I carry, hard as that may be, because it gives me opportunities--for prayer, for fellowship, for growth, for strength. All in my weakness and inability to carry it all by myself.

Baggage is not a competition. And more: pointing out 'more' versus 'less' would certainly not help anyone who already feels overwhelmed. The unfortunate thing is the diminishing; the implication that someone else's burden is not as important, not as worth sharing. I have a friend who tells her kids "Don't ever let anyone make you feel less than." Comparing baggage piles just makes everyone feel less than. And, honestly, how much of that baggage is filled with garbage? I know most of mine is.

Strike that. All of mine is.

I just choose to carry some of it around with me, despite my best efforts. Not the choice I particularly like to have made, but I continue to work on my own. Not just sifting through it, but also learning to share it with others. Never do I hope to brag about any of the stuff I've got shoved into the depths of my heart. I may hope to compare notes, with the realization of "you, too?!" What's in there, or the combination thereof, is mine and mine alone, just as what you carry belongs to you. I think it's part of my journey to find the people who can help me to pull those broken pieces out, and arrange them on me to build a mosaic. And to help others find the mosaic inside of them.

portions of this post were previously written by me as both email and text messages

Book Talk

Happy are you poor, by Thomas Dubay

Book Club discussion on May 13

What struck me most was the consistent theme that a person in love can think of nothing else; the world fades away and nothing matters. There is great truth in that sentiment! Each day I find myself falling more and more deeply in love with God, with Jesus, with my faith, our faith. And in that love, I find I can more easily accept even that which I do not understand.

 

The next thing that made me think hard about where I am is giving from my need, rather than just from my excess. The author was right in pointing out that giving is easy when it's what I can afford, or am willing to part with. Since coming across this point, I've been more inclined to simply give. And I've been prepared to hand things over, just for the asking. I've also offered food and shelter to strangers. Knowing that it's outside my comfort a bit (personally and monetarily) has been far outweighed by the knowledge that it's the right thing to do. God will provide, in whatever way He sees the need.

 

That brings me to another point I've been pondering. What I perceive to be my needs are not necessarily what I truly need. My faith has deepened with the idea that there is so very little that I need, as opposed to what I have to give. I've taken a huge leap of faith (2 actually) and the fruits are already ripening. Opening my heart to trust in the gifts I've been given, and to use and act upon them came as much from learning about being poor in spirit as from any other book we've read.

 

I also saw many parallels with St. Therese, Thomas Merton, Bonhoeffer, St. Paul, and even Andrew Comiskey's works. Each opening of the heart leading to another. Living faith out loud, rather than quietly and alone. Giving from an emotional and spiritual standpoint, as much as from a monetary (physical) one. I feel more prepared to live as an example to our children, too, although I know there are still some things I am not yet ready to give up or let go of. I'm willing to admit and "own" them, though, and that is progress toward eventually giving all.

 

In the giving, I've also started to ask. There are things that money cannot buy, but that we shouldn't do without--a shoulder to lean on, a heart to connect with, advice. These are things I've always had a hard time asking for in my moments of need, though I give them freely. I love that the concepts in this book, and our last, have given me permission to need those things, and also to say so.