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.

I Want To........

I want to say yes to things that I will enjoy, that I want to do, that I need to do regardless of _______ (fill in the blank)

I want to say no things that I do not want to do when the only reason I've said yes is I don't want to disappoint someone or risk confrontation and arguments about it.

I want to set healthy boundaries and enforce them lovingly but firmly.

I have lists of little things I want to do.  And to those with healthy relationships and boundaries, they will sound insane.

5.  Have my pictures hung on the walls
12. Sit on my deck after dark
31. Feel relaxed around my husband and daughter, instead of anxious and nervous
38. See a dinner play
47. Plant a butterfly garden

Little things, but my heart has never found its voice and asserted that it needs little things for itself.  Hopefully, the ontology project will help my heart find its voice and these little things will come to be and become replaced with bigger hopes and dreams.

Little things feed our spirit and get us through our days.

A friend recently told me God wants us to be happy.   I think I believe God wants others to be happy.  Now I want to believe He wants that for me as well.

But, they say, God cares more about my holiness than my happiness.  More doesn't mean He doesn't EVER want me to be happy.

I'm grabbing hold of that.  Hanging tight, believing that He is a big God, loving Father, and deeply saddened when we settle for less than His best.

What about you?  Do you have a list?  Do you need little things?

 

Land of the Living

I had fainted, unless I had believed to see the goodness of the LORD in the land of the living.  Psalm 27:13

The land of the living.  Ever wonder how the family of the Gadarene demoniac may have felt while he lived among the tombs?  Ever felt that you lived among the tombs, escaped during the day on a work release program, returning again every evening to the land of the living dead?

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It’s a dark place.  Even darker when you come to realize that you walked freely into the cemetery and let the gate shut behind you, locking, clanging.  Sometimes the cemetery is disguised as a safe place, secure, comfortable, but once you are in the walls change and the place of refuge reveals its prison bars.  And the enemy laughs.

The enemy laughs because he knows what you don’t yet.  The gate shut, yes, but it is not actually locked.  You may leave any time you like, can’t you?  Or can you?

What does it take to walk before the LORD in the land of the living?  Where is the land of the living?  How do you find your way?

“I am the way, the truth and the life,” He softly whispers.  The land of the living is everywhere He is.  And where, exactly, is He?  With me, always, even to the end of the world.  He lives! He lives! You ask me how I know He lives, He lives.Within.My Heart!

The light shines in the darkness.  The legion recognized Jesus, even when He was still a ways off.
   
Thank You, Father, Light of the World.  Lead me into the land of the living, I pray.

I will walk before the LORD in the land of the living.  Psalm 116:9

Family Dinner

“Your Daddy doesn’t care anything about you,” he said.  These words, not the first time spoken, from the man I married.  He’s an encourager, that one.

His words hung in the car’s air, so thick I felt them settle over me like old clothes, comfortable in a way, yet shameful in another.  Like putting on your Sunday best and leaving home feeling pretty, but shrinking back when you arrive and find others clothed so much nicer. 

It was an invitation to a “family” dinner.  The family is his, not mine, yet at times I long so badly to fit in, to establish relationship, to gain common experiences going forward to build upon and grow into so that one day it might be true.  This is the family he chose nearly 30 years ago.  This is the family that did not include my younger sister and me.

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I was a senior in high school; my parents having been divorced for a little more than a year.  It was a hard age.  I was, it seems, forced to become an adult and make adult decisions for which I had no wisdom.  I lived on a sort of auto-pilot, the first of a lifetime of living what I call “suck it up and go on”.  It’s life, big girl panties style.  And it’s messy.

So, Daddy gets a new wife, two new young sons, eventually a new daughter as well.  Mama is busy, trying to figure out this different way of life she’s chosen, struggling with her own story and trying to find her way. 

Without my parents to set healthy boundaries, I unconsciously set out to find security for a future in an adult world that was fast approaching.  And without even realizing what I was doing, I chose marriage.  At the time, as clear as day, I recall thinking surely this is the right thing because I don’t even feel the least bit nervous about it.  This is the thought of a 20 year old girl about to leave to go to the church for her wedding before only immediate family.  Prince Charming had declared only immediate family would be allowed because I’d never be able to reasonably limit the number of my family attending, and that just wasn’t going to happen.

In hindsight, I can only assume I was doing the only thing that felt safe.  At Daddy’s house his new wife was happy to see me go, even packing up my things and putting them at the back door while I was honeymooning an hour away.  For years I’d remember something that didn’t make the move with me and realize she’d chosen what I would keep and what would be tossed out, like me.

And yet, it is hard for me to blame Daddy.  I see myself in him, in his decisions.  I think a new family felt safe to him.  Letting her do whatever made her happy and kept peace worked for him, still works for him.  Here, I do the same, but with horrible results, enabling the one who thinks he’s the only one in the world that matters.  But peace is elusive.

To make matters worse, I’d tried this day to reach Daddy to ask if I could come by for a short visit because I’d not be able to make the family dinner, having honestly made other plans before the invitation came that overlapped the timing of it.  I called and I texted him and his wife that morning, around 10:00.  The reply came after 8:30 that evening. 

So all day the words played over and over in my head and my heart.  “Your Daddy doesn’t care anything about you.”  And when we’re confused about our relationship with our earthly daddy, it’s hard to have a healthy relationship with our heavenly daddy.

I thought of all the years of prayers for peace and deliverance, and wondered if he’s right.  Do replies really come or are they only imagined?  Do they come at all?  Are they late?  Am I too late?

My text to Daddy explained why I couldn’t come and closed with “Please don’t give up on me”.

Abba, Father, please don’t give up on me.

Be Yourself

            “You are so f-ing stupid!”  Not exactly an invitation to “Be Yourself” – words tossed like a hundred hand grenades with timing devices programmed to randomly explode at times long after you thought the battle was over.

            Madeleine L’Engle in her book A Circle of Quiet has introduced me to ontology.  And the book arrived at practically the same time as Faith Jam's writing prompt “Be Yourself”.  I call this dot connecting and the timing is not oddly enough, but godly enough.

            Sharing struggles in community is frightening.  My bunker during verbal skirmishes is the world of words.  My journals, books, Bible, study guides, blogs, and the letters, words, sentences, paragraphs, chapters, and volumes they form are my soldiers.  They surround me and stand ready to guard my heart and mind from the attacks, but even they are caught off guard at times.  No. I said that unfairly.  The Word is never with its guard down.  It truly stands at all times. 

            In times of peace my soldiers are more like children during story time.  They gather round me anxiously waiting to be engaged in my studies and my ponderings, eager to interact in the journey, yet willing to slip into the background as easily and wait to be called on in turn.  They make no demands on my time, on my attention, on my intellect, on my being.  They accept that I am whatever I am while treating me as if, no matter what, I am not f-ing stupid.  They believe it is their mission, their calling, to build me up, shape me, encourage me, not tear me down.

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            So begins the Ontology Project.  A blog dedicated to being me, whoever that is.  I cannot safely explore this through my devotional blog.  I recognize and admit that the only blog by which any other knows me is less than transparent.  It is sanitized.  It is safe.  I'm not in a place at this moment where I feel that sharing this journey with those who believe they know me or have long known me is safe.  He who says I am f-ing stupid does not know I have a blog.  The blog would be stupid.  To read so much, to write so much, is stupid.  The very processes that bring me joy are, to him, stupid.

            While I'm sure that I long for him to catch glimpses of the real me, I don't know if it will ever be safe to do expose them.  And until it is safe, I don't want to be discovered and subjected to more grenades and new ammunition.

            I am more than what he says I am.  Surely.  To goodness.  I am more.

            And, for the record, The Ontology Project is about ME.  About being ME.  About becoming ME.

            Will you journey with me as I try to discover who I am, really?  Will you share what you are learning about what it means in your life to "be yourself"and then hop over to Faith Jam and journey with others who are keeping faith fresh?