Cracked

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"I'm doing it again! Whenever I feel overwhelmed, pulled in a hundred different directions, I escape to dream about having bookcases sufficient to hold my library.  Oh, I am so cracked!"

I have this odd habit of daydreaming about walls lined with bookcases, at least one in every room, with all of my books neatly shelves and categorized, all standing at attention patiently waiting for me to come and invite them into study, into deep journaling, into mindless grazing, adventures of escape.

I picture myself standing before them, knowing ahead of time generally where to find what I'm searching for, joyfully anticipating spending time with them like a child picking out her favorite toy. 

I've often wondered about true joy; what it looked like in my life.  Had I ever experienced it?  Did I mistake happiness for joy? 

My favorite place in the house is organized chaos.  Piles and piles and piles of books litter the floor and most available spaces.  Journals, papers, photographs, crafting supplies, all little tools and treasures inviting me to creative adventures.  This is the place I envision walls of bookcases.  And in the dining room (something that could pass for an area intended to hold china and dinnerware to an unsuspecting non-reader).  And in the formal living room.  And in the family room.  And in the bedroom.  And in the bathrooms.  Ah-hem.  Too much? 

I allow you this glimpse into my addiction to all things word to set the stage for God's reaching and teaching into my weary life.

The opening quote is this morning's first penned thoughts, before opening Bonnie Gray's Finding Spiritual Whitespace (Bonnie blogs at Faith Barista).  Bonnie's book, her first, is quite the invitation to rest.  Time and again her words and experiences are relatable and encouraging.  God is using her words to affirm my own need for spiritual whitespace, for rest, for attention to the little girl that has been ignored long enough. 

I'm the only reader in my household, so no one at home "gets" me.  Some of my coworkers are readers and can somewhat relate, possibly, but mostly I hide in my office and feed my addiction, escaping to reading and writing.  My happy place.  But it's only for stolen moments.  Too much of it at home and my husband mocks me and yells at me and even curses me.  I get that he only sees clutter.  I get that it's not his thing.  I get that my reaction to a call from the library that a book is ready grates on him because the joy he sees it bring to me mocks his own sadness and feelings of inadequacy and overwhelm.

But unapologetically, this lover of words IS the authentic me.  I know -- big whoop!  Announce it to no one via a blog no one knows exists or can tie to me, right?  You show 'em, girl !

As I read Chapter 7 only after journaling my bookcase fantasy I felt Jesus come alongside and say, "No child; you are cherished -- not cracked; not weird.  You are cherished."

Jesus will help me find the voice to say, one day, to my husband, "I want bookcases.  Lots of bookcases.  When can we start?"

Am I there yet?  Heck, no!  But to even have uttered the prayer for the strength to ask is a mighty beginning.

Crossroads

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I got my big girl panties very early in life; so early that I can’t know for sure whether I was born with them or whether they came with the birth of my sister three years later.  You know, big sisters have a big job to do – don’t we always tell our children that?

Big girl panties, though, are often just fear and denial masquerading as courage and strength.  

Sometimes it takes more faith to fall apart with Jesus than praying for faith to stop it from happening. – Bonnie Gray, Faith Barista 

So, here I am at the crossroads of Big Girl Panties and Jesus, Denial and Truth, Strife and Rest. 

If I don’t become myself I am going to die in the wilderness.  That is the ultimate destination of Highway Big Girl Panties. 

In Sunday School yesterday the teacher asked, “What are some of the things we are hoping for?”  I didn’t have the courage to be completely honest and scream from my heart, “PEACE!”  My contribution?  Security.  Security. 

Perhaps Security Street was the first wrong turn in my adult life.  It is possible, you know, to wander life’s streets without knowledge of route or destination.  You can start out aimlessly wandering in childlike innocence and wake up dozens of years later far, far away from home.

One thing is certain:  just as the journey to “here” did not happen overnight the journey to myself will be a long process and I must be patient.